How is it that we outwit ourselves? I mustn’t tell me what we ourselves just heard through the cosmic grapevine. The cosmos is constantly transmitting its doomsday scenario to our own tailor-made destiny. There is in this meeting, pieces of information revealed to us from the depths of a place where time is measured in light years. I say this with the zeal of a recent convert of that ancient belief that forces of the universe work in concert for both our good and our detriment. I blasphemously give myself over to the Fates, but without pretense of theological predestination, only portent; radiation bursts as opposed to Greek goddesses.
My epiphany began for me last week at the local library. A blind man walked in and asked to apply for a library card. The librarian had fanned the form at him until the air currents directed him to it. He stood there, form in hand looking beyond the already detached librarian , checking her watch and ruminating over the turkey sandwich and dill pickle packed for her lunch. I don’t know what images the inner eye was telegraphing to him, but I could guess it was that the world was not only dark, but cold. Finally, he blurted out, “But, I’m blind!” The librarian did not acknowledge this, but became invisible even to the sighted. I walked over to the man and asked if I could be of any help. He seemed pleased and overly relieved as if I’d set the world back in its original, before the fall purity. I puffed up a bit at the adoration of my kindliness: I was a guardian angel on a mission to thwart the evildoing of lethargic, hungry librarians who devour those with special needs.
I pocketed my good deed and left the library, headed to the train station to pick up my husband; how odd that last week he was my husband, but ever since he is-what? An ex-husband-in-waiting, I suppose. As I stood on the platform, a blind woman with a seeing eye dog approached me and asked me for the time. It was exactly twenty-three minutes until my lesser half would tell me that he was leaving me for his mistress. When did he get a mistress? There were others on the platform, but the woman had been sent to me by a cosmological committee of star witnesses to my headlong fall into a marital abyss. Children of stars made of stardust is a concept I always found repugnant and overly simplistic, but in the midst of crisis, we grasp at primordial straws: The biggest skeptics will fall to their knees in search of answers. Had I been attuned to that mass of energy and dead space swirling around me, I’d have heard the faint cries of a dying star, adjuring me not to live as it had done; not to burn myself out on one who cared nothing about me, but had been merely acting the part of my spouse for-for-oh, dear God, how long had this been going on? He told me of our demise as we passed the library on our way to our house, our home, that was now the symbolic equivalent of a nomad’s yurt.
The blind man I’d helped emerged from the library and cast a smile in my direction as if he saw and recognized my face. The smile bounced off the car window and was hurled into empty space. I laughed like a possessed woman at the sense of irony of churning star clusters and dark matter: The cosmos had sent me not just one, but two heralds of the revelation which burned my ears, pierced my heart. And their prophetic messages, though wordless as the silent vacuum of space, now flashed through me and bathed my mind with white light: Love is blind.