The Ghost Light

Lit from within is the sole secure way to traverse dark matter. Some life forms — certain mushrooms, snails, jellyfish, worms — glow bioluminescent, and people as well; we emit infrared light from our most lucent selves. Our tragedy is we can’t see it. We see by reflection. We need biofluorescence to show our true colors. External illumination can distort, though. When gravity bends light, huge galaxy clusters can act as telescopes, elongating background images of star systems to faint arcs — a lensing effect like viewing distant street lamps through a glass of wine. A glass of wine or two now makes me weave as if acting a drunkard’s part; as if, besotted with unrequited love for the dynamic Turner canvases spied out by the Hubble, I could lurch down a city street set without provoking every pedestrian walk-on stare. Stare as long as you need to. If you think about it, walking, even standing, is illogical — such tiny things, feet! — especially when one’s body is not al dente anymore. Besides, creature of extremes and excess, I’ve always thought Apollo beautiful but boring, a bit of a dumb blonde. Dionysians don’t do balance. Balance, in other words, has never been my strong point. But I digress. More and more these days, digression seems the most direct route through from where I’ve lost or found myself out of place, mind, turn, time. Place your foot just so, mind how you turn: too swift a swivel can bring you down. Take your time ushering the audience out, saying goodbye to the actors. The ghost light is what they call the single bulb hanging above the bare stage in an empty theater. In the empty theater of such a night, waking to meet no external radiance, this is the final struggle left to win, this the sole beacon to beckon the darkness in and let the rest begin, this the lens through which at last to see both Self and Other arrayed with the bright stain of original sin: lit from within.