It's May 21, and I want to talk about prophecy. But first, I want to talk about the bringers of prophecies:
I've met more angels in my life than I should probably admit to believing in. They always have two things in common. One, they give me advice, solace, or insight that aids me in my personal journeys. Two, I always suspect they are not actually angels, but rather drunk, impoverished, or crazy.
One was an Iranian man I met in Trier, Germany. He came up to a group of us in a Biergarten by the Mosel, and he offered us cigars. We all got to talking, and he asked me if I was a writer. I said, "no," not wanting him to kidnap me and force me to write letters to the US Government about how democracy and capitalism don't make sense but whatever Iran does is indisputable. Anyway, he told me I had a big forehead, and that if a girl doesn't want to dance with me, it's her Pech. (Look it up, it's German.) Then, he wandered away. He was correct.
One, I met contra dancing. I was having a terrible time, feeling downright left out, when she came up to me and asked me to dance. She introduced herself as "Patience," was cordial and kind toward me, and when the dance was over, she disappeared. There is a graveyard right next to that contra dance place. (Go by sometime.)
One was on a plane. I don't remember what she told me or if it was a she. It might have been a he. Really changed my life, I can tell you that.
One of them appeared as a 30-something drunk woman next to the Furman University lake one evening when I was wandering alone. I was downright discouraged, and she debated optimism with me. I wondered how many people really believe in "crap" like true love, and she told me she still believed in it and that she was thirty-something. She told me her real age (at least, her real human age), but I don't remember it. Then, she asked me where I lived, and when I wasn't specific, the conversation kind of meandered. I think I walked away.
Today, I met my fifth angel in 32 years. She lives in or at least visits Chicago, and she looks like a woman in her sixties. I was wandering near Michigan Ave when she asked me if I needed help. She told me she'd seen me pass by only a few seconds before, and here I was back again. I told her I was looking for a flower shop. She asked a few people where it might be, then she gently, but with surprising strength--hence, angel--prevented me from walking in the wrong direction with only a tug on my sleeve. She asked me my first name and then told me that September 29 was my special day. She murmured something about archangels and Michael. She told me that Rahm Emmanuel wants to increase the jaywalking fine to $150.
Now, this could have all been that Midwestern niceness (combined with some political savvy). I doubt it. After all, need I remind you of the significance of the date of this blog post!?*
Which brings us to the topic of prophecy.
May 21 is not the end of the world, people. I don't care how much "empty speculation" and "bone-headed, groundless mathematics" have gone into determining that it is. I know it's not the end of the world--because September 29 is my special day. How could my special day come after the end of the world, unless this Chicago angel was telling me that I won't be raptured?
That isn't what she was telling me. Is it?
Well, if I get left behind, at least I'll have more time to get published and write meaningless blog entries.
The omens so far:
1. My Zeitgeist Stage check
2. I Burned My Face
3. A Book
4. I'm on National Television!
5. I'm an inspiration to the young!
13. probably a giant check
*No, I'm sure I don't, because no doubt everyone else is.