Aisle Seat, Center Heart

The Origin of Guiding Planet by Darryl Gaines

I was thirteen. Alone but not afraid. It was June 25, 1975. The day Jaws opened.

My mother handed me two sacred things: freedom and $1.50. The Gateway Theater in Pittsburgh was a cathedral—1,900 seats, velvet darkness, popcorn perfume. I chose the 10th row, aisle seat. Always the aisle. I liked the edge of things. Close to the story. Ready to run, if needed.

That day, Spielberg delivered the sermon. Jaws wasn’t just a movie—it was a baptism. The music was the monster. The fear was universal. When Brody whispered, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” the entire theater gasped in unity. I didn’t just watch the film. I entered it.

But outside that theater, the world I lived in had its own script.

In 1975, the Jehovah’s Witnesses—the faith I was raised in—were proclaiming the end. Armageddon was coming. Any moment. The world would be destroyed, and only Jehovah’s Witnesses would survive. Paradise was promised—for the faithful. Fear was fed to children like daily bread.

But inside me, something didn’t believe. Even at thirteen, I found it foolish. I watched the sky, yes—but not for fire and wrath. I watched it for something more beautiful. And I started to dream not of paradise—but of freedom.

Two years later, 1977. Cincinnati. A giant Jehovah’s Witness convention. Tens of thousands gathered in a stadium to affirm obedience and apocalypse.

And I escaped. Slipped away from the fear-soaked sermons. Found a movie theater. Sat down in the dark. And watched The Pink Panther Strikes Again.

Peter Sellers. Ridiculous. Joyful. I laughed until I cried.

In that moment, I was no longer under their spell. I was choosing joy over fear. Cinema over doctrine. Laughter over judgment. Life over waiting for the end.

That was the beginning of my real salvation.

That same year, I saw Nashville. Altman’s masterpiece. So many voices. So much America. It made me feel smarter for watching it. Then Last Tango in Paris—illicit, raw, unforgettable. I saw myself reflected in its ache.

And Brando—at 50, not pretty, but true. His appearance on The Dick Cavett Show stirred something in me. His sadness, his beauty, his unspoken ache—I understood it. Desire and reflection, folding into one.

At sixteen, I saw An Unmarried Woman. Jill Clayburgh choosing self over romance. I saw it again years later in Alexandria, Egypt. Alone on the lower level, the balcony above clouded with smoke. That last scene—her walking away, struggling with the painting in his arms. It wrecked me, gently. I knew: that was the life I would live.

And then came A Perfect World. Kevin Costner, Clint Eastwood directing. A Jehovah’s Witness boy receives his first birthday. That scene shattered me.

Because that was me. No birthdays. No candles. No celebration. No father. Only obedience. Only fear. That film—one of my top five—touched the wound with grace.

But then the movies dulled. The awe began to fade. I fell out of love with cinema.

Until Parasite.

That film brought me back. A story sharp as glass, soft as a bruise. It trusted me to feel, not just to follow. I left the theater shaking. It was 1975 again. I was thirteen again. The lights had dimmed. The spirit had returned.

And just before that rebirth, came another.

In 1987, I looked up. And found a new kind of screen. The sky.

Astrology came into my life not as a trend—but as a revelation. A language. A system. A cinema made of stars.

I never stopped loving story. But astrology gave me something more. Not just reflection—but authorship.

A natal chart is a film. The Sun, the protagonist. The Moon, the emotional tone. The Ascendant, the lens. The North Node, the purpose. The Nadir , the final act.

When I read a chart, I don’t predict. I direct.

I find the narrative arc. The pain point. The redemption. The long-awaited scene where the hero chooses themself.

Cinema taught me how to feel. Astrology taught me how to frame it.

Now, I sit in a different theater. One where constellations play the leads. And the story changes with every chart.

Some find God in scripture. I found mine in Scorsese , Altman, Brando. In Aretha. In Morricone . In Bong Joon-ho. In the stars.

I still take the aisle seat. With a center heart. Still watching. Still listening. Still writing.

Because once I lost it at the movies, I found it in the sky. And the sky… has never stopped speaking.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Because on Friday, June 20th, 2025— the eve of my appearance at SummerStage in Central Park— anxiety wrapped around my chest like a memory I thought I’d outgrown.

It brought me back to second grade.

I was seven. Chosen as the lead in the Christmas play. The kids wanted me. I had lines. A part. A place.I had a choir boy’s singing voice.

But on my way to school that morning, I saw her— Mrs. Manson the lunch aid and A fellow Jehovah’s Witness. And I froze.

We weren’t allowed to be in holiday plays. If she told my mother, I’d be in deep trouble. So I turned around. Went home. Never made it to the stage.

I carried that moment for decades. That split-second decision born of fear. That child who didn’t get to speak.

And on June 20th, before Uplift New York, that child came back. Full of doubt. Full of breathless memory. Will you turn around again?

But the story had changed.

This time, I didn’t turn back.

I stepped forward. I showed up. And I walked center stage. Under the sky. With my voice. With my purpose. With my chart. With my truth.

That child, silenced in 1970— finally got to speak in 2025.

And so now, I know: Healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just showing up.

Center stage. Center heart. The sky still watching. And this time—so was I.