The darkness always is the same. No, that is not true. Not exactly. There are crescents of light at the edge of the darkness, crescents that are brighter or dimmer depending on the light outside. The rest of the darkness is the same.
The places that are familiar to Gordon Gund in this perpetual darkness are his three homes in three states and his apartment at the top of the three-year-old showpiece Gund Arena in Cleveland and the office of his investment company on Nassau Street in Princeton, N.J., places where he can strike a rhythm, where the objects and the people mostly are where he expects them to be. Yes, the chair is here. Yes, the table. Yes. The textures are familiar, the edges of carpets, the start of hardwood floors, the subtle railings that look to anyone else like wainscoting along the hallways but can be touched with a discreet movement of the hand. The doors are where they are supposed to be. The people are where they are supposed to be. Here in Princeton, for instance, is Gund's business associate Warren Thaler in his office....
Here is secretary Sharon Polignano....
Here is Dave Prescott....
"Dave's not here, Gordon. He went out to lunch."
Right. Out to lunch. How to know?
That is the thing with the darkness. Even the familiar can become unfamiliar—bang, watch out—just like that, and...great god, the unfamiliar could be just about anything at all. That is the battle. Most of the world is unfamiliar.
If you are blind.