Vision.
A pair of eyes; then many pairs of eyes, some staring, some blinking,
but all perfect. How do I know this? Because none of them are
spectacled and none, when a torchlight is shined into them, have a
thin disc over the iris. I know exactly where to look and what to
look for. Corrective surgery? No scars. No tell-tale marks. Though it
could be that techniques are so advanced, none are left. No, I tell
you, these eyes are and have always been perfect.
The
kind of vision that I used to have, yet no longer remember owning.
How
do you explain what you've lost when you've forgotten what it was
like to have? Do you ask someone still with 20/20 sight to help you
remember? But surely to explain it you have to have lost it first...
What
a conundrum!
You
don't know what you've got till it's gone. You can't miss something
you've never had. These are the tired maxims that get trotted out at
such times, though they don't, as is their rule, offer an answer, one
or many that you can either dismiss or eliminate until one or none
remain.
No,
some brain-teasers can't be solved to your satisfaction, for if the
thought behind this dilemma isn't perhaps as individual as I'm
presuming then the solution undoubtedly will be. No one size fits
all, there's another maxim for you.
Although
they might do if the item happens to be lenses. Contact lenses. At
least if, after a trial, you find you get on with a particular brand.
Like feet, the size of the iris must vary. I've never really thought
about it up until now, in spite of having like any contact lens
wearer, regular or sporadic, 'fit' appointments which I've always
assumed were about comfort, but have now just realised may not be.
Isn't
it funny what you overlook or take for granted? Words and images for
instance that you see so often they no longer mean anything; you
think you've taken them in but haven't. Not really. Like measurements
printed in small bold type on the side of packaging that tell you
which is for the left and which the right because from habit you
know; and anyhow, you don't want to every time bring the box up to
your nose.
But
contact lenses, you're thinking, are the obvious answer to my riddle
of loss and short-sightedness. A very minor loss, I must add, that
has stabilised at around -3.25 or -3.50. And, well, yes, you might
think that but ultimately no. The experience, when given, is
short-lived and starts, as you may know, with insertion, making you
part of the process to see, your body having failed you in that
regard, because just moments before your vision was blurry. The
weather presenter on BBC Breakfast from where you stood in the
kitchen had been a fuzzy mix of pink (skin) and green (sweater) with
a gold (hair) halo, but now hey presto! she's sharp. Her lines
defined, her colours crisp.
And
once they're in, they're in. I don't really know they're there, other
than they've corrected my sight, and that everything can seem,
including myself, too much in focus. I don't always like it. I see
things that with specs on or naked-eyed I wouldn't notice. Basically
they make me even more picky (if that's possible) about my own person
and my surroundings. Stray hairs, minute bits of fluff, a picture
hanging crookedly. And once you've seen them, they can't then be
unseen.
Was
it like this (was I like this?) when I had 20/20 vision? Well, that
was the point of this piece, wasn't it? I honestly don't remember. I
have a suspicion it wasn't. Maybe wearing lenses is such a novelty,
and on every occasion too, that nothing – whatever I turn my eyes
to and on - escapes my attention. Why it's not the same with specs I
don't know. Possibly because I'm always aware they're there,
balancing on my nose and framing the world, and that occupies my mind
rather more than what (or who) I see through them.
However
what I will say for them– lenses and specs- is that they make me
feel like Clark Kent, except I haven't, as yet, developed any
superpowers.
Picture credit: The Eye, Rene Magritte.
All posts published this year were penned in 2019.
