Framed

In early January, I realized my arms weren't going to grow longer and I needed to go the eye doctor.

For some time I have been moving books, newspapers and other items up and back in an effort to focus. Squinting, too, had become common.

Time for new glasses, and this time I was sure I would need reading glasses.

The eye doctor (I can't spell opthamalogist (?)) confirmed my suspicions. An eyeglass shop is located conveniently in the eye doctor's office, so I headed there.

The optician suggested progressive lenses.

Progressive lenses incorporate a long-distance vision, a medium vision, and a reading vision in the lenses, and do this without a line. Bifocals, on the other hand, have the long distance vision all around but have an insert for the reading part.

Progressive lenses also utilize "channels" so that the vision to the side of the lens can be blurry.

When I first put these new lenses on, I thought I had fallen underwater. Between the increase in strength and the change in the lenses, I was sure I would stumble and fall.

I have fought with these things for the last two weeks, hoping to adjust to this new vision. I have improved with them - the underwater feeling is gone, but when I am out in a large space, like in Walmart, things seem wavy. I don't notice the same effect looking outside, though, so it is something on that level of distance and horizon.

Reading with a book in my lap or at the kitchen table or desk (as opposed to the computer, which for some reason has been fine from day one) has only now become something I am somewhat comfortable with. Even so, I feel I need a pair of just reading spectacles if I am going to read for a prolonged period.

The optical shop will take these back and provide me with the old-style bifocals if I determine I can't use these. I don't hate these glasses but I am not enamored with them. I like the frames; they are titanium and very lightweight. My last pair was a little heavy and I kept an ache near my nose. That has vanished with the lighter frames.

Being able to see has always been incredibly important, probably because I did not get glasses until the 7th grade even though I needed them sooner. I always sat at the front of the class so I could see the blackboard. I remember the day my father took me to pick up my glasses. The mountains had trees! I could see the license plate on the vehicle in front of us. Things were sharp and detailed, not fuzzy and blurred. The world opened up.

A very long time ago, I wrote a poem about being able to see. Moments ago, thinking of this poem, I flipped through an old file in search of it. Apparently I wrote it in a class at Hollins. A note from a professor or a reader is with the poem. He/She didn't like the ending at all. The note says, "you've established some big overtones... I was not pleased, fulfilled but disappointed, & indeed annoyed, let down, by the conclusion." Yikes. And here I am sharing it.

You can tell me what you think if you want. It needs work, but I also find it wryly amusing. Even if the reader above didn't like the ending.

Mirage

Mornings after I bathe my body
with sweet Arabian soap,
dry my skin with linty towel,
cover my nakedness with pants, shirt, and burlap tie,
I stand before my mirror.

The radio speaks in foreign tongue
of sweltering suns and star-filled
nights, then plays a sonata of desert moon.
The room behind me shimmers
in blurred horizontals
as the sun slips through the sheers.

My reflection tells of tossed sheets,
midnight murmurs,
making love in veils of silk.
My eyes are dry, windblown sands,
smothered with heavy canvas tents.

From the little oasis
on my dresser's corner,
I pull out my vision,
open the tent flaps,
pop in the plastic.