Month: June 2013

Nightblindness

This is the second entry where I select a song title at random from my itunes library as a writing prompt.

Song title: “Nightblindness” by David Gray

I have had poor eyesight forever, or ever since I was in fifth grade, got glasses, and discovered the trees had leaves. I first wore wire rims, then classic coke-bottle glasses with brownish-purple plastic frames that I thought looked “cool” (read “hideous” and “why did my mother let me do that?”), which I wore through junior high school. After that I endured years of new-and-improved contact lenses — dealing with dry rubber eyeballs at the end of the day, searching for the invisible lens after dropping it, seeing the college boyfriend accidentally swallow one that I’d put in a glass of water. Finally, a few years ago, I got laser eye surgery, also known as Lasik.

It has been a godsend.

At the time, the doctor told me I was a “borderline” candidate, which meant that my near-sightedness was so bad (my prescription is -6) he couldn’t promise me 20/20 vision. And, he added, “You will definitely need reading glasses.”

For me, none of that mattered. The first time I didn’t have to poke a slippery translucent disc into my eye was my “Hallelujah” moment. After the operation itself (easy for some, but not my favorite, as my kids say), my newfound and naked vision was nothing short of a miracle.

However, a little over a year ago, I found myself squinting a lot. I mostly noticed because the little lines around my eyes had increased dramatically, and I was becoming alarmed. This had to be more than simply “aging.” And blobbing the most expensive eye cream (because that means it’s the best, right?) around my eyes day and night didn’t seem to help.

Additionally, at night while driving I realized all the lights were a bit blurry and I was sticking my neck out over the steering wheel like a turtle — as if that would make me see better.

Finally, I went for an eye exam, convinced that my vision had slipped about halfway back to “legally blind.” But actually, when the doctor told me the results — about 20/40 — she commented that it wasn’t “that bad.”

So you’re saying I’m just picky?” I joked.

“Basically,” she joked back (I think).

She added that it was possible my Lasik had initially over-corrected to better than 20/20 so I was used to seeing like Superman.

Well, maybe so, but I have to say, HD was working for me. So, I got glasses with the prescription she wrote, and I now wear them often while driving — and not just at night. I also use them at sporting events … and my kids’ performances … and, um, for watching TV. I definitely have not become dependent, though. I don’t wear them while sleeping or going out to dinner.

No, at dinner in order to read a menu, I now pull out the “cheaters,” those other glasses I carry in my purse, alongside the sunglasses (two pairs, in case I lose one) and the “night” glasses, which I had relegated to my car until I realized I really needed them for all that other stuff I just mentioned.

Lately, I’ve found myself walking into the house with my “driving glasses” on my head and then putting on my reading glasses at the computer, and realizing I look like a complete freak. Sometimes sunglasses are even hanging off the top of my shirt.

Yes, that seems like too many glasses. That’s what bifocals/trifocals are for, right? But then I’d have to say my Lasik was a complete waste. And besides, I really don’t want to wear glasses all the time.

 

Seeing “Past My Shades”

This is the first in a series of posts based on song titles. For each entry I will randomly select a song title from my itunes library as a writing prompt. The title itself, and not the song’s lyrics, will be the prompt, although occasionally the lyrics might be relevant to what I end up writing about.

Song title: “Past My Shades” (by B.O.B. w/ Lupe Fiasco)

Maybe someone wearing the sunglasses doesn’t see anyone or anything beyond himself or herself, is someone whose world view is skewed inward — so that all he is thinking about is his own fabulousness, his own brighter light, one that outshines everyone in comparison. Or maybe the sunglasses wearer is hiding behind the image she wants to protect, distancing herself from the world. What’s back there? It’s murky and dark. With both — and each in their own way — self-absorbtion is the theme.

This idea of self-absorption is something that’s come up a few times lately in my life. First, we are all self-absorbed to a certain degree. After all, we can only be within ourselves, our own mind, and our own bodies. Yes, we can empathize, and put ourselves in someone else’s shoes, but then again, if one is completely selfless, doesn’t that insinuate a degree of self-removal, of distancing, of lack of intimacy? A narcissist at least puts themselves out there for all to see and to understand — and to judge.

Which brings me to the idea of writers, memoir writers, specifically. Often writers are encouraged to tell their story — because everyone’s story is important. Each one of us, it is often said, has a story to tell. Plus, writing can be incredibly therapeutic (not to mention free). Yet in the act of doing so, aren’t we absorbed in self? Some would even say obsessed? What about the idea of getting outside of oneself as therapy, as really living?

When does honest self-exploration risk becoming shallow self-obsession?

Maybe when the shades are on. With them, the memoir writer could be seen as self-involved and over-sharing. Or maybe he is masking the parts of himself he doesn’t want the world to see. It’s selective revelation. One assumes some self-editing in the shedding of the layers, but is there an image the writer wants to project or protect?

It seems to me that at some point the writer has to toss the shades, to stop controlling and start trusting. And when that happens, what the writer is offering up to the world becomes less about himself or herself personally (and obsessively) and more about the human experience in general. As a wise person once noted to me, sharing is a generous act. It’s also an honest one.

In “The Art of the Personal Essay,” Phillip Lopate writes: “The trick is to realize that one is not important, except insofar as one’s example can serve to elucidate a more widespread human trait and make readers feel a little less lonely and freakish.”

Here’s to hopefully feeling a less freakish.