Monday, May 18, 2009

Retraining our eyes

After straining to see my computer screen for a couple of weeks, I dropped by the eye doctor. Although I somehow ended up ordering reading glasses, I was told my eyes had not worsened but the converging muscles had weakened in my right eye.

I have exercises I must do daily to get both eyes to work in tandem again. Focusing is not the problem. Somehow I started to use only my left eye to look at things and was suppressing the images in my right eye. There is nothing wrong with my right eye, I just wasn't working both my peepers equally.

So now I have this set of reading glasses that I've paid for but will not need if I get my eyes to do their job. In fact, I am afraid that using these reading glasses will hinder the effort to correct this problem.

My point is we're all retraining ourselves now that our socioeconomic world has changed. In some cases it may be best to pick up those "reading glasses" to get by. But when possible, work as hard as you can to straighten things out. Hold off on tapping your reserve cash. I know retailers hate hearing such talk, but now is not the time to keep up appearances.


I made more headway on Heritage House but let myself get so far behind that I won't make the May deadline unless I just ramble to fill the page. Definitely need to get back into a solid routine. Maybe I will work more consistently with less eye strain but I won't use that as an excuse.

I need to rethink a few things in the story but I have my outline down. I know how the story ends. I just have to see how the little pieces along the way fit into place.

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away