I have just been sent on a madcap joyride through the past. I never know how to put this. Karl is the friend I have known the longest. This is a problem of language, because while the only accurate way I write that, “Karl is the friend I have known the longest” sound shite. But “Karl is my oldest friend” always sounds to me that I’m suggesting he’s 80 years old, and he’s not. We were in elementary school together for 4 months. He knew me before I wore glasses.
Now, Karl, my oldest friend, recently dug up a pile of letters I wrote to him over the course of about 1991-1993 or so. Also one story I wrote after a fugue-dream in the summer of 1992. I have now read those letters and they evoke odd feelings. I remember quite vividly many of the general circumstances and situations written about without having rock solid memories of exact events. I generally do not remember writing the letters themselves, but I clearly recognize my “voice” in them. They are painfully random and sprawling. Whiney and convoluted and raving. Pretentious.
But there are moments in them that I enjoy. Here is my favorite, typed here verbatim from the typewritten letter:
‘Candles made of baby fat, babies made of candle fat.” [mismatched quotes sic]
I would love someone to explain this to me. “Candles made of baby fat” seems to be a common complaint about Satanists. I am hoping the entertaining wordplay that follows is my own, but then why did I use (non-matching) quote marks? I think I’m taking credit anyway.
After my miraculous and beloved Lasik procedure, I have noticed that I see halos around light sources, especially in low-light situations. This is a very minor and common side-effect of Lasik, and generally recedes or disappears as the eyes heal, although there is no guarantee. I wanted some kind of guideline as to when or if to start worrying about the halos not receding, and it looks like about a month or so is usually long enough for them to fade. However, while researching the halos I got interested in what Lasik is exactly, and ended up on Wikipedia. It turns out that Lasik is performed with a device called an excimer laser, and check out how awesome they are:
“Rather than burning or cutting material, the excimer laser adds enough energy to disrupt the molecular bonds of the surface tissue, which effectively disintegrates into the air in a tightly controlled manner through ablation rather than burning. Thus excimer lasers have the useful property that they can remove exceptionally fine layers of surface material with almost no heating or change to the remainder of the material which is left intact.”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Excimer_laser
Disintegration is cool.
As of 3:45pm on Friday, August 8, 2008, after 23 years of trials and torments, I am no longer nearsighted. I have been subject to absolute fits of giddiness, glee, and maniacal laughter. I find it quite interesting that to the outside observer, this probably appears commonplace. Thousands of people undergo Lasik or related procedures every day, and have for 20 or more years. So in aggregate, yet another person undergoing a relatively routine procedure of a mere 25 minutes is no big deal.
But on an individual, personal level, it is astounding. Profound. World-shattering. For 2/3 of my life, since before I was fully grown, since before I was really me, I have had the constant companionship of my glasses. So many petty annoyances become monstrous when added up and compounded over such a long time. Having to find them to see the time when waking up. Groping around half-blind in the shower every single day, having to bring bottles to within inches of my eyes to tell if I had shampoo or conditioner. $300 every year for a new pair, assuming I didn’t sit or step on them. The neverending routine of caring for contact lenses (before disposables) like sheperding some absurdly needy and helpless pet.
I think the thing I hated most was forgetting where I put my glasses, because of course my vision was just bad enough that something the size of glasses blended into the haze at something like two feet. It could become farcical, staggering around from one suspect shelf to another, squinting and poking my head right up next to any surface that could be “hiding” my stupid glasses. Of course, in my forgetfulness, this was a perfect opportunity to sit or step on them.
I don’t even want to discuss the social implications of being a 12 year old with glasses. Instant dork. Bad enough I liked to read. Even worse to read fantasy and science fiction, comic books. Add in moving every single year—always the new kid—and it just makes me unhappy to remember it.
And now, I can see. Without apparatus. Of course, the healing is just beginning, and the sight is still too new, I haven’t really absorbed it. But I’m happy. Really, really, happy. So happy I can’t contain it, I’ll suddenly notice or remember that I’m not wearing glasses or contacts and I’ll be so filled with glee that I literally jump up and down and clap. This is not like me. I’m much more a wry grin sort of fellow, usually. Suddenly I’m Buffy, purely, genuinely happy, without reserve or irony, without criticism or scorn. And it is good.
