Within Eyeshot

[Rhapsody]

If perspective is a painting, mine is Impressionistic. Looking out my window, Monet or Renoir would likely gasp at the view. I live not within serene Japanese gardens with stenciled bridges arcing across lotus-studded ponds nor on boundless acres of farmland—its velvet verdancy only broken by golden humps of dusty haystacks. No, my abode is far humbler. Mine is but one of the well-pruned nondescript suburban houses whose square lawns are kept immaculate by hands other than our own. But to my eyes, our yard holds a dutiful patrician beauty, especially when viewed through my bedroom window.

I see only through a narrow slit that is the parting of my translucent curtains. Foremost in my vision looms a green Afro that is the semicircle canopy of a dwarf tree flourishing just outside my room. I watch as sunlight illuminates its leafy crown, bathing it a vibrant gold-green (a tint beautiful only in nature). I know from past scrutiny exactly how sunlight strikes its leaves at a certain angle and traces each vein a molten gold, just as dawn paints the fine gauze of a spider’s web with a filigree of rose and gold. But such minute detail is lost on me now. Only a blur of graded green meets my eyes as I gaze, enraptured, through the glazed glass. Beyond is the leather-brown cylinder—a tree bole—whose roots are carpeted by a mossy tangle of underbrush. Its canopy rises to so lofty a height, I cannot perceive its crown from within the house. Constantly moving in the lazy summer wind, this emerald awning dapples the jade lawn with dancing patches of honeyed sunlight. Slivers of cerulean sky can be glimpsed through the branches, replete with vague vagrant shreds of cloud. Even the concrete street takes on a warm beauty. In the glare of the noon sun, the pavement glimmers white-gold, an illusion only enhanced by sweltering heat waves that ripple across my vision.

I am a hairsbreadth away from qualifying as legally blind. A glance out my window reveals a riot of color. Minutiae are lost. Of course, functioning in twenty-first century America requires a keen sense of sight. Any citizen walking the street with less than 20/20 vision invites trouble. So testifies my driver’s license which reads WITH CORRECTIVE LENSES. Indeed, in public, I’m subject to the burden of my lightweight spectacles. On the road, I am equipped with eagle eyes. The pockmarked lanes, flashy traffic signs, even the fuzzy dice swinging from the mirror of a neighboring car cannot escape my detached observation. In the classroom, I espy the slightest typo on overhead worksheets, note the first color change in the chemistry labs, peruse the clock—examining each movement of the minute hand until the bell rings to signal my salvation. Even as a competitive swimmer, I don prescription goggles so the aerobic sets written on the poolside chalkboard can be interpreted and converted into marine mileage and expanding muscle.

But such acute vision can prove tiring, irksome, if not nerve-wracking. It seems my world is full of edges: the cold blade of a fingernail clipper, the trenchant point of a sharpened pencil, the sheet-metal brittleness of a bathroom mirror, the wound steel strings of my violin, the whirring blades of a ceiling fan, the steep drop off point-of-no-return deadline of the next project, the barbed remarks of callous classmates. If it is not a pinprick of irritation, it is gaudy color and glaring light. The enormously vivid messages of highway billboards, tin-foil candy wrappers, the sequins and rhinestones and dyed hair that constitutes fashion today, glitzy polished sports cars, the dazzle of bleach-whitened smiles, the neon-blacklight-laser fluorescence that comprises urban nightlife. It’s enough to give any self-respecting individual a migraine. Life has morphed into a sort of carnival, rife with violent movement and color; we are the both the ringmasters and the clowns. The edges, glitter, garishness overloads the eyes and piques the sane mind to the point of pain.

At these times, relief is simple. Remove one’s glasses. Watch as the sharp edges melt, as radiance blurs into shadow, as Technicolor recedes into pastel. The world disintegrates into pure color and movement, live art. A fashion model in high-definition television is refined into an average humanoid shape. A cardinal flitting across one’s yard transcends into a comet of blood-scarlet. And light elucidates as Monet imagines it would in utopia; light no longer blinds. Just as well. For I am already blind. A blind visionary.

[Peredhil]

What a marvelous word picture!

[Justin Silverblade]

Wow... this is a simply amazing piece Rhapsody! :woot:

 

If perspective is a painting, mine is Impressionistic

and

Watch as the sharp edges melt, as radiance blurs into shadow, as Technicolor recedes into pastel. The world disintegrates into pure color and movement, live art.

Those must be my favorite single lines, but together, with everything, the whole painting is beautiful. Really well done, a wonderful topic and profound resolution. Wearing glasses myself (though not too bad), I can completely relate, and so it had even more meaning. You portrayed it wonderfully. Bravo!

 

Thank you for sharing such a euphoneous word-pleasure. When you can pack so much beauty into a single word, line AND story at the same time, that's my favorite kind of literature; you take one read at it, sit back for a moment, smile, "dig-it", and read it again, to let those words melt into your being. It was a real treat, that I'm privileged to have read. Thanks again!

 

- Justin

[Salinye]

Rhapsody! This is a fine piece of work, my friend! I love the vivid imagery that you have painted for me with your brilliant combination of words! I especially loved the little bush that had an afro. lol!!

 

Thank you for sharing, reading this makes me eager to see your other works!!

 

~Salinye

[WrenWind]

That is so beautiful that it brought tears to my eyes and gave me a glimpse of your world with the edges gone leaving only the colours.

 

 

Thank you for sharing

 

 

*hugs*