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Dear Wigleaf,
I'm breaking in new eyeglasses—a new prescription—and
it's disorienting. I'd had my old glasses for a
while—years—and have kept the same prescription for even
longer. These new glasses are sharper—I can see more clearly, for
sure, both up close and at long distances—though I don't know yet
if this is a virtue or not. There's something familiar or friendly or cozy
or homey about seeing the world in a softer focus—seeing things
well enough that I can still make them out, but soft enough that they still
feel real. Real—maybe that's the interesting word—that
with these new glasses all I can see feels so sharp it's not real like the
sharp world is unreal—or maybe it says something important about
me—that I prefer to live in a world that's soft. But these new
glasses—as I say—everything's sharp—and I'm
having trouble perceiving depths.
It snowed here in Detroit over the weekend—9 inches on
Friday—enough to call off work—and another 3 on Sunday.
It's barely remarkable at this point in the season—a season that's
been snowier than I remembered when my wife and I each moved back to
Michigan and when we both moved into the city. There are certain things we'd
been conditioned to believe about living in the city—both good and
bad—but one thing we'd never really thought—never really
considered—was that some years it'd snow a lot and some
years—this year—it'd snow a ton. We bought a beautiful
old house in a diverse neighborhood that pretty well survived Detroit's
worst years—the murder capital years—and we've
loved—and felt strangely at home—living in the city in
ways we couldn't have imagined growing up in the suburbs. Then, we dreamed
only of getting out and then later we both lived in so many other cities
thinking only of moving back—that old thing of
finally—at last—finding in the places you've been
looking this whole time everything you didn't even know you were looking for
this whole time. Twice—the last two snowfalls—someone's
hopped out of their car—one a neighbor, one a stranger just
driving by—to help unstuck ours from the snow.
The snow's knee-deep now—deeper now than it has been all
season—and all of us—everyone—is ready for
Spring. It's hard in these new glasses to tell where the snow ends. And I'm
wondering now whether there's maybe something wrong with the
prescription—the glasses were made wrong or I chose wrong
somewhere in the optometrist's sing-songy "1"-"2"-"1"-"2"—or
whether this really is just what the world is—so sharp and bright
and depthless. Or whether—and this is what I really hope because,
I'm told, these glasses really fit my face—they just need more
breaking in—I need to train my brain—and by Summer the
world will have once again gone perfectly soft and real in my sight.
Much love,
Matt
- - -
Read his story.
W i g l e a f
03-11-18
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