February 20, 2004


eye chart

The “sphere” of my left eye is -8.75. This means that I see at ten feet what a perfect-sighted person sees at 87.5 feet. To say this another way, without my glasses I can’t make out the top letter on an eye chart.

One morning when I was seventeen, having broken my glasses the previous night, I convinced myself that my job was so easy and repetitive (I worked at a Roy Rogers) that I could manage with them. On my way to work I walked into the pole of a No Parking sign.

Later that day, while scooping French fries, I saw a brown shape dart past my foot.

“A mouse!” I cried.

It was a hamburger bun.

My glasses are a part of me. I put them on first thing each morning and take them off last thing each night. Otherwise the only times I remove them are:

  • before cleaning them
  • before sleep
  • before showering
  • before swimming
  • before, or sometimes during, sex

Without my glasses, the functional world is reduced to what’s about twelve inches from my eyes. The rest is still there – or out there, really – but it’s a badly blurred version of itself.

I believe I’m introverted in part because of my eyes. Living in a fog turns one inward.

February 4, 2004


I told my girlfriend yesterday that I wished we could switch genitals now and then, just for fun. She agreed. Naturally I realize that men can be penetrated, but what I really want is a vagina. In particular I want her vagina and I want her to have my penis.

The other idea would be to really be her, and have her be me. But that’s strange because if I were her, would I be her or would I be me being her?

You see, what I really want is to feel what she feels, but how can I feel that without actually being her? And if I am her, where am I? It doesn’t seem like I’m there anymore.