rewritten eye anatomy/changing the physiology of the universe

How glasses wearers challenge the banality of life.

Every glasses wearer is an architect of reality.

The eye is the offspring of the brain, the rebellious one, the one the brain hates being reminded of during business meetings, the one who escaped the borders of the skull and went off to find a better world.

90% of information from our surroundings is gathered through sight. The brain is sitting behind a large desk, adjusting its tie, yawning and receiving.

Some talk about evolution of style, evolution of computers, music, humankind. I make a time chart of our days spent together and I see your glasses shapeshifting, raising an eyebrow at The Origin of Species. I don’t think you’ve ever worn a different pair for as long as we have known each other and I have seen yellowish frames crying in despair beneath my window when we were 16 and money was an abstract. I remember the golden, delicate ones you got tired of when each had a door to lock after work. The person dictates the biology of things. This is true for all of us.

An individual with an eye defect treats light with kindness, opposing refraction by inflicting a change of structure on themselves.

I think of you and I think of how sunlight kisses the sea. I don’t think it ever liked the human eye that much. I also think of how there are plants that live solely because of that kiss. I think about how the sea can’t help but send them a song.

refraction - In physics, “the change in direction of a wave passing from one medium to another caused by its change in speed”.

There are more rooms in the heart than there are in the entirety of this city. This is what you said to me, in a different language and in different words, but that’s what it meant when it collided with the dictionary of who I am. Words don’t mean anything. I am writing this because you think they do and I think you mean something. I also think you’re wrong.

The heart only has four rooms and even if it didn’t you would still be wrong. It’s the city’s heart that owes its life to you and people like you. I know the rest of them too, in some wretched way only creatures who don’t see much beyond those four rooms can understand. We are sitting on the front porch and I’m thinking how devastatingly unaware you are of your position. I am putting my fingers over your radial artery as if to say: your heart is overwhelmed by its rooms, the rest of us are confusing streets for houses, we don’t know what a room can be. You put your hand on my wrist and infect me with a pulse, like planting a garden. I know how the city feels. It has you.

I was having a conversation with the streetlamp or a restaurant or a park bench the other day and, even if I can’t figure out how to piece this organism together without altering the anatomy of my own two hands, I have no trouble recalling the light that emerged from its distorted shape. You might have forgotten an item close to some of our city’s inhabitants, an item equally insignificant as this joke of an operating theatre, and we all remembered it.

You always think of music as something external. We’re on the phone and I can see you playing guitar even though you’ve never held one in your entire life. You’re asking me if my radio is coming up with a new constitution for this country on my end. I turn up the volume. You always do that. Invent and blame it on someone else. You find a musical symbol on my sleeve and your eyes are glistening with admiration. I pick it up, attach it to your ear. A person will brush against you on public transport and you will cast their echo as an opera. They will like your earrings.

The light misbehaves therefore it must be tamed. The light foolishly trusts the machinery in front of the pupil, then curses the machinery behind it. Countless of elevators and roadways crowding our nervous systems, taking pictures for a ride. I find myself in one of the cars in your mind, travelling endlessly, the light is the driver, untamed. Laughing. I put my feet on the dashboard the way people from your books are allowed to do because, with you, time has a different unit of measurement. Sentences often end up on movie screens. (I wish they didn’t.)

You are putting your instruments of light in a suitcase and I’m cooking on the stove and the papers where you document movement are registering the same amplitude from both of our worlds. You are drawing the outlines of the universe with your eyes closed. Something happens near my ribs, then it happens again near my left eyebrow, then again near my vocal cords. Pick an arbitrary coordinate – chances are it’s trying to start a riot. You rise to get a glass of water. Effect summation. Everything that happens to me locally is redesigned as something purposeful. Construction site, dust and dirt and one day someone will wake up and put sugar in their coffee, standing in your supervising spot, oblivious to the initial building sketch. I can turn around now, suddenly remembering the right order of the ingredients, muscles no longer sorting through countless contradictory instructions.

Location: excitability curve. Stimulus duration: flicker of a sentence. Stimulus strength: that glass of water was for me.