Double vision

 Double vision 

And he took the blind man by the hand, and led him out of the village; and when he had spit on his eyes and laid his hands upon him, he asked him, “Do you see anything?” And he looked up and said, “I see men; but they look like trees, walking.” - Mark 8:23-24

I started out of the bedroom on my way to the bath this morning. I walked through the door and into the door jamb. And I sat down on the bedroom floor.

The last time something like this happened, my eyes working independently of one another, was in New York City. Roz and I were visiting her son Bart, his inamorata Dominga, and her son, the pocket Junot Diaz, Alfredo. We were walking along Fort Washington Avenue.

     On the pavement, the shadows of the buildings begin merging with the sunlight and the sunlight with the shadows. I look up: the sky is green. Below, the buildings themselves are expanding and contracting, and one falling into another. The contents of one apartment on one third floor spill into another apartment on another third floor. The sidewalk is stumbling into the street, and the street is stepping up onto the sidewalk. The riders safe in their cabs find themselves walking, jostled and sweating. They won’t arrive at their meetings or assignations as sweet-smelling as they hoped. The pedestrians find themselves leaning back in their cabs, enjoying the air-conditioning; but they haven’t thought yet about where they may be going or how they’ll pay the fare.

     And I run into a signpost and find myself sitting on the concrete. I hear, “Ted.” It is Bart, or it is Alfredo; they are standing side-by-side-by-side. “Are you okay?” one of them says. “Yes,” I say.

     “I can get up by myself,” I say, and I do. “But you better take my hand.” Someone does. “And take me home,” I say.

     “How far is it?” I ask.

07.16.20