Jed Wolf

After becoming 90% blind in one eye two weeks ago, the only thing I can gaze at these days are clouds. Everything else is distorted.

Shopping center traffic and department store interiors are the worst. Tunnel vision at speeds above 20 mph will take major getting used to. Whether watching ocean waves or scenery in the woods, everything is skewed. Go-to panoramas of our pond or yard are unsatisfying. Flying birds annoy me and reflecting water makes me sick.

But like a good pirate, I expect to get used to this. After shopping at Walmart, Walgreens and finally CVS, I was able to purchase a patch which I felt lucky to find in this town with it’s buccaneer reenactments. Though they feel weird, wearing an eye patch offers some relief. I get that the sound “arrrrg” is a response to having one working eye and parrots as companions ’cause they’re up close up and don’t fly.

Though I’m 65, an eyepatch in public makes me no longer invisible. People turn to look at me riding my bike or shopping. Perhaps I’ll act thirty years younger after I get used to this, but having one good eye has “shivered my timbers” so deeply, I’ve already talked to a therapist twice. Alas, I won’t be calling him back. I’ve got FB for telling horror stories to while sounding sane.

For now, there’s no longer a debate. Earth is undeniably exhausting and uncomfortable. After wrestling existentially my entire life, it’s finally a done deal. Until I get used to this, I’m a poor bastard in a Greek myth. Sure I could haunt myself with how I ought to feel grateful but that’s not very comforting.

This morning I had a MRI of my skull to see why I’m having such a hard time finding words when I speak. Yesterday I had a blood test and a third Covid test from which my nose continues to bleed due to all the aspirin I’m taking. On Friday they’re gonna put a camera down my throat and photograph my stented heart. Meanwhile, my phone and emails won’t stop with folks who want swimming pools. I took a break to write this which was a relief. Then I’ll take a swim, eat another peach and call them all back.

Anyone who’s attempted to paint clouds has reverence for their secrets. Their detailed abiguity beckons to be achieved with a poetry of brushstrokes. Landscape paintings reveal the artist’s world view, sensuousness and other beliefs. A no-brainer airspace for angels, looming atmospheric ravages and diaphanous shafts of meaning, even impressionist’s impecable slapping or a toddler’s stubby fingers express similar things when painting clouds. Under them for the most part, here we are.

I don’t want to breath significance into why clouds are the only comfortable things for me to gaze at.