Blue Lake at St Bathans, Maniatoto, Otago, New Zealand.
Last week at the eye specialist, I was referred to as a ‘High Myopic’. I’ve been playing with different takes on the term: ‘Hi Myopic.’ ‘My Biopic.’ ‘My Optic High.’ At a stretch, I might even get away with, ‘Oh My Pie’ or ‘Hi My Pict.’
I was also told that I have the onset of cataracts. Funny word for it. A waterfall falling over the eyes. The future slowly downloading its white layer.
It’s the end of a slow day which featured Water Engineers calling in to test our water pressure. (Turns out it’s a bit high at 136; 77 is the preferred.) Something will have to be done. We can’t have the hoses popping off halfway through the washing cycle and frightening the cats. Other features of the day, in no particular order: SB’s raw cookie dough, a tui in the young kowhai, listening to Fleet Foxes and all the washing dry and gathered in before the four p.m. dew fell.
The past makes itself comfortable, gathering itself into the present, to gaze back at me like a fat cushion. Being a high myopic, I can only peer into its distance. Behind me, I hear the future’s self-conscious cough as it tries to get my attention. In my mother’s voice, it hints that I should get off to bed now; wake up fresh. ‘Letterman’ is drawing to a close with a band of three kids; the past plays a fiddle, the present a guitar, the future a banjo. They all play fast and loose.