Like most things I write about,  ‘Without My Specs’ is a very slightly twisted truth, based on reality that’s not quite black and white.  I need glasses to see the moon and without them it’s not a moon but at that point beautiful potentials start drifting in.

 

The good thing about needing glasses and not wearing them is that you can’t see the weevils in the besan flour, or even the digits on the bathroom scales, inferring instead that all is well.

A certain beauty of forgetting to put the glasses on is that red, white, and blue of any flag you like becomes a grandmotherly purple and quite difficult to be patriotic about.

And the best time to forget your specs is election time when each parties’ political placards are indistinguishable from each other’s which has a certain irony.

Without glasses I see three moons or rather crescents overlapping like all for one and one for all with Arabian scimitars, and certainly as good as other peoples’ moon, through glasses.

There’s value in failing to pick up the glasses and not sitting them on the bridge of the nose because the night sky becomes so much abstract art, the possibilities endless with new shapes failing miserably to focus perched in the cusp of different mythologies.

Torn between slipping the glasses on or not; dithering – the two rain forest birds carry a gorgeous duet but are invisible, saffron dahlias in a bunch of three glowing like a hilltop beacon but all that’s seen is a blob of yellow.

Intentionally watching the news glassless and it’s odd how things in the world seem so much better.