When you look at things, it's surprising. (Duh!)
For example, trees -- not just that there are
all those leaves, but that every single leaf
is a different distance away from you,
degrees of leaving (each divorce begun
with the first kiss or long before).
Who knew there were so many depths!
Wow! 3D! Things come right at you!
Enter wind, and every depth (there are thousands)
changes, and you see it all, just like that! --
something that must be you making all those
inconceivably intricate calculations instantly.
I've been looking at trees through a window,
and I just noticed the window glass -- and,
look, the screen! I've been looking through it
all this time. I'll be damned! How did I
train my eyes to look through a wire grid
that cuts the view into thousands
of tiny squares, separate the squares
from the grid and reassemble them
to achieve a wire-free view of trees and sky?
(How do thousand-eye flies sort things out?)
How did I learn to unsee things with such
precision? And you (that's one of my
overworked themes -- "and you?") -- how
did you learn to hear a voice here
without seeing the words that comprise it?
On this page have you seen a single serif
of a single letter? Have you seen an "e,"
an "I"? ("Give me an I!...")
Note: "Give me an I!" in the last line could be the
voice of a contestant on Wheel of Fortune or Jeopardy or whichever,
asking Vanna for an "I", but I had in mind the cheerleaders
demanding of the crowd: "Give me a C! Give me an E! Give me
an N!...". (My high school was called Central. Central High
-- high and in the middle of something, I don't know what.)