An English In Kentucky


















Thursday March 22nd 2012    Tim Candler

        A time comes when eye-glasses need to be replaced.  Sit on them a few times.  Lose them occasionally.  Kick them around.  Drop them in  mud. It's a rough and tumble, and a person can't help but develop a friendship with a particular pair.  It's a loyalty, I guess.  Maintained by apologies and cursing and interdependence.  And when it's that time to say goodbye, there is considerable angst, because a person is never quite certain whether the new pair will work as well or tolerate as much. Then there are the rows and rows of new eye-glasses in  the bloody Grocery Store, all of them different, and god knows what.  And, of course a person needs his old eye-glasses to see the new eye-glasses, which is is a terrible way to end a friendship.

       There are some who thrive on variety, they see it as their chance to elaborate, or reinvent. It's the steam behind capital enterprise, and look at me aren't I new and important, and special and critical to the survival of the species. As well, I can see job creators desperately trying to maintain the flows of eye-glass product design, stamping up and down the halls, ranting and raving about staying ahead of the competition. And I see the drawing boards, the worried expressions upon the faces of those eye-glass designers struggling with a creative blockage that could lead to the employment exchange.  Just give me the same pair that isn't scratched, then go outside, watch the birds and get some fresh air, and stop dicing around like mental patients at pill time.

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