Where does all my love go?

Once you are blind you can’t help noticing how it seems that everything which turns people on emotionally is, basically the view.

I love southern Italy the red earth, the terra cotta, that special green of the valleys, the way the earth scrapes its way down to the sea.

What is Italy to me? Bad driving, bad drains all the best food gone abroad, nice people but crap at doing simple things. Language barrier.

Vietnam is the most incredible place the most physically beautiful country in the world the faces of the children are so moving.

Vietnam? Some good food, some horrible. Remote, poor, war torn, passive, rugged, dull.

English countryside is so charming, that special greenness, the sheer history, the hedgerows, those special summer late evening sunsets.

Rural England – bigots, narrow minded, self-righteous subsidised farmers, bad food, bad service, smelly, noisy, good clean air?Crap! Too many people, too much dung and far too many vehicles. No pavements, bad drivers. Dead after ten.

TV; here I am really at odds because no one who can see it has ever articulated to me a meaningful response to what they see.

What I hear is of course alienating. Worse than radio in every department, naturally. Interrupted spasmodic descriptions. Public school boys trying to sound yobby, girls all talking too loudly. Fantastically unsexy demeanour to the last one. But apparently their arses, faces and breasts are wonderful.

VWs; uncomfortable, terrible suspension, always smell of the bottom of a pond because they leak. Noisy and prone to develop myriads of small faults. No gadgets. Ridiculous price.

Ford ‘Boring Car’; comfortable, quiet, well finished, fast, smooth styling to feel.

People carriers; like being a deliveryman; null points.

Don’t I sound fun?

And yet

I have as much capacity to love, to admire, to wallow in, to be turned on by anything as anyone else. If these capacities don’t die. Where do they get used up?

And where does all that love go?

It cannot be shared like others can share. No reminiscing over photos. No gasping at the interior of a 12 century Byzantine cathedral as we walk through the door. No swooning and comparing superlatives as we see Michele Pfeifer sachay across the screen with her tits out.

I swill the second hand champagne of your descriptions. If I gush at what I cannot see I will appear fatuous and simpering. If I seem less excited than you this will bring out pity and disappointment and frustration in you, which may then transfer itself onto me, but it will come from you.

If I seem bored or grouchy it will defeat you because there is no way that you can pass on your visual impressions as emotions which translate to me and we both know it. Perhaps your assumption might be that I am somehow poor in sensuality.

Not so. The part of my brain which used to ‘see’ didn’t die. It’s still in use. What has happened is not a blank colourless screen preceding me everywhere I ‘look’ or go. The part of my brain which used to be taken up interpreting the images cast on the retina is now fully and cinematedly occupied by my imagination. I am not conscious that what I ‘see’ is imaginary…its real its what I see and it’s far too brilliant, too morphic and too surreal to possibly explain adequately to you…so we have the same problem, you and I.

Can I ever put over to a seeing person the beauty and intricacy of my secret gardens?. The powerful aphrodisiac of this world of sensitivity not touch, smelling not smells, listening not hearing, tasting not taste, instinct and imagination, and can I ever adequately put across the way that the outside world ruins it for me at every stage because it assumes that the view will make up for the crap.

So where does my love go? Do I have the same capacity to adore anymore?

Yes. A perfect world, created for me and controlled by me and in which I could behave as I like, touch as I like, speak as I like, would be…perfect. I don’t NEED to see anything. Anything at all. My poverty is due entirely to the outside world. A world designed for the sighted. Eliminate all the dangers, the images, the visual idolatry, the traffic system, and the whole pace and layout of life which assumes sight and I have no problems at all.

I designed my own house from the ground up, and in it I operate perfectly and with joy and with a full aesthetic and sensual experience. The rest of the world enters, sometimes grudgingly, on my terms and must play to my drum.

There are no pictures on the walls, there are no ‘dark corners’, there are no sharp edges. There is perfect spacial harmony and textural wonders at every part. And every caller, within an hour, cannot resist the urge to tell me two things.

‘this house is so beautiful’…and for once I can wholeheartedly agree with them.
‘I’d love to live here’…once again I can happily endorse that they would indeed.

So Southern Italy with all human alterations supervised by me? Easy…great
Vietnam? I’d never get there on foot or mule so irrelevant.
English heritage? That would be meadows woods and streams…no problem. Full of wonder.

You see…I CAN love, after all. You just can’t see it.

Today my house, tomorrow the world!