Why is it Sarah's habit of baring her teeth to take food from her fork irks me far more than Alex's abominable politics? Why do we overlook a president's decision to cut off food to a hungry people and rail against him for putting his cock in a young woman's mouth? Why do we scold our children for failing to greet new acquaintances warmly when we ourselves pass up daily opportunities to lift the fallen and succor the sick?
We register the world through eyes addicted to beauty, ears long since spoiled by the most exquisite sonatas. We go for the close-up when the wide shot offends. We move along.
By the time I was thirteen I knew pretty much how things were supposed to be, and it was my job to open the eyes of anyone who'd gotten that far, or as far as fifteen, fifty, without seeing what was right in front of them. Things further off—my binoculars never quite gave me the focus I had when peering at beach glass damp in the cup of my hand, or Colby's hand. In retrospect, that all seems misbegotten, but there's no fixing it, there's only the occasional possibility of smiling with a hint of self-mockery as the correctives come pouring out.
Joe told me in 1997 that I was better then, a shade more tolerant, than I had been in 1980. Maybe. Or maybe I'm just better at the manoeuvre that elicits a compliment. The circles within circles make explanations as unending today as they were in my supremely self-conscious adolescence.
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