For a week I wandered through the Luxembourg gardens asking women to gouge out my eyes. Both or none at all I had said. What little I had understood. Under the lights of the Boulevard St Germain I managed to pull one out with an oyster fork before losing consciousness. It always brought out the best in me. Neurological change, I believed, was finally taking place. The kind you had to fight tooth and nail for day in day out. The kind they only spoke about in kook shows and woo woo books.
When I finally woke up I checked out of the hospital and walked until I found a grandfather clock to stare at. I spent the whole day meditating over the swing of the pendulum until the police were called in and I was removed by force. By that time I was already in tears. And all from just a single eye. And it’s something to find yourself with one eye. To cry deeply, totally, from just one eye.
