equivocality 8.0 has arrived. Though arriving with little fanfare, I felt this design update was important enough to have it’s own entry.
8.0 is an evolution in the design of this blog. I wanted a layout where the information was presented with less clutter, while maintaining the minimalist feel. There’s a reason behind every margin, every line, every shade.
I finally got some new glasses. It’s been years since I had my prescription updated and things in the distance were starting to get blurry, making my eyes tired very early in the day. This time I got a wire-frame pair, instead of the thick emo frames I got last year, though they’re still D&>.
The wide arms are in now, but I really don’t like that style (or maybe it just doesn’t fit my face). I also tend to not buy anything that’s currently fashionable, as I prefer classic designs. The wide wire-frame arms on this pair push the whole idea of trendy, but are otherwise acceptable.
I’m still getting used to the weight. They’re very light, but still not as light as my last commonly worn pair, which were like not wearing glasses at all. The good thing, I’ve come to discover, is that they’re not flexible, and while this makes them more fragile, they’re much easier to clean as they don’t bend when trying to hold steady.
Some people ask me why I don’t get contacts, and it’s because glasses are a part of my personality. In a way, they define me, staying in touch with my dorky past. At the wedding Tom asked me to take them off for the pictures since they turn photo grey from UV light, but I refused. I think I would have looked stranger without my glasses, then with my eyes obscured by tint.
Choosing these frames took a couple of visits. I had a hard time trusting Bronwen’s opinion because sometimes she thinks I look good in things that make me either laugh or hurl. I went to Lenscrafters with Aaron and he tried on one pair that immediately made me think that’s the one, but I didn’t have that instantly recognition with mine. Louise did though when I showed her, and that’s when I decided on them. Apparently they make me look more mature, or some shit.
“I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“Are you in love, Jeff?”
Hah.
In post war England, an imminent murder is announced in the local paper. A murder does occur, but not the one expected and it is Miss Marple who comes to the rescue to solve the mystifying case.
Two tickets, but I’m on the downswing. It’s the introverted end of my cycle and I can’t meet new people or go outside without feeling some kind of anxiety. I used to live two blocks away from the theatre, passing it many times but never in attendance. I always kept an eye out for a play I wanted to see — Equus, or Hamlet, or Picasso at the Lapin Agile — but nothing piqued my interest. This time, the opportunity presented itself, Pearl double-booked with extra tickets, and I couldn’t say no.
I force myself to go.
It’s a little warm to be wearing a blazer, but nothing else affords me the pockets for my Moleskine, pen, lens cloth, and iPod. Waiting at the bus stop, I write.
At this time on a Sunday, I’m usually winding down. Taking out the garbage, doing the dishes, finishing off an entry, getting things squared away for another week. Instead, I’m heading out. For days I’ve been trying to write about how jumbled I feel. There have been new developments, both good and bad, leaving me with a mixture of excitement and disappointment. The most I can say is that it makes sense, how I feel, and I can trace every emotion to a cause.
The bus comes. On it, I listen to my music but I can’t get in the right head space. Nothing fits. I’m not feeling sad, or happy, or jaded, or energetic. I skip song after song.
Stepping off the bus, my agoraphobia begins to choke me.
The guys, they tease me. Call me “fucker”, half joking, half jealous. I nervously laugh it off, but this gives me away. They know they’re right; no direct negative acknowledges their suspicions. I don’t want to admit it, but I can’t stop laughing. We’re all thinking the same thing.
To deny myself is to deny them too.