Iridology. A consultation, a first lesson, a first session. She says she sees imbalance as cause and symptom written in shape, iris, and pupil dilation, in colour, hue, and scaring; and to the left and to the right, all things are measured, and what is felt is verified when treatment begins. A woman in the front row faints and is escorted to a hard wooden bench on the perimeter, and sits, breathing out and in, beside the clinic doorway. In the patients’ waiting room, a buxom nurse tends to the line of clients with their backs against the wall.
She shows slides by projection. It is what comes forward, and what retreats, all in a gaze. This, she explains is not so much about age, it is about health. A Volunteer holds up a slide. There is maturity here, and intelligence there, that she can see in a child or in a grown adult. This, she tries to explain, excusing herself for being unscientific, is something to do with what some might understand as mind or soul. A rasping objection from the crowd, but she waves a hand dismissively, and continues.
Look at any object, at the light and the dark, the push and pull of it, to see the same. A poem on love has both eyes, and the third, for one to see the space between the words; the right hand beckoning or raised to say stop, the left palm open to kiss or be kissed; and it may appear to be in perfect balance, but what is the feeling that spills from the white canvas between the dots on the page? This is what she says she sees in the study of the eyes. She says ‘Ki’, the Japanese symbol for energy, for the shiatsu students - their fingers busy taking notes - so they hear the same idea when reading the depletion and resistance of flow along a body meridian. She listens to the body by the rune stone of each eye.
There are some with a right eye to be wary of. There are some with a left so underdeveloped it is as if the right eye is not born of a human child. A Volunteer gasps, shocked. She pauses, and continues by stating that both project in allegory, a lurking alien being, reticent and appearing throughout history in full Technicolor, as inhuman…
Someone guffaws. Another goes and sits on the hard wooden bench. She inhales and exhales deeply. It is referred to on page 35 as the inhumane gene, she explains. Then the shuffle, there is a cough, a crinkle of a crisp packet, and someone excuses themselves and heads for the restroom facilities. She pauses for stillness, and continues. Most however, are aware, sentient; and imbalanced only by a most human reticence, formed in lifetimes and born in this one, of mistrust.
Silence.
Her eyes scan the room, and she opens the floor for questions. Some stand open mouthed, some turn to the exit, some begin to ponder, and some fall in.
She shows slides by projection. It is what comes forward, and what retreats, all in a gaze. This, she explains is not so much about age, it is about health. A Volunteer holds up a slide. There is maturity here, and intelligence there, that she can see in a child or in a grown adult. This, she tries to explain, excusing herself for being unscientific, is something to do with what some might understand as mind or soul. A rasping objection from the crowd, but she waves a hand dismissively, and continues.
Look at any object, at the light and the dark, the push and pull of it, to see the same. A poem on love has both eyes, and the third, for one to see the space between the words; the right hand beckoning or raised to say stop, the left palm open to kiss or be kissed; and it may appear to be in perfect balance, but what is the feeling that spills from the white canvas between the dots on the page? This is what she says she sees in the study of the eyes. She says ‘Ki’, the Japanese symbol for energy, for the shiatsu students - their fingers busy taking notes - so they hear the same idea when reading the depletion and resistance of flow along a body meridian. She listens to the body by the rune stone of each eye.
There are some with a right eye to be wary of. There are some with a left so underdeveloped it is as if the right eye is not born of a human child. A Volunteer gasps, shocked. She pauses, and continues by stating that both project in allegory, a lurking alien being, reticent and appearing throughout history in full Technicolor, as inhuman…
Someone guffaws. Another goes and sits on the hard wooden bench. She inhales and exhales deeply. It is referred to on page 35 as the inhumane gene, she explains. Then the shuffle, there is a cough, a crinkle of a crisp packet, and someone excuses themselves and heads for the restroom facilities. She pauses for stillness, and continues. Most however, are aware, sentient; and imbalanced only by a most human reticence, formed in lifetimes and born in this one, of mistrust.
Silence.
Her eyes scan the room, and she opens the floor for questions. Some stand open mouthed, some turn to the exit, some begin to ponder, and some fall in.
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