My Eyes, My Eyes, My Eyes

A trend is a law that has yet to hatch, to become, turned to steel. Lucky children with hormonal madness incline toward trend, but I am an adult. I worry as an adult would, about silly things, like trends becoming laws. How handy it will be, how much fun, how rude to have tiny cameras in one’s head instead of eyes. For the world to see right through and record for posterity, every sight and sound, one would assume. Michel Foucault one hundred years ago would have adored the idea, but not really adored. Each man a prisoner, a jailor, a spy, each a Hollywood actor. But I have always liked my eyes, my normal sized, medium brown eyes and never really liked Foucault. How did we come to this, I must inquire? Surveillance, Michel’s Panopticon, the final surveillance, once upon a time. But who then would have dreamed of such a bloody, audacious move? It is not yet the law: to have one’s eye balls replaced. Not yet: it’s just what all the “right people” do, celebrities and such, for all the right reasons, whatever they may be. It’s all for us you see.

Will you watch my own world through my own eyes, with your eyes? Will I watch your world fall apart and be rebuilt? I will watch you live and die. Will my new eyes expire when I die, or will they be donated to a less fortunate man or woman, when I no longer have use for them? To those in need of surveillance eyes, the interior Panopticon? Who the hell needs such a thing? But it’s just a trend for now, my friend, not a law. Worry not dear world, dear universe. But I worry, I do worry so much.

A life to share: love and passion, friends and loneliness, eating, drinking, pissing and shitting, smoking and not smoking, moments of embarrassment, anger, violence, peace. Were you watching through Thomas’ eyes last night? Wasn’t that something to see? Can’t wait to do it again tonight. He’s so juvenile and Thomas really does love that little girl next door, doesn’t he?

Cutting edge surgery: no doubt, the best in the world, no pain, no bleeding. Twenty minutes in and out, and you have yourself new eyes, in any color you choose. Price is insignificant, the hardware flawless, you’re online in a jiffy, but the idea? That’s what significantly concerns me, and I normally say yes to anything.

Foucault would rollover in his grave. Does Michel Foucault have a grave, somewhere? Surveillance as entertainment (Oh God!). Sharing is caring! Who said that?

My eyes, my eyes, my eyes have seen so many wonderful and terrible things, that I do not care to give up to the shameless world. East and West coast Sunrises and Sunsets that live in a secret part of my heart and mind, the sight of my naked lover whose remarkable beauty is only for me. Tears and fears, oceans of piss, snow and tropical sunshine, but how can I say no? Hollywood, New York, London and Milan, everyone who’s anyone! Come and get ‘em: your new blue or green, grey or brown eyes. Super eyes! Join the Here and Now, the everyone that’s anyone! It takes but a few moments, and there’s virtually no pain. You’re online in seconds, like magic. And everyone is doing it, has done it in fact.

Dear Michel Foucault: Sorry to forsake your ancient, worn-out, well-meaning thesis. Total surveillance has begun in my land, in my head, in its own time. The world is watching itself today. We are prisoners, we are jailers, but we are truly free. The call to commonality, to oneness, the New Humanity was formidable, maddening, irresistible. It then brought liberation, fearlessness and concord. It was a fashionable choice at first, then a law, as we suspected it would be, you and me. My eyes belong to the blessed populace and their eyes to me. We are becoming on being, one soul, liberated, valiant, eternal. Of course we are, Michel Foucault. Of course we are.


Donald Zagardo
Donald Zagardo is a former Professor of Modern History at St. John’ University, NY. He has a life-long passion for literature, both reading and writing. In the past few years he has directed his writing efforts toward short stories and flash-fiction. He is presently assembling a collection of his own work. Donald lives and writes in New York City. He enjoys international travel, foreign languages and photography.