So our most chronologically recent post is missequenced two entries back, the one with Rachael’s ascent of Bishop Peak and the announcement of next year’s bird quest.  It quit before evening though, and there’s enough to say about the remains of the day to justify its own post.  Trust me, it fits in well with the main plot line but works well as its own small carve out.

One of our pleasures as we have come back to America each winter for the last seven years has been picking up on a new set of miniseries, mostly ones available through our membership with our public broadcasting system.  We’re starting out this year with all three seasons of Broadchurch, a British detective procedural set on the iconic Devon Coast in southwest England.  It’s a very dramatic setting in I believe West Bay.  Many of the key scenes take place at the base or the crown of the high, sheer cliffs eroding into the sea.  Coincidentally, I’m pretty sure we’ve seen them ourselves in our hike along the Jurassic Coast two years ago; so that of course adds interest.  If you like this sort of thing you might give it a try.  It’s excellent, with fine acting throughout - especially by the lead protagonists, David Tennant and Olivia Coleman, and Charlotte Rampling in a secondary role that also has poignancy at the moment because she is going blind from macular degeneration, the same condition my dad (stepfather) has.

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So we’ve been watching Broadchurch for several weeks now, and are just starting in on the final season.  The first two weeks were challenging because of my incessant headache, but it was a welcome distraction.  The eye situation changed that though.  I couldn’t see out of my right eye at all, and vision with my left was getting a little problematic, even with the iPad that we watch it on held close near our faces.  But it worked.

Tonight though it was more of a challenge because of the whole point of splitting this out into its own entry: the the fantastical, psychedelic images being generated constantly from the sightless eye.  I’ve never experienced anything remotely like this - it’s distracting, disturbing, fascinating and even a little frightening all at the same time.  Over the course of the last five nights it’s been remarkable to witness, but in the long run it might drive you mad.  If sight never returned it would probably be a relief to have it go fully dark.

I’ve never read anything about this, so if anyone has or can cite a reference I’d love to see it.  And I really, really wish it was possible to capture a videoed clip to show you what it looks like.  Since that’s not possible though, I’ll just drop in some highlights and examples.  It’s quite a show.

Oh, and why it creates a problem for watching the miniseries episode - at its worst, it doesn’t stick to my right eye, even if closed.  It will intrude across to the other eye’s domain, throwing in flares of activity that intermingle with what the left one is seeing.  Quite distracting and unnerving, as when wierd anthromorphic shapes lean over and stare into my face through sightless, gnarled faces, as if insisting that I look back at them instead.  Or when a cute little cloudy puppy dog sidles up on my right seeking attention.

And another wierd aspect - when it’s lights out for me, that’s not the case on the right screen all night.  It’s continuing to generate its own imaginary light, so it’s flickering away in shades of grey and white constantly until I finally fall asleep.

So what’s on this screen?  It’s too fantastic and varied and constantly shape-shifting to do anything beyond hint at.  It’s like a very intricate mosaic of shapes and figures, one that constantly transforms rapidly as you’re watching.  New shapes are constantly appearing and disappearing, rapidly replaced by new tiles of figures that get swapped in.  My working hypothesis is that the brain is constantly improvising, picking up signals from somewhere to yank an image out from deep storage to see if it fits, or fabricating something out of whole cloth.

Another general characteristic is that the pace is quite varied - there are long periods where the rate of change is much slower - general shapes hold for longer but are shimmering gradually; but in manic phases change is very rapid, very dynamic, and everything happens all at once, at different scales.  Submarine or warship shapes come and go; complex cityscapes appear, both in landscape and from an aerial view.  There’s rapid swirling motion.  There are toreadors doing numbers on one stage while a small figurine pirouettes on a tiny stage below.  There are giants.  There is everything you can imagine, and everything you could never imagine imagining.  And another striking detail - everything is intensely textured in dense, varying patterns - tight textile weaves, checkerboard patterns, fish scales, pointillesque, paisleys, the works - all in intensely sketched detail, and all constantly shape shifting.

And under the right circumstances, the phenomenon travels with me when  I move around - like when I’m going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, using my iPad as a flashlight to show the way.  As I walk it’s difficult to find my way because even with the right eye tightly closed the aisle keeps filling up with billowing, pillowy, finely textured, flowing imaginary shapes being drawn in from the walls, the window shades, the bed, and the door ahead.

It’s something like that, but more so.