Rocky Mountain Coyote Motel, Liquor, Pawnshop, Cannabis, Essay 17 of #52essays2017

We left our friends and drove according to my awesome navigation (with a little help from my iPhone) through Rocky Mountain majesty, seeking a place to stay. Using the fully accessible Google Maps I found and wanted a cabin on Bear Creek, but we were too late for that–disappointing not only because Bear Creek provided a marvelous soundtrack of white water rushing and barbeques for grilling and was idyllically located amongst sheer cliffs, but also because it was just a mile or two down the road from Cactus Jack’s, a biker bar whose tagline is “burgers re-built for dreamers,” that called to Alabaster and I with its absurd and romantic reference to a desert landscape.

By then dusk was falling and we really wanted to avoid Motel 6, and finally looking down the list I found Coyote Motel, and was enchanted. We’d decided that we would, from now on, call before driving the few but long mountain miles, and I did and she said she had rooms and sounded sweet. I was sold and we started following the complicated directions that miraculously took us from one county road to another and through darkening valleys and even a mountain tunnel to Blackhawk–a casino town.

I love that Alabaster lets me be the navigator. I call out the instructions and he listens and it makes road trips fun and interactive for me again–God Bless the iPhone! I haven’t had so much responsibility on a road trip since the old days of travelling with my best friend Indigo and playing navigator with a giant atlas and a magnifying lens.

Godin on side of Rocky Mountain road.

Following my directions for Colorado county road this to junction that, we made our way to CO-119, and there, in the middle of nowhere, with signs advertising Liquor Store and Pawn Shop, was the Coyote Motel, and Alabaster was delighted. “This is something!” he exclaimed. “I’m not a writer, and I’ve got all kinds of stories–can you imagine the misery that’s happened in this room? Ok, fine, he waxed poetic about the gambling melodrama once we got our nips into our room, but he was pretty excited about this place from minute 1, though he admitted later he was concerned about the room, until we stepped in and found it very pleasant, with a bedframe of tree limbs, and a fridge and a microwave and tidy as one could want. But I had seen its rating on Google Maps that ranked it far and away above any motel 6, so I wasn’t worried. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself here.

We walked toward the Coyote Motel office and I worried that it had taken us too long and that the 3 rooms that had been vacant when I called were now occupied but, as usual, my pessimism was in vain. No, the lady with the sweet demeanor on the phone smiled at our request and directed us from the liquor store counter around the corner to the motel rental counter–not around the corner into another door but around the counter to the other register.

Later, when we returned to buy our liquor and snacks Alabaster teased that she needed a different hat for each counter, and she said she’d get confused which one to put on. On that second trip to the one-stop-shop, Alabaster, knowing my interest in essential oils and the like, noticed aloud a sign that read “Rocky Mountain Organics,” and I was duly confused and excited. “I think I know that company!”

So we walked around and all the way down to the other end of the shop where a lonely guy stood waiting for someone to pawn their wedding ring or ski boots, and we asked what the Rocky Mountain Organics was, and he sort of shrugged as if to say, “I dunno.”

Then we went and picked out our vodka and frozen chimichangas and, thanks to me, a bag of Rockies Baseball peanuts still in shell just like you get at the ball park and returned to our room and Alabaster read some highlights from the little newspaper that we found on the night table. Colorado Gambler is an upbeat rag dedicated to local gaming, recreation, and entertainment. We laughed and drank and had a grand old time playing hooky from the folks for the night.

So now we’re home and I thought to check out this Rocky Mountain Organics and right away realize that it was Rocky Mountain Oils I was thinking about, and that Rocky Mountain Organics has nothing to do with aromatherapy–at least not the kind I’m into, although things are getting confused by the fact that, according to Perfumer & Flavorist, the new flavor trend is cannabis and I personally have enjoyed Hemp Seed Oil (C. sativa) from Aromatics International on my skin and in my salad. But this Rocky Mountain Organics in Blackhawk CO does not offer that kind of aromatherapy. Rather it turns out to be a marijuana dispensary that, according to Leafly, has been in operation for seven years, since before the recreational marijuana days.

In other words, in addition to selling our electronics and buying our booze and our junk food and our night’s stay, we could have bought an eighth of organically grown sativa. But, you say, you don’t even smoke weed, and that’s true, but I have friends that do, and sometimes you have to live the story. Besides I would have liked to have seen our Coyote Motel gal put on her marijuana hat!

 

*This is #17 of #52essays2017. Read #16, “Yes, Blind People Can Appreciate (and Write About) Film & Television!” here*

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Yes, Blind People Can Appreciate (and Write About) Film and Television! #16 of #52essays2017

Princes LeiaAt a recent birthday party for my friend Sarah, I met a playwright who also writes TV screenplays. I mentioned to him that I was working on a second draft of my film screenplay, and that I had just that very day received an email from Final Draft to become a beta tester in order to work with them to make their software accessible with screenreaders.

The point of my bringing myself into the conversation was how awesome it was that the industry standard would soon be usable by blind and visually impaired people, but his next question was, “So…How do you appreciate movies?” Or maybe he asked, “What is your experience of films as a person without sight?” I’m sorry that I can’t remember his exact words, but it was something like that, and it made me launch into how I used to be able to see, and how there are so many movies from my years as a visually impaired person immediately accessible to my mind’s eye.

The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover is always the first to come to mind because I watched it so many times, and because people’s reaction to the title (happy recognition/no clue) tends to be a good indicator of the tastes of my interlocutor, and this time was no exception. “That is a weird one,” said my playwright, and I felt the need to mention other films less “weird,” like Apocalypse Now. I also felt the need to mention that I write for the New York film Academy, as if it legitimized my film appreciation abilities! And perhaps it does…

I’ve been ghostwriting for NYFA since the beginning of the year, and I seem to be the go-to gal for cinematography… Just kidding. But I did land the job with a holiday “trending item”: 6 Cinematic Tips for Capturing your New Year’s Kiss! I also wrote The Best Cinematography The 59th Annual Grammys has to Offer, which was a real learning experience since I haven’t paid attention to mainstream music in decades!

Werner Herzog

Another fun learning experience for a person who hasn’t had a television in years was my recent Pilot Season 2017. Although I probably won’t watch–sorry, check out–any of these shows, Netflix’s Disjointed, wherein Kathy Bates heads up a ragtag and mostly stoned bunch in the legal cannabis biz, will be tempting, it was gratifying to learn that more than one book inspired this crop, including By the Book and Passage–inspired by A.J. Jacobs’ The Year of Living Biblically and Justin Cronin’s The Passage trilogy respectively.

When I first started writing for NYFA, my editor sent me some acting topics since I have acting experience, for example 5 Tips for Creating Character Relationships and I wrote her to say that I’m happy to do the acting pieces, but that I’ve worked on many a crazy short film–done some of the writing and concept, and most of the sound–and can geek out on pretty much anything filmmaking.

One of my most successful articles from a student resources point of view was How to Get Big Production Value Out of a Little Budget. Another helpful one was To Film Fest or Not to Film Fest: Creative Approaches to Distribution in the Digital Age. And a popular piece that mixes fluff with real-world advice is 10 Great Pieces of Advice for Beginner Producers from Filmmaking Veterans, which includes one of the best pieces of advice ever for filmmakers and humans (from Werner Herzog): “Never wallow in your troubles; despair must be kept private and brief.”

Recently I wrote a pair of Star Wars articles–one trending topic What Every Die-Hard Star Wars Fan Needs to Know About Episode VIII, which provided great fodder for a recent dinner with Alabaster‘s parents, and the other more geeky: Technical Innovations in Star Wars Through the Ages, for which I was able to plagiarize myself from last December’s Audio Description and Sound Design in Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

I really enjoyed researching and writing Celebrating Female Film Producers for Women’s History Month and 7 Amazing Filmmakers from Mexico for Cinco de Mayo.

Bigelow with Oscar

These two inspired me to pitch a Disability Pride piece celebrating real people with disabilities in film and television, which was approved, so look out for that in early July–just in time for NYC’s Third Annual Disability Pride Parade!

*This is Essay 16 of #52essays2017. For more, check out essay 15, Marzipan Memories*

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Marzipan Memories or the Scent of Plum Kernel Oil, Essay 15 of #52essays2017

Plum and Rose Eye Serum by Yes Organic.

My best friend Indigo, owner of Yes Organic Boutique in Albuquerque, sells a handcrafted Plum and Rose Eye Serum that makes my mouth water. The first time I smelled it I felt confused. It smells a little of rose but not at all like plums, a sweet scent, familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then I looked up plum oil and found that plum kernel oil is taken from the soft center of the common European plum (Prunus domestica), and is famous for smelling like marzipan. Prunus is the genus of the so-called stone fruits like nectarines, apricots, cherries, and yes almonds too.

Besides tempting me to drink my beauty product, the marzipan scent of this Plum and Rose Eye Serum takes me back to a strange and somewhat lonely moment in my life when I stayed in a studio apartment in Paris. Back then I was neither blind nor sighted and, damn it all to hell, the iPhone had not yet been invented.

The first summer I spent in Paris was to learn French after my first year of grad school, but being unable to read normal print or see much in the way of street signs or the expressions and hand gestures of French people, I failed. I did a lot of wandering around aimlessly, walking from one end of Paris to the other and somehow finally met a guy who seemed to sort of change things. It felt like it anyway. I had been lost and then I was found. We traveled together to Limousin to visit with family and ate very well. We camped out in the shadow of the Pyrenees and loved and argued quite a bit, but that is all another story.

Prunus domestica on tree.

The following summer I returned to Paris to try again. This was after my French love had come to New York and we realized there was no future together, and my friend set me up in her sister’s place in Belleville. It was the first time I’d ever lived alone, no mother, no boyfriend or friend, no roommates, and it was, as I said, strange and lonely.


Fruit shaped marzipan.In those days I had an only child’s tendency to cheer myself up with food, and a poor child’s greedy appetite. Whenever I had the chance, I guiltily pilfered the food of others. From babysitting gigs to roommates, their food always tempted me, and I would eat without feeling good about it, stealthily and with an attempt at taking a little at a time so that the food would not be missed.

I hadn’t lived in a household of plenty growing up, and for my mom and I eating groceries was a matter of finishing and replenishing, hopefully. We never had extra, not like the rich friends I went to school with who had boxes and boxes of cereal to choose from and freezers stocked with infinite meal possibilities.

So in that little studio up the street from the Canal, in an area of lower class and ethnic Parisians–a few miles and a thousand worlds away from the Champs-Élysées, I tried to work on French grammar using my portable CCTV which blew up letters big enough for me to read–much bigger than any magnifying lens could do and in high contrast so that my peripheral vision could make sense of the letters–a task it was not meant to do, and be repelled into the tiny one-person pantry to snoop. Unable to read labels, I used my fingers and my nose to ferret out points of interest.

It was during one of those gluttonous reconnoiterings that I found the tube of marzipan. From that moment forward, I obsessed over that foil tube. As I, day by day, chipped away at the sticky, mealy, nutty sweet stuff–almost savory with its dark undertones of almond smoke–my understanding of almond flavoring was forever altered. I had certainly tasted it before, but not in its natural state. No. Almond flavored items from America with their synthetic benzaldehyde pushing itself into cakes and cookies on the cheap could not compare to that ambrosial and addictive paste.

That second summer, I did not fall in love, but got better at French. I took language classes at the Sorbonne, learning the language with other foreigners who thought I was quite weird and stupid with my CCTV pulled out of its mysterious black suitcase and plopped onto my desk. The class was too hard for me and I didn’t really know how to study. I did not meet any friends until after I gave a presentation on Derrida and other postmodern theorists that I worked on in my head smoking cigarettes at the Canal. I composed and memorized my little presentation in perfectly acceptable French, and they were impressed.

I believe I spoke of the Siècle des Lumières and quoted Diderot, and when it was over I was invited out on the town for the first time. Not much came of it, but a sense of gratification and relief. The class ended, and friends from America would visit soon.

Paris eclipse.

One of those friends (whom I somehow lost) and I visited Paris Disney and we twirled in a teacup, innocent still. There was an eclipse that summer also, and I saw the strange light filtering onto the upturned faces wearing funny glasses. The light had been so odd, silvery eeriness with the earth and the moon and the sun aligned, that I took a picture. I can never remember which is which–solar eclipse versus lunar eclipse. I only remember the light and how everything glowed that last summer in Paris.

 

*This is #15 of #52essays2017. Check out #14 “The Hand That Extends” here*

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The Hand That Extends: Lacan on Love, Transference, Plato’s Symposium, Essay 14 of #52essays2017

Lacan portrait.I first encountered the work of Jacques Lacan in my first year of grad school; I can think of no other theorist who more painfully highlighted my inadequacies by the impenetrability of their words. And the late nineties were not exactly a time in literary circles for transparency, if ever there was one. Derrida was still alive and well and guest lecturing at NYU and elsewhere–I was there! I even went to his office hours and spoke with him for about two minutes. Very nervous and about as far from the rigor of his thinking as a striving academic could be. But Derrida another Jacques, is beside the point today. Today it is Lacan, and specifically my newfound interest and dare I say love for him that will occupy this little essay.
My dear friend and companion in visual impairment, Dr. Caroline Kasnakian, has been telling me about Après-Coup, a psychoanalytic association in NYC dedicated to the teachings of Freud and Lacan, for several years, but it was the writing of a story–a twisted little psychological horror piece (still under construction) that provoked me to go with her to one of their lectures last week.

Caroline Kasnakian chez Lacan.The lecture, delivered by Après-Coup’s founder Paola Mieli, was “On the Subject and Transference,” and this provoked me to pick up and begin again to read Lacan, tentatively and with much trepedation.

If you’ve no experience reading the works of this famously oblique psychoanalyst, I should start by saying that most of what you will read by him are transcriptions of his seminars delivered in Paris from 1953 to 1981. There is no doubt that Lacan does not make for beach reading, but at least in the earlier lectures, his brilliant, playful voice shines through and can make reading them, especially as I do, out loud, quite enjoyable. As a tiny sample, I offer the following quote, taken from the opening lecture of Lacan’s Seminar VIII: Transference (1960-61):

“The hand that extends toward the fruit, the rose, or the log that suddenly bursts into flames – its gesture of reaching, drawing close, or stirring up is closely related to the ripening of the fruit, the beauty of the flower, and the blazing of the log. If, in the movement of reaching, drawing, or stirring, the hand goes far enough toward the object that another hand comes out of the fruit, flower, or log and extends toward your hand – and at that moment your hand freezes in the closed plenitude of the fruit, in the open plenitude of the flower, or in the explosion of a log which bursts into flames – then what is produced is love.”

Because this lecture is on transference (and because it’s Lacan), I think we can be fairly certain that we are not to understand this beautiful little passage as being primarily (or at all) about romantic love. And because this metaphor struck me so forcefully that I continued reading this difficult text to the very end, I take the metaphor to be about the intellectual hand that extends–Lacan’s voice that comes through the pages of the lecture so charmingly–as a reward for extending my hand towards the fruit and the flower and the fire.

Plato's Symposium, painting by Anselm Feuerbach, 1869.

It turned out that this was the perfect seminar with which I should reacquaint myself with Lacan because it begins with a reading of Plato’s Symposium, the odd   and rather sexy Philosophical dialogue that I know about as well as any book because I’ve taught it many times. How can you not adore the lighthearted sketch of Socrates and his buds drinking and flirting, their speeches on love interrupted by the dramatic entrance of the ultimate lover boy Alcibiades and his pack of rowdy revelers? For more on Alcibiades and his apparently truthful account of his romance with Socrates, I refer you to Lacan, who makes much of this interruption, with which so many commentators through the centuries have struggled in vain to comprehend.

Another ancient perplexity is that Agathon, the tragic poet and host of this particular soiree, gives a speech on love, which is funny and quite dismissed by Socrates as fluff, while Aristophanes, the comic playwright, gives one that is quite touching even if it contains some clowning around. Aristophanes, the comic and I should add bawdy playwright  ought not even to be at the symposium with Socrates nor allowed to speak so eloquently because he was no fan of Socrates–he rips Socrates a new one in The Clouds, which may have contributed to the trial and execution of Socrates. However, Aristophanes is there and Plato allows him a charming speech on love and desire, providing an explanation for the lack we all sometimes feel: the jealous gods split us from our other half…

While Agathon, from the opening pages of The Symposium, provides Socrates with ample fodder for teasing correctives:

“‘How splendid it would be, Agathon, if wisdom was the sort of thing that could flow from the fuller to the emptier of us when we touch each other, like water, which flows through a piece of wool from a fuller cup to an emptier one. If wisdom is really like that, I regard it as a great privilege to share your couch. I expect to be filled up from your rich supply of fine wisdom. My wisdom is surely inferior – or rather, questionable in its significance, like a dream – but yours is brilliant and has great potential for growth. Look at the way it has blazed out so fiercely while you’re still young…” (The Symposium)

In parting, dear reader, I admit all I’ve done this time is, at best, to take your hand around the fruit and the flower and the fire. Perhaps this is all one can expect from these weekly essays. In any case, Lacan assures me that going around and around or by some sleight of hand is the only way to see truth:

“Here I am merely repeating once more the merry-go-round of truth on which we have been spinning since the beginning of this Seminar. …It is, of course, characteristic of truths to never show themselves completely. In short, truths are solids that are perfidiously opaque. They don’t even have, it seems, the property we are able to produce in certain solids, that of transparency – they do not show us their front and back edges at the same time. You have to circumnavigate them [en faire le tour], and even do a little conjuring [le tour de passe-passe].”
*This is essay 14 of #52essays2017. Read #13 “Origins of Sludge” here*

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Origins of “Sludge” in Lady Mary Wroth and Life, Essay 13 of #52essays2017

Almost exactly ten years ago, I had an unfortunate lapse in judgement of the sexual variety, which had at least one terrible consequence and one pretty good one: The terrible shall remain my secret, but the good I happily claim, namely, a song called Sludge, destined for my band gutter & spine. At that time, playing drums and singing in a punkity-rockity band represented a distraction and fun outlet from writing my dissertation and teaching. It is no coincidence that most of my other lyrics for gutter & spine songs (d’Orca, Ode to a Mofo) also have their origins in early modern literature. It may even have been that I was teaching Renaissance Poetry that semester, which is why, the morning after, feeling gross and hungover, I wrote the lyrics to Sludge with almost no revision–something that basically never happened before or since.

Portrait of Mary Sidney Herbert, circa 1590. Wikimedia.
Mary Herbert

I can’t remember if I had Wroth’s sonnet “When night’s black mantle could most darkness prove” open before I started, but I believe I turned to it while I wrote. The lyrics give voice to a time when bad life choices were so intermixed with good, that sludge seemed an apt existential state of being.

Lady Mary Wroth (1587-1651/3) was born into a noble
and literary family. She was the niece of the famous Elizabethan poet and courtier Philip Sidney, and of Mary Herbert (Née Sidney), a poet in her own right and a great patron of the arts who encouraged and inspired the young Wroth in her literary endeavors. and although she enjoyed accolades from the great male authors in her lifetime, such as Ben Jonson, her poems (unlike that of her male counterparts) fell into obscurity. As the Longman textbook with which I used to warp young minds tells me:

The Countesse of Mountgomeries Urania title page, 1621. Wikimedia.
Urania title page

“Appreciated by the finest poets of her time, her writing was neglected for the next 300 years, she has only recently been rediscovered as one of the most compelling women writers of her age. Her Pamphilia to Amphilanthus the first Petrarchan sonnet sequence in English by a woman, was first printed in 1621 but was not reprinted until 1977.”

Pamphilia to Amphilanthus provided me the fodder for Sludge in its first scorching sonnet:

When night’s black mantle could most darkness prove,

And sleep, death’s image, did my senses hire

From knowledge of myself, then thoughts did move

Swifter than those most swiftness need require:

 

In sleep, a chariot drawn by winged desire

I saw, where sat bright Venus, Queen of love,

And at her feet her son, still adding fire

To burning hearts, which she did hold above.

 

But one heart flaming more than all the rest

The goddess held, and put it to my breast.

”Dear son, now shoot,” said she, ”thus must we win.”

He her obeyed, and martyred my poor heart.

I, waking hoped as dreams it would depart;

Yet since, O me, a lover I have been.

[From Mary Wroth’s Poetry: An Electronic Edition, La Trobe University]

Portrait of Lady Mary Wroth, circa 1620, holding a theorbo. Wikimedia.
Mary Wroth

Although I stole a few key phrases, for instance the martyring of the heart, unlike Wroth, I address the song to the love-object (bastard), while Wroth is unconcerned with him, at least in this poem. However, we know that there is one, since the cycle is called Pamphilia (the all loving one) to Amphilanthus (the dual lover). In other words, the female speaker in the lyric loves completely one man while her lover is divided in his affections. Infidelity and jealousy preoccupy the speaker in the lyrics, as well as the women in Urania, the romance to which the sonnet cycle is appended. And yet, in this first poem, the lover is nowhere to be seen. Only love, the daughter and son team, shoot the already burning heart with more desire–eternal desire perhaps, and enclose it in the poor speaker’s breast.

In this first sonnet, the speaker hasn’t any obvious gender, however Wroth sets up the Petrarchan love sonnet cycle with a difference by having the woman (Pamphilia) write to the man (Amphilanthus). Typical Renaissance love poetry, written mostly by men following Petrarch’s model, presented the love object as the unattainable, idealized and silent lady.” But as the first essay in Re-Reading Mary Wroth suggests, Wroth reverses the roles by giving the silent lady a voice and goes even further than her male counterparts by paying little attention to their presence:

“She silences the male beloved even more completely than is usually the case with the Petrarchan lady, omitting many of the usual Petrarchan topics: there are no praises of his overpowering physical beauty or charms, no narratives of kisses or other favors received or denied, no reports of his words or actions, no blazons praising each of his parts, no promises to eternalize him, no palinodes or renunciations of love.”

Facsimile of Sonnet 1 "When night's dark mantle..." from La Trobe.
Sonnet one

Pamphilia does not bother to extol the virtues of Amphilanthus, because, for one thing he does not turn out to be virtuous, but rather inconstant–no surprise considering his name. It is also that, as in so many of Shakespeare’s sonnets, the interest lies within the psyche of the speaker/poet and not with the beloved. The beloved is but an impetus for shaping strong passions into poetry.

Perhaps that is where the speaker of Sludge offers the most affinity with her Renaissance counterpart. Although she takes some little time to denegrate the bastard that is her love object by indulging in a death-metalesque blazon of the unworthy scoundrel, she is more interested in her own feelings of shame that is the consequence of being dragged into the mire by an unworthy lover:

Up from the depths of the murky sludge,

You rise and stand in your glory, all thumbs

And metal, you look like some badass jesus

And you’ve come to martyr my poor heart today…

*This is essay 13 of #52essays2017. You can read #12 “Drinking Monarch Nectar” here*

 

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Drinking Monarch Nectar, AKA Milkweed (Asclepias), Essay 12 of #52essays2017

On the day of the hydrosols tasting with Cathy Skipper and Florian Birkmayer (offered through New York Institute of Aromatherapy), my daily hallucinations were painted blue, an electric blue that did not want to let go its hold on my visionscape. In recent years, I’ve found that strong scents can change my visual palette almost immediately, but somehow that blue day would not give way except for the neon orange of the orange blossom and then the glorious yellow orange of the milkweed that burst through towards the end of the evening.

The way it worked was that each new hydrosol was spritzed into our wine glasses and mixed with a little filtered water. Then we all smelled and sipped and free-associated, allowing the mystery hydrosol to elicit thoughts, feelings, images and yes colors too.

To be honest, it was hard for me not to feel a little competitive. As a blind person, I want my nose to be best, but, as a person new to aromatic aesthetics, I realize this is ridiculous. For several of the hydrosols, I was sure what they were and I was correct, for a bunch, I had ideas of what they were, but having been derived from plants I’d never met before–black copal and palo santo for example–I was nowhere close, and I hate to be wrong!

After the first three I finally relaxed and allowed my mind to wander a bit and not get too hung up about being right. One cool moment was guessing #8 Beeswax correctly, but I had an advantage since, being enrolled in Skipper’s Hydrosols course at The School for Aromatic Studies, I knew that such a thing was possible. That was certainly one of my favorites, as it exhibited a strong distinction between its taste and aroma–the smell reminded me of the spirit of the plants that sustain the hive, while the flavor tasted of the building material itself, a glossy waxy sensation that was almost chewable.

Birkmayer encouraged us to think synesthetically, which in the case of #9 penetrated and offered a joyous blast of yellow orange. I did not know what it was, but I liked it. I was so entranced that I neglected my notes, so unfortunately I cannot refer back to words from the moment to explain the flavor, also it was number nine, so Alabaster–who was gracious enough to accompany me on this odd little tasting adventure–and I were a bit slap happy. We’re not yet persuaded by the concept of vibrational aromatherapy, but our heads were surely buzzing by that point in the evening!

For some of the hydrosols, we were encouraged to imagine an animal. People were not guessing the correct animal for this one and so Birkmayer mentioned butterflies and then I knew and said, “Milkweed?” And I felt justified in all my orange and yellow associations.

The common name milkweed derives from its milky nectar that can trap some nonnative insects, but
Linnaeus, that taxonomist of all taxonomists, apparently named the genus asclepias after Asclepius, the Greek god of healing. Why? I wonder. Milkweed is a new world plant, likely brought back to Sweden by one of his students flung out to all corners of the world to collect new species for Linnaeus to inspect and name. Perhaps he did so because he learned that some natives of the New World used some species for healing, but so many plants have medicinal uses, this seems too easy an answer.

Asclepias speciosa, from which our hydrosol was distilled, is also known as “showy milkweed” because of its flamboyant flowers. It is the special food of the monarch butterfly.

The recognition of the monarch nectar brought me back to the Santa Cruz grove where the monarchs winter. I wrote a poem about seeing those butterflies, which I often visited during my years at UCSC (Go Slugs!).

How many times did I take my friends and family to the little Eucalyptus grove by the ocean, only to be disappointed by the cold and nearly inert clusters of monarchs clinging to the trees for warmth, but for a few flying bravely. The foreign eucalyptus grove and the beach at Natural Bridges are an easy walk but worlds apart.

Once, with a forgotten companion, I saw them fall from the sky mating in the warm afternoon sun. They dropped in our hands and flew apart and I believe it was all not a dream, though the memory has that quality of unreality that sometimes makes me doubt.

 

*This is essay 12 of #52essays2017, written with all four senses and remembered sight. You can read #11 “Melissa Officinalis (or Lemon Balm): Booze and Botany and monasteries Oh My!” here*

 

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