A Personal Obituary for My Dad, Lee A. Goodin, February 5, 1940-August 19, 2018

My dad, Lee A. Goodin, passed away into other realms on Sunday. He’d been fighting so many illnesses for several years, and yet I hadn’t seen the cardiac arrest coming. Somehow, I thought I’d have warning. Yet he had given me warning.

Earlier this summer, he told me he’d decided to stop aggressive care for the infections that riddled his body from wounds that would not heal. I wrote about that decision, as well as our history of separation and reacquaintance, for Catapult in “The Blind Feeding the Lame: Growing Disabled with Dad.”

I wanted to show that essay to him, to show my love and that he would live on in my imagination, in my writing, and of course, in my heart forever, but I was a chicken. I was afraid he wouldn’t like how personal, how intimate, it was, and so I never sent him the link. I will never know if I made the right decision.

The fact remains that I have written about my dad and will continue to do so.

He once told me that he thought there was a great American novel in our family somewhere. He liked that I was a writer, but did not particularly care for the kind of writing I did. He loved his bestselling Kellermans, and I have not yet brought myself to read one of those. I will now though.

If there is a great American novel in our family, then there is no one else to write it but myself, because our family, at least for a couple generations, has dwindled down to me. He has cousins, who I’ve met through the wonders of Facebook, but my father was an only child and so am I. My parents were divorced when I was very young and my dad remarried, but did not have other kids. My family, my next of kin on my dad’s side, is now gone. And I, being childless, will provide no more.

My dad, Lee Goodin, with chickens in Visitacion Valley, San Francisco, early 1940s.My dad’s mother, Leona Goodin, née Beynon, and her husband Alcidos Goodin, née Godin, likely would have had lots of kids, but Alcidos, a construction worker who helped build the Golden Gate as well as the Bay Bridge, fell off the Rincon Annex, the old main post office in Downtown San Francisco, and died four days before my father, his son, was born. Between that and the fact that the first few years of my dad’s life were lived in wartime, there was something tragic about his early stars, as testified to by the wartime photo of my dad with chickens in the wilds of San Francisco.

However, he grew up as the darling only child, and would enjoy a wonderful life, traveling the world, skiing, drinking, eating, trekking around seven continents.

A man doesn’t need religion or spirituality to be loving and generous

A couple years back, he and my stepmother Terry celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary in their North Beach home next door with their extended Fior d’Italia family that includes the owners, the wait staff, and the revolving musicians of the jazz band that plays there every Wednesday and Sunday. The bandleader asked, “What’s the secret to your successful marriage?”

My dad, sitting in his wheelchair, Beefeater in hand, said, “world travel, fabulous adventures, and great sex!”

My dad was an irreverent and irreligious man. If I write that novel of our family, at the heart of it would be the atheism gene that I inherited from him. He had no religion, and in fact was rather anti-religion. One of his favorite movies, or at least one that he liked to talk about a lot, was Spotlight, about the Catholic Church’s cover-up of priests’ who couldn’t keep their robes down. Even that sentence sounds like something he would say.

But a man doesn’t need religion or spirituality (which he also scoffed at) to be loving and generous.

Once, at Fior, I asked my partner Alabaster to give some money to one of the waiters to buy a bottle of wine for the table. I think it was Gil, who, when he saw Alabaster’s intent, put his hands up and backed away as if he were looking at a gun rather than a couple twenties, saying, “Oh no, not Lee’s table.” In other words, if my dad was there, he was buying.

I now live in Denver, so there’s not much I can do in this strange limbo time before the services–which will be held on Labor Day weekend–but think and write about my dad, and celebrate who he was as a living being, and what he means as a spirit in me.

When my dad went into the hospital for one last short trip, I happened to be reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for perhaps the fourth or fifth time in my life. Yesterday I came to the end and the afterword, where Pirsig drops the bomb about how his son Chris, who made the trip cross country in the book’s narrative, had been stabbed outside the Zen Center in San Francisco just five years after the book had been published. The part where Pirsig wrestles with the question of where his son Chris went took on new meaning for me. My dad, like me, believed in only this one life, but perhaps he could get behind Pirsig’s idea of the pattern of a person:

What had to be seen was that the Chris I missed so badly was not an object but a pattern, and that although the pattern included the flesh and blood of Chris, that was not all there was to it. The pattern was larger than Chris and myself, and related us in ways that neither of us understood completely and neither of us was in complete control of.

Now Chris’s body, which was a part of that larger pattern, was gone. But the larger pattern remained. A huge hole had been torn out of the center of it, and that was what caused all the heartache. The pattern was looking for something to attach to and couldn’t find anything. That’s probably why grieving people feel such attachment to cemetery headstones and any material property or representation of the deceased. The pattern is trying to hang on to its own existence by finding some new material thing to center itself upon.

My dad, Lee Goodin, and I, in a post-dancing pose, at his 60th birthday bash in Amador City, where he was mayor!I think my writing this as well as all future generations of writings about my dad, attempt to continue the pattern that is and will always be my dad, Lee Goodin.

Peruvian gold

It was the spring of 2017 when Alabaster and I visited and my dad, not yet imminently dying, but also aware that he was not going to have a long time to live, asked if there was anything I wanted. Terry and he had been collecting wonderful objects from around the world for years, but he was, I understood, referring to the things he’d inherited from uncle Art, his mother’s younger brother, who’d been like a father to him, who had been an engineer in the gold mines of Peru.

Remembering the glimmering little figurines that I’d so often seen at Uncle Art’s that sat in a lighted display box of a gold bird and a gold man, I mentioned those. I’m blind now, and hadn’t seen them for many years, and I’d never touched them. My dad directed Alabaster to take them down from the shelf. They were in plastic domes, and we pulled them out. I almost crushed the little man when I tried to pick him up because I never realized they were hollow. They had seemed so solid when I was a child. I’d never suspected they were made of very delicate hammered gold.

It was a strange time to be bequeathed something so valuable. Alabaster and I were basically homeless. We’d left New York and were moving around, staying with friends and family, deciding where to settle next. For almost a year, I lugged these priceless weightless and bulky heirlooms from California to Colorado to New York and back around again, with my dad periodically asking if I’d found a safe place for them.

And, being a researcher at heart, I wanted to know about these things, so I started shooting off emails to museums and appraisers, and getting either no response or non-committal ones that sent me somewhere else.

Finally, we found a Pre-Columbian art appraiser in England, and sent off about twenty photos of the little bird to her.

Two days later, we received the valuation and its notes. ” These animal and mostly bird sculptures came out of a workshop in Lima which was active between the 1950s to late 1960s run by an Italian expatriate,” and was worth about $10-$20.

That was in April, and we went for our last visit in June. I’d alluded to what I’d finally found about the statues, or what had become of them, over the phone, and told him I’d tell him all about it when I saw him in person.

Peruvian "gold" bird, my inheritance misfire from my dad Lee Goodin.

He wasted no time in asking. On our first lunch in our usual table at Fior d’Italia. He said, “So what happened to the statues? You still have them?” He thought I’d sold them, which I might have, or I might have tried to get them back down to Peru, where they belonged. I didn’t know, but the point was now moot.

I took a big breath, put on a big ironic smile, and told him about the appraisal. Alabaster said his face showed shock. Then he expressed doubt that Art, a gold minor and amateur archaeologist, would have been duped about buying fake artifacts. And I said what I’d been thinking. “None of us asked about them. We just all assumed the beautiful little sculptures were real gold Pre-Columbian artifacts, and he let us keep on thinking that.”

Then my dad laughed, and said, “Ah, that old bugger. I bet he’s laughing at us all right now.” It was the only such indulgence I’d ever heard my dad make about some possible afterlife. Then he told us about how Art liked to play jokes on people, and that sounded familiar. He and my aunt Evelyn also did not have kids. They were my only relatives on my dad’s side that I knew growing up, after my Grammy Leona had died when I was ten.

At the end of the Peruvian Gold conversation, I asked if maybe I could choose another heirloom, like “what’s behind curtain number 3, cuz I got a dud,” and we laughed hard at that. It was a very good last visit.

Under the bridge

My dad, Lee Goodin, and I on a boat on the San Francisco Bay.As I said, my grandfather Alcidos was a construction worker whom my dad never knew. He had been born in Minnesota to French Canadian Godins, who were one of the original Acadians who settled in Canada in the 17th century, and then were displaced when the Brits took over. Some of the Acadian Godins moved to Quebec–if you play guitar, you may have heard of the Godin maker, and others moved down to Louisiana to become Cajuns. Others moved south into Maine and then westward, as my Godins did, and settled in other parts of the US. My Godins settled in Minnesota, which is where Alcidos Sinai Godin was born in 1910.

At some point in his travels from Minnesota to San Francisco, Alcidos added another “o” to Godin to make it Goodin, because, as the stories have it, he was tired of being called God in, rather than the French way, which pronounces it like French sculptor Rodin.

If you were wondering why my dad is Goodin, and I’m Godin, it’s because, with his blessing, I reclaimed the French spelling. That said, he never got used to me taking my middle name, his mother’s name Leona, for my primary name.

I wrote a fanciful tale about all this, called “Likenesses: A Family History Through Photos, Real and Imagined,” which was originally published at FLAPPERHOUSE. I brought the zine to him and he read, with me next to him. When he’d finished he said, Katerina wasn’t a seamstress, she was a barmaid.

My dad wanted to be cremated and strewn into his beloved San Francisco Bay, under the bridges his father helped to build. I’ll be traveling back to say goodbye to him for that ceremony on September 1, followed by a celebration of his life at Fior d’Italia on Sunday September 2. His band will be there to play his old favorites, which, tended towards the dark. He loved his lighthearted musicals, but he also loved “St. James Infirmary,” and would delightedly snap his fingers to the macabre lyrics every time.

I miss and love you dad. See you on the Bay.

 

My Pitch Video and Application for the Holman Prize for Blind Ambition 2018

I learned about the Holman Prize from my Friend Laurie Rubin last year, but did not have the time, nor a clear project to pitch, but this year I was ready and waiting!

I managed to talk Alabaster into being my videographer, and we learned so much in the filming and editing of this little video, that I’m pleased to leak the possibility of some Alabaster Rhumb music videos coming soon… Speaking of Alabaster’s music, it is his song “Bird in a Tree,” that plays in the background of my Holman Pitch video, sped up and with a French horn taking the vocal line.

I also enlisted my long-time film collaborator, David Lowe, to help with the audio described intro sequence, but he went far beyond the call of duty by adding magic to our final cut, including somehow making our rather uninspired hill appear truly golden!

And without further delay, I urge you to watch, and like (the social media winner is guaranteed a spot in the final round of the competition), our 90-second Holman pitch video:

 

What is the Holman Prize?

The Holman Prize is the amazing brainchild of Lighthouse for the Blind and Visually Impaired in San Francisco, which was coincidentally the first blind organization I ever had anything to do with, as I grew up and started losing my vision in that city. For a little more on those early days of visual impairment, check out In the Beginning Were the Eye Doctors.

In fact, I even volunteered one summer at their Enchanted Hills Camp, which was partially destroyed in the recent California wildfires, so please consider a donation to that worthy summer camp for blind and visually impaired children and adults.

Last year was the first of this annual international competition, which awards up to $25,000 to each of three blind or visually impaired winners to help them make their dream projects come true. Here’s a short video about the 2017 winners:

The pitch video is the main component of the first round of the Holman Prize competition, which also includes a written application with short answers that helps to give context to the video, and introduce the candidate and her project.

So I thought I’d include some of my application answers here, just in case you also would like to have my pitch video contextualized!

Enter the basics of your project and give us any details that aren’t in your video pitch. Max 200 words.

Aromatica Poetica is my new magazine dedicated to the arts and sciences of smell. It is not especially for blind people, but, as a blind person connected in the community, I will encourage blind and visually impaired writers. Thus, the annual writing contest is vital to this project, which seeks to offer an alternative to sight-centric writing.

With the Holman Prize, I’ll be able to publish the first issue and have a launch party. I feel confident that after that initial issue, we’ll be self-sustaining and eventually profitable. The advertising possibilities are endless: fragrance, wine, spices, sweets, coffee, tea aromatherapy…

The trip component is inspired by James Holman, and will seek out strange new smells–from flowers and wine to volcanic rock and olive oil. It will provide the fodder for the feature story for the inaugural issue of Aromatica Poetica.

In the making of this pitch video, I’ve developed a healthy appreciation of audio description. I would have liked to provide more, but 90 seconds is not very long. For you blind judges out there, please know that I’m toasting you with a lovely-smelling glass of red wine at the end, and that accessibility is always on my mind.

Tell us a little about yourself: write a short bio, tell a funny story, tell us about your passions, or do whatever you like! We want to know who you are. 150 words.

I received my PhD from NYU in 18th century English Literature, then promptly turned around and wrote and produced two plays: about Helen Keller’s time on Vaudeville, and about the sexy history of the invention of braille.

As an actor, I’ve landed a national commercial as well as other smaller gigs. As a writer, I’ve written for O Magazine, just sold a story to Playboy, and have work in many less notorious literary and commercial publications. As a publisher, I’ll be able to encourage diverse voices and aesthetics.

Smell, “the fallen angel,” as Helen Keller put it, has become a passion of mine since metamorphosing from visually impaired to blind, and I want to share that passion. Smell needs vocabulary and great writing–fiction, nonfiction, poetry. The underdog sense can expand the world of blind and sighted alike, and Aromatica Poetica is here to help!

If you plan to travel, please enter those locations in a simple list.

France (Paris, Bordeaux, Grasse), Italy (Florence, Sicily/Mount Aetna), Greece (Athens), Bulgaria (Kazanlak/Valley of the Roses), Turkey (Istanbul).

Please tell about your visual impairment (100 words).

I have a cone rod dystrophy that started when I was ten, which has, very slowly, pushed me along the sight/blindness spectrum from normal sight to near complete blindness. Most of my life was spent as a visually impaired person, but in the past few years–perhaps 5 or six, I have considered myself a blind person, as I have no usable vision. These days, I can see an occasional chink of actual light in my far periphery, but other than that, it’s all kinds of pixelated snow fuzz with occasional hallucinations, courtesy Charles Bonnet Syndrome.

Ok, that’s it! What do you think? Before you decide, I suppose I should invite you to check out my competition

Cheers to all the blind ambition in the world!

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*

 

Mapping & Mixing the Senses at the Mall of America, Essay 8 of #52essays2017

This is my answer to the Mall of America Writer-in-Residence application question “What would you like to write about during your writer residency? ” which doubles as my #52essays2017, written with all four senses and remembered sight, offering this busy week of state and house-hopping.

Youthful Godin in a Paris Disney teacup

I will write about beauty with all four senses and remembered sight. What is beautiful to the nose, the ear, the tongue, fingertips, and yes the eyeballs too? How do the senses fare in one of the most stimulating places on Earth?

I will explore the nooks and crannies of taste , smell, touch, hearing and sight, collecting organic material to run through my synesthetic still. For the harder perceivable clumps I’ll have to use my wordsmith’s hammer and anvil of insight to pound out the contours of desire and satisfaction.

Denis Diderot, the philosopher, encyclopedist and art critic who in his last moments on Earth reached for the cherry compote, that is, died wanting more deliciousness, wrote, “I consider that of all the senses the eye was the most superficial, the ear the proudest, smell the most voluptuous, taste the profoundest and touch the most philosophical.”

In our daily musings at our desk, my laptop and I will test these hypotheses, and formulate new ones: If a pink flower is distilled into a bottle of perfume will my soul turn that hue upon my spritzing myself with it? Can a song-inspired designer make a dress that can teach me to dance? Can I ride choo choo trains to work and back again without hearing joy or sorrow? Can I write a love-letter to the tongues of universal taste? Will I touch my girlhood in a looking glass while wearing leather, or satin, or feathers, or ruby slippers, or in a tank of waving sea anemone? Can I enter my father’s boyhood, or my mother’s, more truthfully through taste, touch, or smell? Is there a perfect sight? A perfect sound? A perfect smell? Is asking for perfect sensations too ridiculous to entertain? What is the smell of laughter? Can you taste a smile? Can you buy lovely? Can you sell hunger? Where in the MOA can you find natural beauty? Unconventional beauty? Ugly beauty? Metaphorical beauty? Beauty for all the senses and the spirit too?

I once was sighted, but now I’m blind. Having lived on almost every notch of the sight -blindness continuum, I will comment about what was seen, what is to be seen and what might yet be seen with a little imagination and artistic cross-sensual translating.

Helen Keller wrote that our senses tell us very little without the spark of imagination: “Without imagination what a poor thing my world would be! My garden would be a silent patch of earth strewn with sticks of a variety of shapes and smells. But when the eye of my mind is opened to its beauty, the bare ground brightens beneath my feet, and the hedge-row bursts into leaf, and the rose-tree shakes its fragrance everywhere. I know how budding trees look, and I enter into the amorous joy of the mating birds, and this is the miracle of imagination.”

In my ramblings as the Mall of America Spectator, I will carve a path with Moses (my trusty white cane) leading others through the promised land of gratification. I will work the Mall’s sense organs, aesthetic appreciation, metaphysical gleemings, from the mind’s eye out. Together we will map the contours of ineffable, ineluctable, and sensational beauty. Together we will anatomize the feel of beautification, skin smoothers and brighteners, sleek lines of suits and stiletto heels, scents that attract men, attract women, woo the nostrils, and tickle the visual cortex. Like true adventurers, we will explore plush Furniture music, intricate lace movement, luxurious leather goods and thrills. We will hunt for the scented candle that reminds you of your professor’s library, of your baby’s cowlicked head, of your secret garden. We will hunt for the sound of mirrored astonishment, in the maze or in my sunglasses. We will do archaeological digs for glinting rocks, in nature stores and at jewelry counters. We will make a study of dolls’ dresses and dressing like dolls, as well as more sophisticated drone-toys and the taste of rose cocktail fizzes, truffle oil and high-piled hotdogs.

I promise to faithfully scribble down the gasps and whispers, truthfully set down the pleasures, curiosities and explorations, honestly pen the trends and heart-wishes of the Mall of America.

Adulterated Rose or, The Smell of Regrettable Youth, Essay 7 of #52essays2017

The guy with the hard metal name was beautiful in my degenerate eye. Beautiful with a girlfriend. And a Volkswagen bus. This was around the time of the earthquake of ’89, when the influences of flower power still loomed large in San Francisco. I’d been pining for so long and then he said they’d broken up. We climbed into his bus and he put rose oil (adulterated, I recognize in my mind’s now more refined nostrils) under my nose and kissed me. When I give myself a little credit, I remember thinking it a cheap trick. I was young, but I knew enough to recognize that when it was over the smell under my nose was gone.

Red and white vintage VW bus model.
Sheet Metal Car Camper Vw Bus Volkswagen Model Car

The guy with a name that reminds one of welders, returned to his girlfriend and told her what we’d done, which made her hate me. That hurt too. I then glimpsed adulthood, where quotidian comfort trumps experimental romance.

Then I moved from my mom’s place in the Richmond District to 1462 Haight Street. Out the front door to the right was Ashbury and below a diner. Lazing on Haight Street, breakfast eggs and potatoes stick in the craw. It is this stuckness of regrettable youth that stinks like All You Knead. To live above a mediocre diner, to smell its unclean smells, and still to eat there is a kind of willful anosmia.

Haight and Ashbury street signs.

Similarly, being 19, mostly ignorant and a masochist, I adopted the scent of fake roses, bought for 10 bucks down the street in a crystal shop or some damn woowoo place, as my own. Not sure if I made the connection, but I still loved the smell after the encounter with the guy named for a metal that was the material of which the VW bus that had so briefly cocooned us was made.

Recently, long since those days of low self-esteem and unrefined judgement, I’ve had the pleasure of smelling real rose oil, bought in a precious one milliliter vile, Rosa damascena, and it is sweet and innocent–pink flowered and pure. It is warming to the heart, not meant to bump you upside the head with a reification of sex.

These days I often look to aromatherapy books when I’m feeling grumpy . Keville and Green tell me that it was the poetess Sappho who dubbed rose the “queen of flowers”:

“The fragrance of rose inspired poets and lovers throughout the ages, and it has been used to ‘open’ the heart and ease grief, heartache, loss, and sadness. … Employed for relationship conflicts, envy, anger, and intolerance, it is comforting, supportive through crisis, and an aphrodisiac. It also helps alleviate depression, anxiety, fear, insomnia, and lack of confidence.”
Vial of rose oil on white background.I need to save my pennies for another tiny vial!

And yet, sometimes I feel guilty for my greedy nose, and wonder if it is, even now, worthy of the holocaust of hundreds of flowers. In Aromatherapy I read that it takes up to 60 rose blossoms to produce just one drop of essential oil.

Roses are difficult to raise organically, must be handpicked, and do not have many essential oil glands, so it is often adulterated.

In the essential oil of rose, or rose otto (usually distilled from Rosa damascena) there are hundreds of distinct chemical constituents. At the risk of boring you, but in the interest of proving my point, I will include a few here (from Essential Oil Safety): Citronellol (16.0-35.9%), Geraniol (15.7-25.7%), Alkenes & alkanes (19.0-24.5%), Nerol (3.7-8.7%), Methyleugenol (0.5-3.3%), and so on…

Many more exist in trace amounts, which gives rose its complexity, roundness and depth. Unfortunately, chemists working in the flavor and fragrance industry tend to ignore this fact. They isolate major constituents and reconstruct simple versions of a complicated fragrance. The distinctly rosy constituent geraniol, for example, can be added to rose oil to extend it, but in the process, flattens out the scent.

Isolating a single constituent of rose is like isolating a personality trait, and claiming to know something about the whole person. I doubt any of us would like that very much! Nobody wants to be thought of as only gregarious, only proud, only smart, only funny, only a pain in the ass, only pretty. A flowers unique essence is made up of many things, just as we are, and to pin a couple of trope constituents on a formula created in a lab and slap the term rose on it, is as unconscionable (and comes from the same sad impulse) as bigotry and the creation of stereotypes.

Artificial aromas and flavors are so one-dimensional. And we’ve grown used to it. Eat a cherry flavored candy and you may name it as such, but what resemblance does the cherry flavor candy have to the real thing? Almost nothing. And unfortunately so many of us are weaned on such artificial flavors that we must be reeducated. Even “natural” flavors ought to be suspect in our noses as what is meant by “natural flavors” are organic compounds isolated and reconstituted to create a one-dimensional and highly duplicable taste. Cherries taste all kinds of ways in nature but only one way in a Skittle.

Before I remove my teeth from this subject, allow me to worry the bastards over at Febreze.

I don’t know if you’ve witnessed their ad campaign centered around the tawdry word “noseblind,” but let me just say that as a blind person (extremely tolerant of the liberal use of blindness as a metaphor), I find this term infuriating. I am blind. It is not a great thing to be, but it works its magic in its own particular and mysterious ways. Don’t take it away from me because you are lazy, because you know no actual blind people, or because you fancy them so far away that they would not even be watching, sorry listening to, television.

Why not nosedeaf, thank you very much. Certainly viewers would sniff at the thought of it!

You, Febreze, peddlers of terrible synthetic smells, coiners of mean and unnecessary words, create that which you profess to mitigate. I’ve walked into stores scented with your fruity monstrosities and fell to my knees, praying for anosmia. Anosmia is by the way the word you are wanting, and I suspect a willful ignorance, and kowtowing to the lowest common denominator, who may be put off by a word they do not know, keeps you from using it.

AAAH! Sometimes I truly hate this world with so much contriving that the very truth one professes, is in fact its opposite. And people eat it up. With their thought deafness and their mind blindness, and, above all, their tastelessness.

Quit being satisfied with the fakes, people. Demand the real. It may cost more, but as I mentioned in Sandalwood Love, there is nothing wrong with embracing the scarcity and complexity of precious things. I think it is not going so far to say that if you can’t appreciate these things in a flower, how can you recognize them in a person?

Rosa damascena postcard by resolute

*This is essay #7 of #52essays2017, written with all four senses and remembered sight. Read my previous essay “1984: Late to the Party Again” here*

1984: Late to the Party Again, Essay 6 of #52essays2017

Menacing cover of a Czech copy of 1984In the year 1984, I was in sixth grade, a scholarship child in a private girl school. The eighth graders were reading George Orwell’s 1984 and had plastered the walls with images of our headmistress that read, “Big Sister is Watching YOU.” We didn’t know what it meant, but we understood that it was witty and smart and that that group of girls was particularly beloved by the teachers, headmistress and principle and could get away with such things. Our class, dominated by girls whose anger and sadness ruled their intelligence, was not, I understand now, so beloved.

Though I’d started having trouble seeing the blackboard back in fourth grade, it was not until sixth that I began having trouble reading print. One time in history class, which I loved, I was taking a pop quiz and stared at the purple ditto ink, astonished and afraid because I couldn’t make out a single word. I raised my hand and told Mrs. Clark in a nervous whisper that I wasn’t able to read it. She turned the paper over and there was the quiz! We laughed. I told that story many times in those years when my eye disease seemed merely an odd anomaly, a predicament that presented problems easily solved in a class of 40 with smart caring teachers.

It was also in sixth grade that I was presenting a book report with my friend (with whom I would in another year or two vandalize the school one night with shaving cream), reading notes we’d written with pale blue ink that I suddenly could not read, and I stumbled over my part of the presentation. She laughed and snatched the notes away. It was not mean-spirited. She simply took control of what I’d not been able to do. I stood, as I would so often stand through my teens and twenties, very still, mortified. It was my great shame not to be able to read anymore.

In earlier grades, I’d been a great reader, a cocky little reader who’d gleefully raise her hand to read aloud and took pride in reading ahead while my classmates labored. I’d show off the adult books I was reading, pilfered from my mother’s bookcase, Agatha Christie mysteries, Gone with the Wind.

Some of my favorite memories of childhood are of reading in special places. I remember finishing Little Women while sitting in the branches of a tree in the huge shared backyard of my grandmother’s apartment complex. I remember reading the end of Jane Eyre, tears rolling down my face in the window seat of the library on 9th Avenue, where I’d wait for my mother to get off work at the clothing boutique around the corner on Clement Street. And I remember reading Poe stories on the bus ride out to the SF Zoo to volunteer on Saturday mornings.

By the time I was in eighth Grade, and it was our turn to read 1984, reading was no longer a pleasure but a chore. I never finished it. I bluffed my way through. If I had good lighting, was not tired, and did not mind how slow it went, I could still read for another year or two, but mostly, the act of scanning words with eyeballs had a hole in it. Where the words should be, there was nothing.

I did not get into the fancy high schools of my peers. I went instead to my neighborhood public school, where my mother had gone before me. I received no help and my rebel self wanted none. I had my smarts and the classes were not challenging. They sucked and I hated it all except for ninth grade English Honors.

Mr. Davis squeezed a few more reads out of me–I remember being particularly engrossed by Green Mansions. He had us watch Cocteau’s La Belle et la Bete, which made a lasting visual impression on me though I could not read the subtitles. He also kept alive for a little while longer the pleasure I took in writing–I’d thankfully taught myself to touch-type the year before on my mom’s manual typewriter. For his class I typed up the last story I would write for a long time. It was about two girls who’d run away. They sat smoking in the McDonald’s on Powell Street. Only one had a pang of regret for the childhood lost and the certainty she’d never go back. I believe that was my last A until college.

Some paltry years of learning flew by, with little school attendance and much teenage debauchery. I cut classes and smoked cigarettes in a café down the street with my best friend–the best friend I still have and the only good take away from that school other than Honors English. I still fancied myself intelligent, a writer. I think I even sometimes dreamed of getting a doctorate someday.

But words and faces were slipping from me: wandering the used bookshop with my friends meant faking it. Looking in used record shops meant looking for recognizable covers with large print. Watching TV meant pretending to see what was going on if it were more than a few feet from me. I took it all in as shame and anger and nursed it with booze and candy.

Doctored newspaper clipping of Tony Randall handing RFB&D Achievement Award to GodinWhen I finally dropped out of high school, it was in order to move on to City College. High School was not working. Finally I got help. Finally I learned about an organization called Recording for the Blind and Dyslexic from whom I would receive an achievement award upon my college graduation some years down the line, handed to me in a fancy ceremony in NYC by Tony Randall. Now RFB&D is called Learning Ally and students don’t have to wait for their digital downloads–blind kids are so lucky these days!–but back in the pre-digital stone age, they sent clunky blue boxes of recorded books on tape cassettes via snail mail.

The first book I remember listening to on the plastic companion cassette player was 1984, the aborted read from years earlier. I was completely hooked and listened to it over the course of a night. The best part about reading by listening is that you do not have to worry about your eyes getting tired.

But those little blue boxes were limited. It takes a long time to have people read books onto tape and to process them. It took time for them to arrive in the mail, a delay of one to three weeks. So that sometimes, by the time I received them, I’d forgotten what prompted me to order them. I could not borrow books from friends and I could not often even get ahold of those they were reading, but at least I could read some. Eating chips or smoking while listening to novels was my great escape.

It was wonderful to have access to books again, but there was shame in those blue boxes, shame in listening to books with my ears instead of reading with my eyes. I hid them away from my friends as much as possible.

Although I still listen to books, having them come to me in a digital file that I listen to in a ubiquitous and perfectly quotidian iPhone has changed everything. The shame is gone, or nearly so. There are so many books available to me through blind organizations such as Bookshare, or through universally available sources such as Project Gutenberg and Kindle, that I can get ahold of most everything I want to read quickly and easily. Others I can scan. In fact, I have so many books on my phone that it has, I’m afraid, made me a little more deficient in attention than I once was, but I’ll take the downside with the many upsides of being able to be current with my intellectual interests. And also able to keep up with what’s going on in the world’s intellectual meanderings, such as they are.

This time, when the call to read 1984 shot around the internet, I was able to download and start reading it immediately. Naturally I’m horrified and darkly amused by the ludicrous behavior of this president and his lackeys with their “alternative facts,” but in some ways I’m more concerned about the hypocrisy of so many of my peers who seem already to have forgotten the jokes and apathy that led up to the election. It is trendy to bash this sad sack in the White House but unthinkable to question one’s own culpability.

Honestly, I’ve shied away from the news since the new presidency. An avid listener to NPR since the Gulf War in 1990, last fall found me angry at my radio for the first time for taking Trump seriously on the one hand, and as just an impossible joke on the other. That so many people I knew felt mostly apathy before the election and have turned fanatical since also feels like a betrayal on the order of 1984 itself. “‘The only evidence is inside my own mind, and I don’t know with any certainty that any other human being shares my memories.'”

The connections between 1984 and the current state of affairs in politics that put the 68-year-old novel at the top of Amazon’s Bestseller list is obvious, but it ought to be recognized as complicated, as our hero Winston Smith is complicated. If Trump being in the white house suggests the regime of Big Brother, I think we ought to allow for the possibility that we are like the very flawed Winston who can in one breath cling to his humanity as the only weapon against the Party:

“‘If you can feel that staying human is worthwhile, even when it can’t have any result whatever, you’ve beaten them.'”

And in the next throw away that humanity in the thoughtless acceptance of rebelling:

“‘You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to corrupt the minds of children, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases–to do anything which is likely to cause demoralisation and weaken the power of the Party?’

‘Yes.’

‘If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw sulphuric acid in a child’s face–are you prepared to do that?’

‘Yes.'”

These words will come back to haunt Winston in the Ministry of Love even before the final betrayal, suggesting an irony that in the very act of rebelling he steps that much closer to those he is rebelling against, towards their destructive utilitarian philosophy that deems the most heinous acts worthy if they further the cause. To lose one’s humanity in the face of fear and anger is too easy and more dangerous if left unrecognized.

 

*This is essay 6 of #52essays2017, written with all four senses and remembered sight. Read my previous essay Ylang-ylang: Calming the Panic of Love & Memory here*