From Derrida to Diderot: The Philosophe’s Dream, Essay 20 of #52essays2017

Thinking back to where The Spectator & the Blind Man all started–and by all I mean dissertation, stage production, literary endeavor–it was probably with Diderot. And I believe I discovered Diderot in the pages of Derrida:

Diderot by Louis-Michel vanLoo, 1767.“I write without seeing….. This is the first time I have ever written in the dark . . . not knowing whether I am indeed forming letters. Wherever there will be nothing, read that I love you.”

-Diderot, Letter to Sophie Volland, June 10, 1759

I first encountered this quote in a book called Memoirs of the Blind, a perhaps ironically beautifully visual book about blindness and the self-portrait by Jacques Derrida, written for an exhibition that he curated at the Louvre.

Denis Diderot, one of my all-time favorite dead white guy writers, would definitely be at my fantasy dinner table for witty repartee and bon vivantism. As I’ve now surely quoted a million times and cannot even remember where I originally read it, he died reaching for the cherry compote (the dessert), that is, he died wanting more of the good stuff.

Encyclopedie de D'Alembert et Diderot Premiere Page.Diderot is probably most famous as one of the editors and main contributors to the Encyclopédie (1751-66), a work that flouted notions of high and low disciplines by putting Christianity alongside Chemistry , Farm Laborer alongside Poet.

But even before that great endeavor of promoting equality, an endeavor that often seems to sing the early song of revolution, Diderot was a young man with man of letters stars in his eyes and he wrote a book inspired by the thoughts of the great Voltaire and other early luminaries of what would come to be known as the Siècle de Lumière. The Age of Enlightenment is much maligned in certain circles for its idealization of rationalism and all the woes of modernity, but Diderot (as our opening quote suggests) reveled in the dark and unfathomable parts of humankind.

Diderot’s Letter on the Blind for the Use of Those Who See (1749) suggested, among other things the doubtfulness of God (Diderot dabbled in deism), and put his controversial notions into the mouth of a real life person, an English mathematician named Nicholas Saunderson, who inherited the Lucasian Chair from none other than Newton, but not his quirky but nonetheless strident beliefs. Saunderson was famously irreligious, but the deathbed conversation Diderot puts in his mouth–not to mention the glorious prophecy of Darwin’s theory of evolution–was indeed fabricated.

Here’s a little sample of the offensive dialogue:

”Consider, Mr. Holmes,” he added, “what a confidence I must have in your word and in Newton’s. Though I see nothing, I admit there is in everything an admirable design and order. I hope you will not demand more. I take your word for the present state of the universe, and in return keep the liberty of thinking as I please on its ancient and primitive state, with relation to which you are as blind as myself. Here you will have no witnesses to confront me with, and your eyes are quite useless. Think, if you choose, that the design which strikes you so powerfully has always subsisted, but allow me my own contrary opinion, and allow me to believe that if we went back to the origin of things and scenes and perceived matter in motion and the evolution from chaos, we should meet with a number of shapeless creatures, instead of a few creatures highly organized. I make no criticism on the present state of things, but I can ask you some questions as to the past. For instance, I may ask you and Leibniz and Clarke and Newton, who told you that in the first instances of the formation of animals some were not headless and others footless? I might affirm that such an one had no stomach, another no intestines, that some which seemed to deserve a long duration from their possession of a stomach, palate, and teeth came to an end owing to some defect in the heart or lungs; that monsters mutually destroyed one another; that all the defective combinations of matter disappeared, and that those only survived whose mechanism was not defective in any important particular and who were able to support and perpetuate themselves.

” Suppose the first man had his larynx closed, or had lacked suitable food, or had been defective in the organs of generation, or had failed to find a mate, or had propagated in another species, what then, Mr. Holmes, would have been the fate of the human race? It would have been still merged in the general depuration of the universe, and that proud being who calls himself man, dissolved and dispersed among the molecules of matter, would have remained perhaps forever hidden among the number of mere possibilities. If shapeless creatures had never existed, you would not fail to assert that none will ever appear, and that I am throwing myself headlong into chimerical fancies, but the order is not even now so perfect as to exclude the occasional appearance of monstrosities.” Then, turning towards the clergyman, he added, “Look at me, Mr. Holmes. I have no eyes. What have we done, you and I, to God, that one of us has this organ while the other has not?”

Lettre sur les Aveugles (Letter on the Blind).So this, along with his bawdy yet still philosophical tale The Indiscrete Jewels–about a prince who gets his hands on a ring which, when turned upon the nether regions of ladies, gets them to talk, indiscreetly about their escapades–published around the same time, landed Denis Diderot in the dungeon of Vincennes, which is where we find him in the following piece. My literary offering is the first in The Spectator & the Blind Man series.

Diderot, a lover of women, music, the theatre and all that Paris had to offer did not relish his time in prison and, in order to avoid a future return, did not publish his literary works, such as Jacques the Fatalist and d’Alembert’s Dream, for which he is mostly known today. In other words, Diderot may have helped to sow the seeds of the Revolution, but, after Vincennes, he mostly avoided angering the regime by keeping his potentially controversial works in private circulation. Diderot enjoyed a good long life and died just five years before the storming of the Bastille.

The following is my piece of flash fiction imagining Diderot’s explanation to a friend for why he would do his best to never piss the authorities off again. The reading is by George Ashiotis with musical composition by Alabaster Rhumb.

 

THE PHILOSOPHE’S DREAM

Dungeon of Vincennes, 1749

No. I am no Socrates, no martyr to truth. A fishmonger of truths more like. My mistake was in allowing the odors to reach royal nostrils. Henceforth, I peddle my stinking truths underground or, if they are compliant truths, I shall dress them in suitable costumes, sufficiently powdered and pinned to ingratiate themselves to this foolish and frivolous city of mine. Ah Paris! How I adore your decadence. Let me die reaching for the cherry compote!

I digress. I must tell you about last night’s dream that frightened me nearly to death, for, though you may still despise me, I wish you to understand why I scrape the dirt floor with my chin, why I will do or say or write anything they ask of me in order to be out of here. Why I will denounce, without regret, my little Letter on the Blind.

Last night I woke out of sleep into the body and mind of Saunderson. Yes, my blind mathematician whose deathbed non-confession has stirred so much ire. I awoke into his blindness and found myself confronting not only the fumbling clergyman Holmes, but also the governor who has seen fit to thrust me into this cell.

The blindness I experienced was like that of Milton’s darkness visible, a blindness not of eyes but of mind. Understand me. I felt sharp as a whip, as brilliant of intellect as Saunderson must have been to inherit the Lucasian Chair of Mathematics (a seat held by no less a luminary than Newton) but there were no longer any images, no colors, no pictures of beauty or ugliness to be found in this Diderot-head of mine. All memory of seeing had evaporated, and it was this blankness that frightened me almost to distraction. The deprivation terrified me even as I enacted the very dialogue that has landed me in prison.

Nicholas Saunderson.As Saunderson I said, “Ah, sir, don’t talk to me of this magnificent spectacle, which it has never been my lot to enjoy. I have been condemned to spend my life in darkness, and you cite wonders quite out of my understanding, and which are only evidence for you and for those who see as you do. If you want to make me believe in God you must make me touch Him.”

“Sir,” returned the clergyman, “touch yourself, and you will recognize the Deity in the admirable mechanism of your organs.”

I countered, “All that does not appear so admirable to me as to you. But even if the animal mechanism were as perfect as you maintain, what relation is there between such mechanism and a supremely intelligent Being? If it fills you with astonishment, that is perhaps because you are accustomed to treat as miraculous everything which strikes you as beyond your own powers. I have been myself so often an object of admiration to you, that I have not a very high idea of your conception of the miraculous. You think a certain phenomenon   beyond human power and cry out that it must be the handiwork of a god.”

Next came his most persuasive argument, “Men of the highest genius, even Newton, have been impressed by the wonders of nature and recognize an intelligent being as its creator.”

As determined by my folly, I answered, “Seeing nothing, I will acquiesce to you and Newton an admirable design and order. I hope you will not demand more. I take your word for the present state of the universe, and in return keep the liberty of thinking as I please on its primitive state, with relation to which you are as blind as myself.”

Finally, as I have written to my sorrow so I spoke in my dream, “If we went back to the origin of things and perceived the evolution from chaos, we should meet with any number of shapeless creatures. In the first instances of the formation of animals some were perhaps headless and others footless, some stomachless and others lacked intestines. Only those not defective in any important particular survived and perpetuated themselves.”

I stopped his protestations before they started, “Perhaps you will assert that deformed creatures never existed and that I am throwing myself headlong into chimerical fancies, but the order is not even now so perfect as to exclude the occasional appearance of monstrosities.”

I turned, my Saunderson, towards the clergyman and performed what is, in my Letter on the Blind, the coup de grâce. “Look at me, Mr. Holmes. I have no eyes. What have we done, you and I, to God, that one of us has this organ while the other has not?”

Suddenly my fanciful dialogue shifted to nightmare and, instead of the tears gushing from the eyes of the sympathetic clergyman, the menacing voice of the governor materialized from the void. “these are lovely sentiments my dear blind philosophe. They will nicely condemn you in the court of God and man. We will take your deformity into consideration by removing the mask that we offer unblind (if such things exist) heathens. It will do the people good to see your vacant eyes roll with your head. Such a treat to see a monster (as even you have named yourself) demolished.”

With the demonic intoning came the arms out of hell to lift me onto the block where my neck was stretched. The whoosh of the upswept blade penetrated my too-sensitive ears and the steel crashed down. Only then did I wake once more into this seeing body, screams strangling my throat with mingled horror and relief.

*This is essay 20 of #52essays2017. Read #19 Sometimes a Snake is Just a Snake*

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Sometimes a Snake is Just a Snake, Essay 19 of #52essays2017

Last night while I was sitting on our bed talking to Alabaster about today’s plans to check out an open mic in Castle Rock, Alabaster stopped me and said, “Hold on a sec.” He had been standing in the doorway and stepped into the hall, grabbing something on the way out. I learned this thing was the little trashcan next to the door of the bedroom that usually holds Kleenex and clumps of hair pulled from my brush. “I caught a snake,” he said, and I was like, “you caught a snake?” I thought he was joking. “Yeah I caught a snake. It’s under the trashcan.”

I’m not generally afraid of snakes–I’ve held many snakes in my life, mostly when I worked at the San Francisco Zoo when I was a kid, as I wrote about in The Voice of the Turtle. There was something intensely satisfying about having people see me from forty paces and back away, “Oh no, I don’t do snakes,” while their kids skipped up to touch it. Usually these snakes were relatively small in diameter, an inch or two around but several feet long, so they could wind compactly around my hand, a feeling that to this day is one of my happiest haptic memories. The feel of snake muscles contracting and releasing, curling through your fingers, absorbing your warm-bloodedness, is really wonderful.

Every so often, I was given the boa to take out on the Nature Trail, and that snake with its circumference nearly the size of my neck, draped around my neck, provoked screams. It was fun.

However, there’s a world of difference between the snake you pull out of a terrarium and the snake you find in your house, or at least the house of the boyfriend’s parents, where you are staying for a few weeks. It’s a very nice and rather large and sprawling house as discussed in Winter Wonder Maze, and we occupy part of the downstairs–don’t call it the basement unless you want to ruffle the feathers of Alabaster’s mom.

Throughout the days of his sister’s recent wedding–a wedding, which happily diverted Alabaster’s parents’ concerns for our unweddedness–the bridegroom teased the mom about the basement. “It’s not a basement. It’s the downstairs!” she would insist and we all laughed.

In reality, we are halfway underground; there is a well that runs around our floor allowing in light by way of the well that has its bottom pretty much level with the bottom of our windows. Apparently, it has often happened that small animals–mice, rabbits, salamanders–get blown off the street level into the well and get stuck. That is probably what happened to our snake. The only way out was in, through a screen that was not on tight.

Alabaster got a picture of it and then took it upstairs to show his parents. They were not as freaked out as I imagined they would be and his dad drove him up to the top of the little hill where the mailboxes are, where we had just walked yesterday to catch the trail up the mountain, to release the snake. He shot out of sight as soon as he hit the good earth. Alabaster told me when he returned with our empty trashcan, “he was very happy to be free.”

Alabaster and Godin at Lisa's weddingAlthough a quick Google search revealed that our snake was just a harmless plains Garter, last night we went to the bathroom with a little more trepidation than usual. Even so, we both slept very well. No snake dreams. We do not take it as a sign, but I am glad to have a sighted boyfriend to spy out such things. We are living in sin, after all, so who knows what critters may drop in from time to time!

 

 

*This is Essay 19 of #52essays2017, written with all four senses and remembered sight. Read #18, about Jung and my early days performing at Collective: Unconscious here*

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Jung, Individuation & the Collective:Unconscious, Essay 18 of #52essays2017

One cannot help but be aware of Jung; his collective unconscious is ubiquitous, and , for me, symbolizes the literal birthplace of my artist at Collective:Unconscious. My metamorphosis from an academic to an artist began at Rev Jen’s Anti-Slam, which took place every Wednesday night at Collective:Unconscious, a black box theater on Ludlow, before the Lower East Side squeezed out the artist with trendy bars and high-rise apartments.

Godin performing at Collective:Unconscious circa 2005.
Without any exaggeration, I can say that that place changed my life–whether for the better or worse is, I think, undecided. And yet, if I take a Jungian point of view, better or worse is not the point. The point is individuation. In that case, walking into Collective:Unconscious, signing up, and getting up on stage with Millennium my first guide dog, and performing a little monologue which I thought was a comedy routine at which nobody laughed, though the reception after was heart-warming and encouraging, represents one giant step on the path of becoming me.

My new friend Florian Birkmayer, a psychiatrist who finds an alternative to the biomedical model in Jung’s conception of individuation, explained this to me in an email:

” The Jungian view says that each of our lives is a unique opportunity to individuate, that is to become fully ourselves–our symptoms and struggles can be transformed into meaningful experiences on the journey of discovering our Personal Myth. Individuation offers a lifelong path of evolution, embodied in each of our Personal Myths.”

In my reply, I mentioned that I was inspired by his words to finally pick up Jung and was starting with Man and His Symbols, which he wrote in the last years of his life with the lay reader in mind. Florian also recommended what he called Jung’s “mythobiography” Memories, Dreams, Reflections.

The term mythobiography immediately resonated as a reversed version of an online class I’d recently signed up for with Sofia Quintero called Jumpstart Your Biomythography, and so I downloaded the book and in the prologue found this resonating quote:

Portrait of Jung, unknown date.“Thus it is that I have now undertaken, in my eighty-third year, to tell my
personal myth. I can only make direct statements, only ‘tell stories.’ Whether or not the stories are ‘true’ is not the problem. The only question is whether what I tell is my fable, my truth.”

Mythobiography/biomythography gives a name for what I’ve done in so many of my blind literary projects: Helen Keller on Vaudeville was the first time I incorporated myself into the blind myth as an artistic endeavor. But the process really started earlier with work in graduate school: a paper called “In her Crooked Way,” about the visually impaired barbarian girl at the center of Coetzee‘s Waiting for the Barbarians, who has an eye disease that presented awfully similar to my own at the time of writing. And In my master’s thesis Écriture Nocturne and in my dissertation The Spectator & the Blind Man: Seeing & Not-Seeing in the Wake of Empiricism, which was turned into the stage production of The Spectator & the Blind Man: Stories of Seeing and Not-Seeing,” and now flash-fictions, which are ready, I think finally to be incorporated into my very own mythobiography. Although every blind character, fictional and “true,” has been to some extent me, that is no more or less true of all the sighted characters.

Because I’m as much a sighted person as a blind one–having lived my life on pretty much every notch of the sight/blindness continuum–they are all me–from Helen Keller to Louis Braille, from Marie Antoinette to Denis Diderot, they are all seeing and not-seeing, as are all of us.

*This is Essay 18 of #52essays2017. Read #17, “Rocky Mountain Coyote Motel” here*

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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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