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*

 

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.