Laurel Wreaths: A Brief Hydrosol Encounter, Essay 9 of #52essays2017

Two glossy green Laurel leavesThis brief and admittedly drunken hydrosol encounter with laurel (Laurus nobilis) was inspired by Cathy Skipper’s Hydrosols class at the School for Aromatic Studies.

Last week I ordered my little arsenal of sensory indulgences from Aromatics International because they were the only (recommended) online aromatherapy shop I could find that was not sold out of this delicious hydrosol. It was my first time ordering from them, but I’ll definitely order from them again.

I must confess that I’m a slut when it comes to buying essential oils and hydrosols. It is my firm belief that not all companies can provide all your needs, they must have specialties, and expertise, and so as with clothes, groceries, booze, and pretty much everything else, I have no interest in shopping one place exclusively. My impression is that in the world of aromatics, it is best to steer clear of those companies that tell you they can fulfill all your needs, i.e. beware the multi-level marketing when it comes to aromatics, and probably everything else too.

Ok, enough PSA for today. Here’s my hydrosol encounter with one of my all-time favorite trees, the laurel.

For people who like the Earth and are sending away for healthy/botanical friendly stuff, there can be some guilt. It’s the opposite of buying local, but in New York City, it’s oddly difficult to get a hold of very many of the rapidly growing assortment of hydrosols that exist, though there is a lovely little aromatherapy shop in the West Village, Enfleurage, that has a marvelous selection of essential oils, less in the way of hydrosols. The point being that I appreciate minimal packaging, and Aromatics International did a great job–no extra crap in the way of brochures and pamphlets, no unnecessary wrapping–just biodegradable popcorn, pet bottles and a bit of packing tape around the tightly screwed tops. Perfect.

I ordered four products: three hydrosols to help me out with a couple recipes for my upcoming HONEYPOT article, and an impulse purchase of a new-to-me oil, Marula (Sclerocarya birrea), which is apparently great for the skin.

I opened the box without my boyfriend Alabaster being home, to find four identical (to the touch) 4-ounce bottles, but was unconcerned, because (blindness be damned) the ears and nose were all that was required in identifying these aromatic liquids.

First I shook the bottles and determined the oil from the waters by the sound. I could tell from the lower and slower sound flow, which was the marula, and smelled to confirm. Marula () is a nut oil, that is a carrier oil with little smell, but it is apparently very good for wrinkles… I’ll let you know…

Pink Pelargonium capitatum flowersThen I smelled the first of the hydrosols. The citrus note told me at once that this was the citrus geranium (Pelargonium capitatum), one of the rose geraniums used in perfumery, but distinctly more lemony than the Pelargonium graveolens, which I also purchased for comparison in martinis and on my face.

Last came the laurel (Laurus nobilis), and my nose did a little dance. How I love this noble leaf!

“Upon smelling,” I wrote in my first impression notes, “the top note is so surprisingly floral or fruity,–a fruit that is almost tropical, a fruit that I can almost name but cannot–that, with the distinctive bay leaf underpinnings, the sensation is almost orgasmic. Upon tasting, the fruity disappears and the whole pungent, spicy leaf smashes intensely on the tongue.”

Anyway, I added a bit of water, and then, without too much ado, some vodka… and then some ice, and well, the taste was pretty amazing. Granted I started out with a whole tablespoon of hydrosol, which is a lot, quite a bit more than a normal person or cocktail will desire. What can I say? This is a debauched hydrosol encounter.

“Ok, just added a touch more vodka to my now iced laurel and find that this is unbelievable; the peppery notes of the laurel sparkle. I want Alabaster to experience this taste with me, but he is cooking and filling the room with other smells. While I wait for him to try, and try not to drink the whole damn thing, I will remind myself of the mythical, poetical laurel…”

Apollo seated with lyre wearing laurel wreath.Apollo, Greek god of music, poetry and light, prophecy and excellence of all kinds, crowned his head, and the heads of winners, with laurel wreaths. To this very day we have poet laureates, and Nobel laureates and may we ourselves be crowned with laurels, but may we never rest on them.

I can, at this very moment, testify to the intoxicating effects of Laurus nobilis, but I will not claim knowledge of the Pythian priestess. Whether she delivered her prophecies in well-wrought verse or unintelligible gibberish I cannot say, but if I, dear reader, were able to deliver words of wisdom beyond the obvious “Know thyself,” I would say, “drink of the noble laurel, and your eyes will be opened.”

 

*This is a drunken essay 9 of #52essays2017, written with all four senses and remembered sight. Read my previous essay “Mapping & Mixing the Senses at the Mall of America” here*

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What I See/Saw I: Hallucinations (Essay 2 of #52essays2017)

I am blind, but that does not mean I live in darkness, and I’m not just talking metaphor here. These days the visionscape confronting me sparkles and undulates, with greater or lesser intensity, constantly, veiling the world beyond with simple and complex hallucinations.

pixelated closeup of Godin's eye with green filter

The brilliance of my visionscape is not less intense in a dark room than in a brilliant sunny outdoors, only there are maybe more facets to it: there is darkness around the edges that gets washed out in a white out of a brilliant day. The pixelated cosmos in which I dwell sometimes takes on a color scheme, as if the whole thing were lit by stage gels. Sometimes I wake up and find my day washed neon pink, other days are teal. Sometimes the palette divides into contrasting colors, red occupying much of the upper left quadrant and green the lower right, or other times it is orange and cobalt.

My recent forays into the wonderful world of aromatics has proved to be a way to take control of what had heretofore been quite out of my control. Apparently I’m not very original in my synesthetic reactions but it’s fun to open a bottle of lavender essential oil and see my world turn violet, or peppermint and watch it turn electric blue.

Beyond or behind all the shimmering and swirling, I get glimpses of the world some people might call the objective reality of sight. That objective reality reveals itself to me now as blobs of light covered over by a fabric of swirls and pulsations.

For me there is no dark. No black. Never.

There is brightness and then there is more brightness. The light of a lamp lingers on my destroyed retinas for minutes, so that even if I have seen the lamp on–verified its onness by rolling my eyeballs to place the lamp in one of the chinks of far peripheral vision that still remain to me, when I turn it off, a blast of light remains to trick me, and sometimes, I must use my hand to verify that the bulb is not still making heat. But even when the physical light remnants disappear completely, there is the overwhelming perception of a pulsating kaleidoscope of pixelated light, leaving the dark room anything but dark.

The tears in the fabric of disease that remain to me to allow actual, external light to enter my visionscape are sometimes a help and sometimes a distraction. Oftentimes I can see points of light in my far periphery, lightbulbs in the distance that can help guide me in the right direction, but I cannot see the furniture that stands directly in my path. As I mentioned in my previous essay, my poor eyesight has never had anything to do with blurry vision. Always it has been a lack of information.

Much of what I see, especially in my peripheral vision, is undulating hallucinations that resemble the wavy floaters of the normal eye (as I remember them). They skitter randomly as sickle-shaped phenomena that are unrelated to external reality, and do not change much from day to night, light to dark, open or closed eye. In their crowdedness, and in their geometric breathing, they remind me of staring at wallpaper on acid way back when. I haven’t done any psychedelics for many years, I promise, but my visions have gotten pretty trippy!

One time, maybe five or six years ago, I was laying on my bed in the daytime in a hungover state, and suddenly a lurid parade of eighteenth century ladies jittered across my visionscape with painted lips formed into ironic smiles. They looked in my direction as they passed–an endless train of cartoonishly garish ladies moving across my field of vision. I remember feeling a vague sense of uncertainty but no fear. The vision lasted a minute or two at most, presenting (I understand now) my bored visual cortex with some much-needed stimulation. I had more vision then than now, but that was around the time that I think of myself as moving from being visually impaired to blind, so that although I could still see the bright window quite clearly behind the hallucination, and maybe a bit of the mirrored vanity beyond, I did not spend a great deal of my life looking at stuff.

I did not name this a hallucination or recognize it as such until my buddy Benjamin asked me if I hallucinated–that he’d heard on NPR about a condition that affects people that lose their vision late in life. That’s when I remembered the ladies in my bedroom and named it a hallucination. Since then I’ve had many more such experiences and have read Hallucinations by Oliver Sacks. “Silent Multitudes” is the first chapter of that book and is dedicated to the phenomenon.

Sacks begins the chapter by describing Rosalie, a woman blind for many years, who suddenly starts experiencing hallucinations and fears for her sanity. To his question “what do you see?” she answers:

“‘People in Eastern dress!”…In drapes, walking up and down stairs … a man who turns towards me and smiles, but he has huge teeth on one side of his mouth. Animals, too. I see this scene with a white building, and it is snowing–a soft snow, it is swirling. I see this horse (not a pretty horse, a drudgery horse) with a harness, dragging snow away … but it keeps switching…. I see a lot of children; they’re walking up and down stairs. They wear bright colors–rose, blue–like Eastern dress.'”

Sacks assures her that she is not losing her mind, but that she is experiencing Charles Bonnet Syndrome, named for a Swiss naturalist, who first described his father’s late-life visions and then experienced them himself when his own vision failed.

Sacks distinguishes between simple and complex hallucinations, which I have come to understand in my own experience. Under normal waking conditions, the simple hallucinations of undulating and pixelated designs breathe and skitter around with such constancy that I do not think about them unless I’m trying to put something into my periphery where I still can perceive some light and movement–when they seem to be in the way of my perception.

My complex hallucinations (as Sacks calls those that have recognizable content, such as people or animals–nameable objects and exhibit the crowding suggested by the chapter title “silent multitudes”) usually come on in the early morning hours after a night of insomnia. They appear without any mental prompting and seem to have nothing to do with my psychological state, if the wakeful tiredness be excepted. When they pop up, it is as if a switch turns on and the whole of my visionscape shifts for a few moments into an outrageous circus of jerky, cartoonish acrobats, jugglers, horses, and countless other abstract big top-inspired shapes and unnamable creatures that tumble with great rapidity into the center of my vision and back out again, as if they are in a tangled loop that keeps repeating with subtle and complex differences. The quality is of a cartoon or of an old-school video game.

One creature that makes an occasional appearance in both the insomnia-inspired complex hallucinations and in my everyday jumble of simple hallucinations is a red Space Invaders critter that marches from my far left periphery towards my nose.

This is so frustrating to write about because it seems weirder and more bombastic than it feels. It’s easier to simply say, “I can’t see.” But onward.

Like the everyday hallucinations, the early morning complex hallucinations are also not affected by my eyes being open or closed, though, if the sky is lightening, a sliver might show behind without changing any of it), and I can look around the scene to examine the vibrating tableau, as you might scan a computer screen if it were placed too close to your face.

As Sacks writes:

“I observed with Rosalie (as with many other patients) that while she was hallucinating, her eyes were open, and even though she could see nothing, her eyes moved here and there, as if looking at an actual scene. It was that which had first caught the nurses’ attention. Such looking or scanning does not occur with imagined scenes; most people, when visualizing or concentrating on their internal imagery, tend to close their eyes or else to have an abstracted gaze, looking at nothing in particular. … one does not hope to discover anything surprising or novel in one’s own imagery, whereas hallucinations may be full of surprises. They are often much more detailed than imagery, and ask to be inspected and studied.”

I find this distinction between mental imagery and hallucinations very helpful, as I have struggled to describe the difference to friends. I also have very intense mental imagery, often arising from internal reflection or prompted by outside stimuli–a novel or movie soundtrack can stimulate this imagery, but this does not present at all like the hallucinations. And yet both keep me tethered to the visible world, to my visual self.

I’m so stuck being a visual person that it is difficult for me to write anything very interesting without seeing it with my inner eye. Yet my inner eye has been so disconnected from actual sight for so long, it may be that I and others ought not to trust it. This is the struggle I find in my writing, which is why I write this now: I doubt my ability to tell you what I see. Have I had any success?

 

*This is essay 2 of #52essays2017, written with all four senses and remembered sight. Check out essay 1 “In the Beginning Were the Eye Doctors” here*

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The Genius and his Awl, a blind history

[School for the Young Blind, 1829]

 

I have heard of The Death of Marat. Marat was, they say, dotted with ugly holes in his skin that oozed and gave pain. He only found relief in the bath, so that is where he stayed. With his writing table hovering above the surface of the water, he took the names of traitors and wrote them on his Guillotine list. He was stabbed by mademoiselle Corday, a girl who hoped to stop the madness. David, ever the sycophantic whore of the revolution, bathed the scene in a holy light, forever casting the mastermind of the REIGN OF TERROR a martyr in the gullible eye of the viewer. Once again, the eye deceives the mind!

 

 

Now my professors paint me a rebel because I dare to teach a writing system that works better than that of poor old father Haüy. So much for progress. These petty pedants wouldn’t recognize progress if it bumped them on the back of their heads. Ha, bumps, that’s what we’re talking about! You would have laughed to see me point at them in my tribunal and say, “You are all no better than a lot of Oedipuses and I, like Tiresias, warn you to reconsider your folly!” They did not like that at all. Not at all. Sighted people have very fragile egos!

 

How can they not see that nothing man creates is perfect? Fine-tuning—even the most magnificent instrument—is always possible. Consider the organ. With each new great one built, the air pumps more efficiently, the levers glide more smoothly and the stops are placed ever more precisely. There is something divine in progress. Perhaps even God is a tinkerer? One could wish for some improvements. Hear me Lord, my suggestion for the next version of Man: please make the eyeball a little less delicate. It seems a very important organ to be so vulnerable. Or else make us humans less clumsy…

 

My father was a saddler,

A sad saddler was he,

For I, his little boy,

Would be a saddler too.

Sitting at my father’s bench,

I took the awl in hand,

The awl missed its mark

And found my eye!

 

The infection spread from the poked out eyeball to the other and made me blind. Happily, my sad parents did not let me fall into helplessness. They encouraged me to study with my sisters. Then we learned of this place. I was so excited—they said there would be books for me! And, to be fair, there were books…three books! Each of them: a grammar book, a prayer book and a history of France, weighed more than I did!

They were made before the revolution when the aristocracy was feeling panicky and philanthropic. Ever since the fight for liberté and égalité seized the soul of France, there’s been no money for making blind people books. Not only are these embossed books enormous and expensive to produce, but they are really hard to read. The raised letters are so big and take so long to feel that by the time you get to the end of a sentence, you’ve forgotten the beginning! Nonetheless, I read them. I reread them. The whole time thinking, there must be a better way.

 

Then, when I was twelve, Captain Barbier brought us his Night Writing, a sonography he had invented for Napoleon. The dots and dashes he poked out on thick paper represented sounds, military intelligence that could be read in the dark, without a torch, without alerting the enemy. It was a revelation!! The raised dots were so much easier to feel than raised lines. Not only could we read the dotted signs but, with a small pointed tool, we could poke out dots of our own. Still, there was room for improvement: the captain’s system, while more compact than embossed Latin characters, was still too bulky and the symbols corresponded to sounds rather than letters. In order to read like sighted people, we would need an alphabet.

 

For eight years I’ve worked on my system. Making it readable. Making it easy to learn. Making it into something that is truly useful and life changing. And what do I get? Greif from Barbier and obstinacy from my professors! Imagine, ten men arguing the fate of my invention with more gusto than they would the fate of my head! They act as if my dotted letters threatened the very existence of writing. As if the Latin script had been handed down to Moses with the Ten Commandments!

 

I would not trade my blindness for theirs. I accept the burden of my prophetic vision as have so many of my blind brothers before me. I see bump, no bump, bump, no bump, bump, no bump, bump, as a binary code that will someday link blind technology to that of the sighted in a language so precise as to reveal their Latin characters as chicken scratch!

 

So be it. My bumpy little system does not need their support. That is, dare I say, the genius of it. We can poke out our letters without books…but some books would be nice! And yes, I have noticed that the instrument I use to poke my alphabet looks a lot like a little awl. The irony is not lost on me. It is a very clever awl that pokes holes in whatever it is asked: saddles, harnesses, belts, boots, corsets, hearts, eyes, minds, time!

 

Thus, my blind eyes are the ultimate awl that burst through time to look to you, spectators of the future, to see that I, Braille, invented.

 

 

*First published as “The Awl” at FLAPPERHOUSE*

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