Pungency, by Dima

The fruits of "Writing the Senses" night, inspired by the musto-rotting sent of a shapka.  Take that, Proust.

Danilo didn’t regret for a second his decision to come to the sorceress Lila for help.  After Angel’s death, he had sworn he would do anything, try anything, be anything if there were any of hope of ever recovering his friend.  It was just that he hadn’t expected to find himself in this position.  But, then, what had he expected magic to be?

At the moment, he was standing in Lila’s dark and filthy hut, in the only patch of sunlight that streamed, unobstructed, through the oculus in the center.  Lila was wrapping rags around him, around his whole body, like a mummy.  She was at his neck, now, and he wondered if this whole thing was a ruse.  How could it be true what she said?  She’d agreed too easily when he’d suggested he wanted to travel through time.  Surely she would grip the rags any second now and choke him and hold him until he breathed no more, and he would end up this foul witch’s meal.

Calm down, Danilo, it’s all in your head.

The rotting scent wafting from the rags was almost choking him itself.  But then, Lila had said, that was the point.

“Memories are in smells,” she’d lectured him before starting at his feet.  “You have to cover yourself, your whole body, in the right smell.  Then your mind- you know your mind has the real magic, the real power, yes?  Of course you know.  What?  No?  Everyone knows that!  So, yes, the real power is in the mind.  Force the mind to a place, and you will be in that place.  And that time.”

Then she’d laughed and choked on her spittle and Danilo tried not to run.  Do anything, try anything, be anything.

She had just covered his mouth, and now was about to make the circle around his nose.  The smell was very strong now.  Well, thought Danilo, here goes, and Lila quickly wrapped the rest of his head.

Straight to the back of his nose the scent flew.  It was for a moment suffocating, then suddenly, liberation.  It expanded into the hollow of his head, and all was clear, all was endless.  Pins of pungency still darted upwards right at the nostril’s opening, but the warm must floated unnoticed by these severe sentinels, and funnelled backward, through the dust, through time, filling his whole body with the memories it carried.

And suddenly, he was there, standing, squinting in the brightness of the sun that spread across the square, the rags falling off of him.  He had made it.  He had made it!

Green Light

You may notice the lack of my usual  visual for this particular post to the blog.  It is rather poetic. Read and find out why.

Light is electromagnetic radiation. In the back of the eye, there are sensors called rods and cones.  Collectively, they sense light or the absence of light.  The cones distinguish the colour of the light, from the visual spectrum (between 700 and 400nm).  There is a cone for Red light, blue light, and green light.

The colours of items are determined by their pigment. Molecules absorb certain wavelengths of radiation, and reflect others.  The wavelengths that get reflected are what our eyes perceive as the colour of that object.

But no object can reflect light without a light source.  It must come from somewhere.  Most sources of light tend to emit the whole spectrum of visual light.  This is called white light. But some light sources emit only a specific colour or wavelength of light. 

When looking at a light source, the intensity of sensation on the light receptors in the eye increases. Muscles in the eye, called the iris, will cause the pupil (the hole through which light enters the eye) will close, so less light can enter.  Extended exposure to such a stimulus will cause pain.

And so, I attempt to describe my personal experience.  Which may or may not be the same as anyone else’s, but that is psychology, a discussion for another time.

First, I see.  To see is to perceive light with the eyes.  I am looking. To look, is to direct my eyes. I cannot control what I see, only that which I look at.  I perceive a light source. It is bright, intense. It hurts my eyes after several moments. It is green.  The wavelength of the electromagnetic radiation is approximately 510 nm.  There are designated cones to sense this colour, and it feels like they are working overtime.  

Green is between blue and yellow in the spectrum; colored like grass or emeralds. Saying that would have been how most people would describe it, or just naming other things that match such a description.

But how do you describe such a sensation to a blind man?

You can say what a thing is, what it does, even how it does it.  I am sorry, but I cannot give you understanding, because you cannot see.   But figuratively, to look at is to focus on, or to concentrate thoughts upon.

Remember, you can’t control what you see. The world is as it is.  But you can control what you look at.

Bad Poetry Night Readings - An Audio Adventure

A Reading of Dust Bunnies by Alexandra Thompson

A Reading of Leftovers by Elena Redd

A Reading of Spider Are Jerks by Dallin Mendenhall

A Reading of Atlas by Eric Behr

A Reading of Bag of Chips - A Sonnet by Jonathan Harline

A Reading of Unmatched Socks by Alex Paxman

A Reading of The Tube by Nicole Williams

Round two

A Reading of An Ode to a Dwarf Star by Alexandra Thompson

A Reading of Answers by Dallin Mendenhall

A Reading of ATM by Alex Paxman

A Reading of Empty Envelopes by Eric Behr

A Reading of Unraveling by Jonathan Harline

A Reading of Red Circle by Nicole Williams

A Reading of Skipping Rope - A Haiku