A.S. Reisfield

Synthetic Lies and Metabolic Truths

Synthetic lies travel around the World in the time that metabolic truths put on their shoes.

“Yes, this evening, ready and waiting, are a wide range of geranium volatile oil expressions for presentation after just a minute’s break,” Saffron announces.

The love affair that has consumed humanity, with abstract symbols and methods and situation-free facts and rational systems and universal laws … benign?—tell that to the hundred thousand residents of August 6, 1945 Hiroshima, who couldn’t find their faces after a B-29 bomber dropped upon them, from the skies, Edward Teller’s proofs and theorems.

Saffron breaks in, “So, goodbye airy fancies in the matter of meaning and purpose, and hello real-World horseflies porcupines sundews mildew borages rodents garbage turpentine columbines and cabbage and rivers raptors redbuds resins and reptiles and blossoms bearing pollen and melons with their seeds yielding weeds and specific breeds of peppers and capers and boundary layers of aromatic vapors.”

Any given number that you designate, say the number eight, is never ever any different from any other number eight. Any given number that you pick, say the number six, is never ever any different from any other number six.

“Fronting this first flushing geranium sample I notice an unusual tweak of a plastic-metallic attribute, can that be right? in the forwardly phenolic sense?—the toned-down citrus tones come on curiously, almost deep-set, not really like top-notes, rather they seem soft-pedaled as if held and settled among deep-going principles of a radiant heart? and shaping that fraction is a commanding traction of rose-shaded floweriness—also something acutely evocative is reflected, lavender lip balm or motel bar soap? Thai soup with lemongrass? violet leaf or linden blossom or sweet alyssum?”

We’re full up to here with philosophers, who are forever frustrated by novel phenomena, reluctant denizens of the mesokosmos (of Ernst Mayr) or middle world (of Richard Dawkins) familiar to our senses, and full up to here with physicists, who say that a flower is virtually all empty space, that the universe is an idea formed of mathematics, and full up to here with mystics, who sit cross-legged to inhabit worlds everywhere and nowhere at once, we’re full up to here with all of them, fixated on places smaller than molecules than electrons than atomic nuclei than quarks and bigger than stellar bodies than quasars than black holes than dark matter than the ultra-galactic and cosmic, who are fascinated by movement slower than geologic formations and faster than the speed of light, and full up to here also with insatiable empresarios who similarly behave as if all materiality is temporary and all consciousness and all that we experience are ultimately streams of numbers.

“The real-live really alive essential oil, not the cynical knockoff, is a medicine-chest imperative for the hemostatic activity of a few drops on a cotton ball wrapped over a bleeding wound for a day, after which you’ll notice good tissue repair.”