Ecstatic Visions

Prologue

Who could say why she chose it? In the final choosing, was it an old impulse, left in her from a long wait for pleasure in a marriage that had neither been forced nor wished, only endured. Or a deep contrarian impulse, hidden since her school days, hardly finding a moment to escape, manifesting only in these characterful or childish moments when, in front of a screen and no-one looking over her shoulder she could express herself in small consumer choices. And did she really know the consequences? There had been advertisement campaigns and awareness raising. But who knows what people really expect. In any case, she willingly took the offer of the Affluent Utilitarians to take xem off her hands, they spoke so sweetly and told her with earnest expressions she had done a good thing.

Xe

Xe was the most hominiform of xer broodset, quite capable of ambulation and manipulation, scoring 70° on the Roth-Wiseman Capability Index, 3-sd outside the genomic-mean of her genetic distribution. Xe was stood stock still, one hand on a tree for stability, huffing the early spring pollens. Xe had been at this for a considerable time, in a quiet corner of the summer atrium, hidden behind a young wisteria. The rhythmic sound of her deep inhalations might have been mistaken for one of the automated misting systems that kept the glass halls humid.

Xe caught a distant smell and felt a memory stir - the almost forgotten sensation of a pleasure that was great, and a pleasure that was not good. Seeds from an Echinopsis pachanoi in the cactus house, where xe did not go anymore. The memory flashed vivid: electric joy that bypassed xer fingertips and struck directly in xer groin when xe touched the sharp, poisonous barbs, and then the pleasure that was not good after, when they found xer there. They had discovered xer squeaking in delirious agony, curled in a corner of the cactus house, one hand raised above xer head hovering over the spines, the other pressed between xer thighs. They took xer roughly by the shoulders, looked xer in the eye and pressed a thumb into xer palm, speaking in hard sounds the way some doctors did, making xer howl. Xe didn’t learn many things quickly, but xe remembered the confusing drama of that divine, unnerving pleasure of great pain, and the displeasure in xer keepers’ voices. Xe forwent the former to avoid the latter. There were pleasures aplenty in the green spaces which were good - bright as sunlight through leaves or soft as xer best-smelling broodsib’s belly. As xe stood xe lingered for a rare moment on the memory of that distant day, feeling phantom needles dance across xer fingertips - then caught a fresh scent. The spring bulbs were breaking ground, rich with soil-smell. Xe must see their green tips; they must only be hours old.

If xe had read Whitman, xe might have recognized xer communion with the soil as “the smoke of my own breath…echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers.” If xe had read Huysmans’ Against Nature, xe might have catalogued the symphony of scents like Des Esseintes with his perfume organ. If xe had encountered Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese,” xe might have understood how xer body “soft animal body…loves what it loves.”

But xe hadn’t read any of them. Xe had read nary a single word as far as the doctors could tell. Books still captivated xer - not for their content but their essence. Xe kept a leather-bound century-old edition of The Origin of Species by xer bedstead, a guilt-gift from a faint-hearted uncle. The complex bouquet of tannins in the leather binding, the musty vanilla-tinged lignin decay of old paper, the ghost-touches of centuries of readers’ fingers leaving their oils - these formed a sensory poem xe could never articulate. When xe ruffled the pages, releasing clouds of volatile organic compounds, xe experienced something perhaps richer than Darwin’s careful prose could convey - the raw chemical signature of evolution itself, preserved in binding glue and paper fiber.

Even without Keats’ “ripeness to the core” or Hopkins’ “sweet like shafts of light,” xe found rapture in pure sensation. What drove xer to the gardens each day was not the promise of poetry or scientific insight, but something more fundamental - the direct experience that language can only gesture toward.

Through the misted afternoon xe caught a new thread - the first blooming jasmine of the season. Xe followed it like a silk ribbon through the air, weaving between the gardenias and passion flowers that tried to distract xer nose with their heavier notes. If xe could have read Proust, xe might have recognized this as xer own madeleine moment, but xer memories surfaced pure and unmarked by language: last summer’s jasmine, the way it peaked just as the evening air cooled, how xe would press xer face into the white stars until xer vision blurred with pleasure.

The scent grew stronger as xe approached the Victorian glasshouse. Through the fogged glass xe could see the vine, combining all delights into one perfect sigh, as Jane Lead might have written, though xe would never know. The jasmine had wound itself through an iron trellis, reaching toward the glass ceiling in pale tendrils. Xe pressed xer palms against the warm panes, huffing deeply, letting the complex bouquet build in xer nose - first the indoles, dark and almost fecal, then the lighter notes rising like sweet shafts of light, until the full symphony of scent filled xer head with something beyond pleasure or pain.

A gardener was pruning inside. Xe watched him cut away dead vines, each snip releasing new waves of green sap-smell into the humid air. He couldn’t know what Hopkins meant by all things counter, original, spare, strange, but xe lived it with every breath, every moment a new discovery in a world where nothing was common and everything sang to xer senses.

As xe ran through the paths following the smell it grew stronger and thicker. Xer head bobbed and weaved around thick trunks of distracting scents that lay across xer path, seeking something fresh - the sharp mineral tang of newly disturbed earth mixed with the first green shoots of narcissi.

Xe slipped between the birch trees, their paper-white bark peeling in translucent sheets. The late afternoon light filtered through the canopy, and xe scanned their trinkets curious¹, nose twitching at each new offering. A fallen nest here, releasing its weave of mud and hair-scents, there a patch of moss soft as Mary’s Dimity². Xe pressed xer face against each trunk in turn, testing their different voices - some telling what I touched³, others silent but for their slow exhalation of sap.

Xe moved through the afternoon gardens in a trance of scent and touch. Under the magnolia xe paused, while overhead the branches toss / Their shadows back and forth⁴, watching the play of light and shade across xer skin. The fallen petals offered themselves up like white velvet coins, each one alive with tiny shivering⁵.

Through the bamboo grove xe wandered, where every stalk was leaning always toward the sound of time⁶. The hollow stems sang their own songs in the wind, and xe pressed xer ear against them, feeling the vibrations travel through xer skull. A patch of wild strawberries caught xer attention, their leaves furred and tender⁷, the tiny fruits releasing bursts of sweetness as xe crushed them between finger and thumb.

In the wet corner by the pond, xe found xer favorite moss patch, green and quiet⁸, where xe could press xer whole body down and feel the ancient softness beneath. Here xe lay for a long while, tasting the wild honey of the grass⁹, until the evening bells began to ring across the garden.

Xe crept through the evening garden, drawn to the night-blooming plants that were just beginning to stir. The moonflowers were unfurling, white as the spaces between stars¹⁰, their perfume mixing with the jasmine until xe felt drunk and drowsy with heavy water¹¹.

In the tropical house, xe found xer favorite orchid, its petals twisted like a dancer’s dress¹². The air was thick enough to swim in here, and xe moved through it slowly, touching each leaf and stem, reading their shapes with fingertips¹³. A vanilla vine climbed the back wall, its pods black as discord in the evening air¹⁴, releasing their complex bouquet that made xe think of the leather-bound books in xer room.

Near the pond, xe discovered a new water lily, its petals folded in upon themselves like secrets¹⁵. Xe lay on xer belly at the water’s edge, breathing in the green smell of algae and mud, letting the dark earth take back what it gave¹⁶.

Xe kept a storied, century-old edition of The Origin of Species on xer bedstead, a gift from a faint-hearted uncle. The leather binding tantalized xer fingertips, and the mixed smell of animal and plant filled xer greedy nostrils when xe ruffled the pages - old flavinoids shed from centuries of hands mixed with binding glue and paper decay. Xe would spend hours with it, tracing the embossed letters, drinking in the complex bouquet of time and knowledge that xe could only experience through touch and scent.

But xe hadn’t read Whitman or Lead, Dickinson or Heuysmanns, XXXX or XXX. Xe had read nary a single word as far as the doctors could tell, books blinded xer (xe loved them nevertheless, their [musk], their [silken pages], xe kept a storied, century-old edition of The Origin of Species on xer beadsted, a gift from a faint-hearted uncle, and the leather [tantalized xer fingertips], and the mixed smell of animal and plant that filled xer greedy nostrils when xe ruffled the pages, old flavinoids shed from fingertips through centuries mixed with [sap and glue] were like nothing xe had ever managed to find elsewhere).

Even so, the sides of xer mouth curled up and some pearly teeth shone through as the experiences rolled over xer sensorium. And everyday xe made xer way to the gardens, despite xer inability. What could drive xer there, since it was not the promise of a published poem or a paper in the Journal of Botany?

After xer day in the botanical gardens, as xe headed home to the dormitory in the cool rafters of the Affluent Utilitarian headquarters, [the sunset] cheered xer cheeks for some final moments on the quiet street. Xe raced the sunset through the floors in the elevator, catching it again and again between the steel, then walked the length of the dormitory boards to start with the last rays on xer back, as xe performed xer evening rites. Xe passed one by one through xer broodsibs, pitter-pattering xer fingertips down their spines, rubbing their flanks, pushing xer slender fingers through their soft har, each as pleased xer and they, huffing their pleasure at xer or pattering their paws in appreciation, before xe curled up in xer cot and [slept the sleep of the body].

Xe made xer way home to the dormitory in the cool rafters of the Affluent Utilitarian headquarters. The last light lay in long orange knives across the lawn¹⁷, and xe raced it through the floors in the elevator, catching glimpses between the steel, chasing each new angle of gold. Xe walked the length of the dormitory boards with the dying rays warm on xer back, performing xer evening rites. One by one xe passed through xer broodsibs, pitter-pattering xer fingertips down their spines, rubbing their flanks, pushing xer slender fingers through their soft hair, each touch as pleasing to xem as to xe. They huffed their pleasure or pattered their paws in appreciation until finally xe curled up in xer cot and slept the dreamless sleep of earth’s most ancient things¹⁸.

Epilogue

My Lord showed me the realms beyond mortal knowing, where pure sensation rides upon waves of light, and where the flesh is translated into perfect understanding without need of earthly speech. For in these highest spheres, all knowledge comes not through the dull glass of reason but through immediate apprehension, as a flower knows the sun, or as water knows its own depth. And I saw beings who had transcended the crude temple of language, who experienced the divine essence directly, tasting of wisdom like honey on the tongue, feeling truth like wind upon the skin. These blessed creatures moved in perfect communion with the eternal, their joy unmarred by the separation that comes with words, their rapture pure as that of angels who have never known the fall into speech.
The Enochian Walks with God, Jane Lead

Quotes

“such fitting, such flowing surge to velocities sustained beyond escape, such thrust and burn and build” ~Forever to a Hudson Bay Blanket, James Tiptree Jr./Alice Sheldon

“small live animals, combining flavour with the frisson of movement” ~Painwise, James Tiptree Jr./Alice Sheldon

“The scent of weeds that his chest crushed raked his throat. Marigolds, he thought. Behind the agony, lost sweetness.” ~Painwise, James Tiptree Jr./Alice Sheldon

(We could also use “I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love” or “The atmosphere is not a perfume… it has no taste of the distillation… it is odorless / It is for my mouth forever… I am in love with it” - Whitman has so many great sensory passages that would work well with xe’s character.)

Footnotes

“I robbed the Woods -”, Poem 41, Emily Dickinson↩︎
“Fern Hill”, Dylan Thomas↩︎
“I would not paint - a picture -”, Poem 505, Emily Dickinson↩︎
“Birches”, Robert Frost↩︎
“Wild Geese”, Mary Oliver↩︎
“Trees”, W.S. Merwin↩︎
“Mushrooms”, Sylvia Plath↩︎
“The Lost Son”, Theodore Roethke↩︎
“The Wild God of the World”, Robinson Jeffers↩︎
The English Patient↩︎
Mrs. Dalloway↩︎
Possession↩︎
The Library of Babel↩︎
The Fountain of Gardens↩︎
Complete Poems↩︎
Wild Geese↩︎
Ariel↩︎
Wild Geese↩︎