Aesthesia. “blue tarnished pewter”: what I told her methylphenidate feels like. She replied: “it comes from…dry, narrow hallways in 1970’s office buildings with grey tweed walls and tinny speakers, or the first gulp of gin on a sad person’s couch with their TV on.”
That doesn’t follow for me. Clashing aesthetics. She’s the second person I’ve met who feels at home speaking this way; the other is my girlfriend. Both synaesthetes. Sure, I’ve met others who understand — a sort of, “yeah, I can hit that” — but only the two synaesthetes really seem to get it.
“blue and tarnished…The feeling is smooth and cold and tastes like mealy rust and glows with some un-nameable eerieness that is best described as blue.”
“Still clashing,” I reply.
I’m not a synaesthete, a mere aesthete; sometimes, there are moments when I really feel like we (me and synaesthete) are communicating something identical. There’s a glow in our eyes, a rush of adrenaline — our brain firings are matching up! But all too often, a misfire. Our worlds seem like they’d line up when viewed from the surface, but when overlayed, the inconsistencies show through the cracks too many and tinfoil smothers the scintillating spectral sunburst — it’s less magical than that (I just like the way that feels). Soft disappointment; a frame wrapped in velvet.
“would you ever expect anyone, regardless of ‘__sthete’ to match? They should be considered miracles to each other.” A perfect reply. Dreamtime.
