When LSD Made a Better Architect
To design for those with altered perception, Kyoshi Izumi first had to have his perception altered
This essay contains historically accurate words and phrases that may be considered insensitive or offensive today.
Like a swift descent into cold water, Kyoshi Izumi’s first sensation was that of muscle tightness. Despite an acute astigmatism, titles of books 15 feet away were legible without glasses. A partial deafness in his left ear, a closed door, and a distance of 30 feet did nothing to diminish the sound of his Chihuahuas’ toenails clicking against the floor.
Izumi heard and smelled colors; he saw sound. When he walked forward, time moved forward; when he stopped, time stopped; when he walked backward, time receded, but all of this happened while he was aware of the actual passage of time.
He was the Offenbach selection to which he was listening: “I was one note and all the notes, floating in a sea of sound.”
A friend appeared to eat a piece of chicken instantly yet endlessly. A stranger walking toward him on the sidewalk seemed to take forever to pass, his footsteps like a broken record. Contemplating the moonless prairie sky full of stars, Izumi felt that he was inside Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night.
