The amount of time I waste finding and consuming alternative-medicine supplements for “brain function” has made me at least 10 percent dumber, and that paradox is not lost on me. It was this impulse that made me pause last year at a fancy store in Brooklyn when I spotted a glass jar labeled “Brain Dust.” It had the kind of packaging that signals discreet luxury: minimalist matte label, custom type, the word “organic.” A 2.2-ounce jar cost $55. “This adaptogenic potion lights up your brain and increases mental flow,” the label said. “Neuron velocity and vision are fine tuned by toning the brain waves, in particular the alpha waves that connect to creativity.” It seemed like the kind of item that might be a prop in a comedy sketch about millennial idiots, or something a person would be duped into buying on a hidden-camera prank show.

I did not buy the Brain Dust, but I looked it up online, because I will pursue anything that claims to make me smarter. The product’s ingredients were mysterious: lion’s mane, shilajit, astragalus, rhodiola, stevia, maca. It was sold by a company named Moon Juice, which called itself “a healing force, an etheric potion, a cosmic beacon for those seeking out beauty, wellness and longevity.” In other words, a chain of juice stores in Los Angeles. I thought about Brain Dust for weeks.

The name alone seemed precision-calibrated to reel me in. It wasn’t “Brain Powder,” which sounds unappealingly man-made — protein powder, baby powder, foot powder — but “Dust,” which suggests that the ingredients assembled themselves with the spontaneity of snowflakes on a twig. Then there was the label, with its “alpha waves” and “adaptogenic potion” and “neuron velocity.” This was language as Impressionist paint daub; not a signifier of meaning but a blurry, mood-inducing gesture. Questions lingered. Can brain waves be toned? Who is the Brain Dust customer? Does she have no grasp on reality, or does she simply aspire to have no grasp on reality? Why do I assume it’s a woman?

A short time later, a news release touting a Moon Juice cookbook appeared in my inbox. It described the book’s author and Moon Juice’s founder, Amanda Chantal Bacon, as “a powerful influencer in the wellness space,” which struck me as the most penetratingly of-the-moment group of words I’d ever read. The release noted that Moon Juice had been featured on Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle platform, Goop, and was beloved by celebrities like Shailene Woodley, who is herself known for dispensing peculiar wellness advice (like eating clay and sunbathing the vagina). The words “Eastern healing,” “glowing skin,” “nationwide following” and “social media” made their way onto the page. In the space of roughly 500 words, someone — a junior book publicist, probably — had managed to concentrate the zeitgeist of contemporary female celebrity into its purest form. Amanda Chantal Bacon, whoever she was, was like a superextract distilled from a combination of Paltrow, Jessica Alba, Miranda Kerr, Ayesha Curry and every other contemporary lifestyle guru. Unlike the others, she didn’t have an acting or a modeling career (or a famous husband) to vault her into the public sphere. But she had all the right nouns and adjectives: a robust Instagram following, a line of signature products, an aspirational and photogenic home and enough branding talent to ensnare my gaze and capture my imagination, even if I was ashamed of its capture.