April 11, 2011

• Common Sense

  

  Sunny Jim's uncle is scheduled for surgery in about a month. It's necessary and it will help him, but they have to go in through his nose. It's very possible that when it's over, it may have altered his sense of smell - if he has one at all. 

  In our collection of senses, sight and sound are the big players. They guide us and keep us safe; without one or the other we have to make drastic changes in the way we live our lives. Indeed, we have to relearn the world completely - and publicly, since there is no way to hide the loss from those who still have these senses intact. But losing your sense of smell is a much more subtle deprivation. You'll still be able to live your life as though nothing has happened. Maybe you'll have to pay more attention to the expiration date on dairy, or be more conscientious about taking out the garbage. It would probably be wise to cook on a lower heat and put on extra deodorant. But you'll still go to work and run your errands and everything will be the same.

  Only flatter.

  Right now I'm sitting in my den. I don't really smell anything - but what if I really didn't?

  There is a cup of coffee in front of me, between my forearms as I type. Making it was, as it always is, an exercise in anticipation: the sharp, dark, rich smell of the grounds and the fragrant steam rising to meet me as I pour the first cup. The carafe always dribbles a little and there is a hiss and the smell of burnt coffee when I put it back on the hotplate. Now the contents of my cup are lukewarm, but even though I can't pick out the smell anymore, I know it's there. 

  The desk I'm working on is a big, hardwood thing. I bought it in my first year of university for $20 and without much thought. It was what I could afford. It has moved with me to two cities and six apartments and it gets compliments from everyone. The outside of it has absorbed the smells of everywhere it's been - incense, pets, spilled wine and food. But when I open the drawers (as I do every morning to get my glasses or a pen) it still smells exactly as it did the day I brought it home - like wood and ink and xerox copies. (Do you remember xerox? God, what a heavenly smell.)

  I am flanked by a giant bookcase and a whack of records; both exude the musty smell of libraries and garage sales - as does the carpet beneath me, which was in Sunny Jim's mother's basement for a few years. The cat, currently draped across the seat of a chair like a discarded sweater, leaves his warm, animal scent all over the house. My cedar chest has the inside of a freshly sharpened pencil and the pile of boots at the door are tangy leather and sweat. The air around me is Morning Me: warm skin, sleep, and yesterday's shampoo as my braids come undone. The air outside is spring rain and thawing ground and though I won't really pay attention until I step outside to meet it, it creeps in around our windows and doors.

  And all of these things just are - until they are not.

  I have started to make a list of things that, if I were in this man's position, I would want to smell :

  top soil
  peaches
  the perfumes my mother wore when I was little (Jovan, 4711)
  Sunny Jim's pillow
  lilies
  cucumber
  a stable
  cumin
  permanent markers
  cut grass
  cooked red cabbage with cloves
  the lake
  my favourite perfume (24 Fauberg)
  a perfume counter in a department store 
  road tar
  pork roast
  the cat
  rosemary
  cigarette smoke
  a Christmas tree
  an old book
  a thunderstorm
  a lumberyard
  garden roses
  my father's shirts
  gasoline
   

  What have I forgotten?
  g.

   

  • 8:10 am
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