2004-08-05 - 6:04 p.m.
I keep hearing that smell is the sense most tied to memory. Why it is then, that human speech has few to naught in the way of descriptives for that sense, is beyond me. The centers for smell and memory are supposedly located right next to each other, while the lobe for speech, must apparently be located on the other side of the tracks, in the bad neighborhood of the brain.
Since Iíve gouged my olfactory senses with years of smoking, my sniffer doesnít really bring much to the table these days. However, in the times of yore when it was untainted, it bore the pedigree of my mother, a schnoz that sniffed out cigarette smoke from a hundred yards off. When the anti-smoking laws get stringent enough that lighting up will be punishable by death, I expect to see my mother enlisted to an elite task force dedicated to bringing down the Nit-fittiní menace.
With my genetically enhanced nostrils, I gained the slightly creepy ability to tell when my high school girlfriend was around the corner. These powers are slightly less impressive when you consider she alone amongst my friends wore a perfume called ďOm.Ē (Side Note: ďOmĒ was produced by the GAP, and was purposely named after the most sacred sound in Hinduism and Buddhism. There are reasons why I do not enter that store.) My nose would twitch, and within thirty seconds, she would inevitably appear. I suppose I should have taken it as a sign when my Spidey-Sense went off right before my best friend entered the room. Hind-smell is 20/20.
Itís been years since Iíve gotten that tingle in my sinuses. Blame the smokes, or the destructive effects that Hudson air has on oneís nasal capacities, or the lack of inspiration since my big move, but it hasnít gone off.
Then, sitting in a movie theater, trying to block out the slightly disgusting sound of a large man mashing basketball sized handfuls of popcorn into his mouth, trying to find solace in the twenty minute long commercial fest that now precedes cinema, and attempting to find a spot on the floor that didnít want to form a lasting bond with my shoes, in all this stimuli, something drifted under my nose.
It wasnít mílady of high school. The scents and tenors and feels of her have drifted to story. The sensations replaced by descriptions of them. She eventually took the long walk to the bad neighborhood, and thatís where she lives now, far away from affecting powers of body memory.
This one hadnít taken the walk, as I thought it had, and I turned beat red when it floated by.
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