C. Shelton
The All-Knowing Nose
Oct.5, 2003
My nose has always been the first of my senses to be offended, and the most susceptible to inspire nostalgic reverie. My father claims this olfactory sensitivity is a genetic trait from his side of the family. While I am glad to say that my snoot in no way resembles his ski jump model, I am willing to accept that our noses function in a similar fashion - despite his years of addiction to sinus inhalers that seriously impaired his sniffer.
Lately I have enjoyed a particularly keen awareness of smells. Perhaps the slightly chill autumn evening is the perfect environment for distinguishing scents on the breeze. As I walk, softball-sized pockets of smells hit my face, burst and dissipate. A world of information opens up with each breath. The first wood fire of the season, earthy moldering leaves, bubblegum and clove cigarrettes co-mingling. In, out, in, out, in, out, the story of the neighborhood is told at the tempo of a medium stride.
The smells make me laugh or wrinkle my nose. A waft of an unnamed cologne worn once by a long ago lover sends me back to those ten stolen days in France, cocoa butter lands me straight into sixth grade camp watching the teenage lifeguards flirt with each other, exhaust and burning rubber from a passing car betrays a need for an oil change and possibily a new belt.
Some smells carry farther and there is no visual evidence to back up the information I am receiving. I wonder if it is possible to have hallucinatory smell moments. Someone must be doing laundry somewhere in a basement; hot dryer mixed with damp mold. An attempt at cooking has gone awry; charcoaled toast and rank boiled cabbage float by. The landscapers have been here recently; fresh grass clippings and fumes from the leaf blower still linger.
In established business neighborhoods each doorway has its own identifying dominant odor. I believe it would be possible to walk down Main Street blindfolded and know that I was passing the hemp store with the avalanche of incense pouring out, the salon reeking of perm chemicals and burnt hair, and of course the bakery and coffee joints luring me in with their best of all advertising.
Each breath is a different smell as I move forward at an even pace, chin up to catch each nugget of the story. It occurs to me that I must be missing pockets in the spaces when I exhale. So I breath double time so as not to miss a single opportunity to smell everything. Shaving cream, alcohol sweat, ripe cantalope. The breaths are so quick that there is no time to react to the information with any judgement. I am in the moment.
I find that I can get a stronger sample by opening my mouth and breathing in with my nose and mouth at the same time. Panting, nose lifted to the damp wind, I suddenly know what it is to be a dog. Now I am searching for every scrap of information available in the air. I am ravenous for more. This is my world and each breath tangibly confirms the change and movement and life going on at every step.
Here on the East Coast I will not find the riveting smell of eucalyptus and mustard weed that I remember from growing up in California. It would be a rare summer night here that could cook up that old hot dry wind mixed with a sprinkler-wet asphalt smell. And if I were to return to my childhood haunts, it’s very likely I would not see what I remembered was there. But it is very possible that my nose will recognize the familiar core and tell me I am home.
The All-Knowing Nose
