Smelly

I can smell it. Smell the surge. Smell the truth of fire, which is charcoal, and smoke. Smell the sanguine layer of grenadine at the bottom of a glass of Pepsi. Smell the anguish in a glass of milk. Smell the raw umber in a painting of coral. Smell the carpet in a cocktail lounge. Smell the slosh of ice in Chicago in March. Smell the language burning in a final exasperated effort at absolution. Smell the crack of dawn in a field of sage. Olfaction is considered to be the oldest sensory system. They remain, nevertheless, the least understood of the sensory modalities. And I can smell it. I can smell the rotten eggs mixed with rubber smells of the laboratory. But why? How? How do smells become memories and memories become songs? Has anyone taken the trouble to dive into the neurology and emerge with a stick of incense and a plausible explanation? The olfactory system is thus unique among the sensory systems in that it does not entail a thalamic relay en route to the primary cortical region that processes the sensory information. I get it directly. Without mediation. This is what immediate means: it’s there. Raw and unprocessed. The smell of onions. The smell of broth. The smell of tea in a yurt, Suutei tsai, or Brick Tea from Georgia. The smell of suntan lotion on a Florida beach. The smell of Florida. Which is a broad variegation of perfumes & foods, of citrus and baby powder in Miami, of sulfur from rotting sargassum seaweed in the Florida keys. New Orleans is the olfactory capitol of the world. Here the air is laden, charged, mingled and hammered with the odor of manure, cigarettes, urine, dead fish, marijuana, vomit, diesel fumes, fried chicken, Confederate jasmine, old wood, coffee, Angel’s Trumpet flowers, mown grass, mossy trees, sweet olive, and life.