Perfume

It has been a fortnight clogged with work, deadlines, networking and so much more: but a very fragrant fortnight nonetheless. When I think back to all that has chanc'd this fortnight, no concrete images come to mind, but my olfactory receptors are overwhelmed: yes, it has been a rather fragrant fortnight...

Coffee.

That slightly charred, wholly comforting aroma that attacks my nostrils each morning, as a machine decrees that I simply must have a cuppa before I start the day...and I listen, because I am a good student, and a reasonable man who knows a salubrious habit when he sees one. Know that the scent of coffee in the air does not only signal my physically getting out of bed, but it almost always signals an awakening. I remember how with Charles Ryder, that familiar scent would have a hint of a dark chocolate to it: much like the dark places our conversations would sometimes take us, or how with Verlaine the scent would take on the nuances of dark red cherries softly crushed to let the juice run, and add a pungent sweetness to the whole affair, and I always enjoy it when the coffee soused air is charged with cinnamon whenever Punjaban, Masakalli and I get together and trash someone away to Kingdom Come! But I was a fool to think that I know the entire repetoire of my favourite beverage, for I met quite a few new flavours this fortnight: there were fumes of black cardamom in the air as I sang of betrayal: first of Hamlet's and then mine, the pinching awareness that only ginger can bring as Mary Wollstonecraft and I faced off each other in an elaborate comedy of manners, and finally the chicory that subtly infused itself around the battlefield in an attempt to vie against the toxicity of the days past. Thusly, here we are: clutching a fragile peace, as if it were the only thing that mattered.

Violet Leaf.

Last week, as I was rearranging a section of my wardrobe, I found a tiny bottle of Burberry Touch, and it was like being revisited by an old lover and, once I wore it on my skin, I realised that the spark was still there! The summery, slightly floral, but mostly spicy aroma of Burberry Touch, mingled with whatever it is that my skin offers it, makes the perfume even more intoxicating to me, mainly because it owns me so completely. That day, as I set out to do battle with the hours again, I wore my old favourite and it took me back to my days as a teenager in the Eternal City: it took me back to the drama, the fights, the quick, furtive crushes, the mini freak-outs, major episodes and a rollicking uncertainty of what the next day might bring. That night, I dreamt in art deco: it was black-and-white, with imposing, voluptuous structures and imposing, voluptuous women who cried black, tarry fury, and all of it bore the unmistakable signature of violet leaf, white pepper, and vetiver: the ingredients that make up the heady brew that still stubbornly clung to my skin even on the next day. The scent amalgamated itself into the maelstrom of memories that that gorgeous fever dream had stirred up, and out came a pantoum:

"As I begin to etch this quatrain,
I hum the oldest song of all,
A pretty young thing and her dashing swain,
Oh the drunken heroics of it all.

I hum the oldest song of all,
The garish dolor, infinitesimal pain,
Oh the drunken heroics of it all,
Of all that mattered, for life was plain.

The garish dolor, infinitesimal pain,
You who loved like an eternal fall
of all that mattered, for life was plain,
Such a cauchemar! But our own to call.

You who loved like an eternal fall,
Your eyes claret, your smirk vain,
Such a cauchemar! But our own to call.
I can think of things we can all feign.

Your eyes claret, your smirk vain,
A pretty young thing and her dashing swain,
I can think of things we can all feign,
As I begin to etch this quatrain."

Sodium Hypochlorite.

The antiseptic miasma of Sodium Hypochlorite is what haunted R.A. duty over the weekend. The very same Sodium Hypochlorite that is called out of bodily fluid clean-up kits when the need arises. You see where I am going with this? My co-RA Lawrence Selden and I slapped on pairs of latex gloves played at Forensics Lab when we found, well, puke smeared pillow and T-shirt unceremoniously dumped in a sink. They waited with a kind of expectancy that comes when has been filthy or odourous far too long, and knows that release is on its way. As the clear, clear streams of Sodium Hypochlorite made their way through the crusty crevices of decay, the soiled accoutrements knew that they were rescued. Carefully, I gathered up the nastiness and delicately placed it in an angrily diffident biohazard bag.

The antisepsis of Sodium Hypochlorite bears a harsh smell, but it is a smell of clean slates, a smell that tells you that it had to struggle to make its presence felt, that it had to get rid of all the others so as to make room for itself. I can only wish I had something like that when I lost it in immunology lab last week: when my house of cards came tumbling down and, crouched in a cubicle in a gent's bathroom, I choked back sobs and placated my brain as it yelled, "What the fuck am I doing here? I am not a scientist! I am an amateur! And I hate this pretentious accent!"
Oh if only hypochlorite happiness could seep in and make everything okay, if only just for a while.

Ash.

The acrid odour of a burning carcass viciously attacked my nose when I heard the following,
"Hey look guys! It's a fag fest!"

One of the R.A.'s in the hall has decided upon setting up a programme for the GLBTQIA community in the hall, and the response has been violent, to say the least. I get that these gentlemen are yet green, and have much of the world to see, but how can they, in their naivete, be so vicious? I am a straight ally, I have seen the struggle first hand, and I will always regret playing Edith Wharton when I knew exactly what was going on. Seeing this side of things, the side that does not entail inter-corridor high-fives and laughter, but the side that collectively forms the satanic hand that reached forth and blazed away good intentions, leaving only black smoke in its wake, was a disturbing,debilitating experience. My sensibilities are still careening in disbelief, trying so hard to shake out that smell of smoke from the curtains.




Oh constant reader, forgive me for how vague this post is! True to form, I am smiling with the knowledge of things that only I can know. And as much as I'd like to, I can't give you the details! The details would be damaging to all involved...

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.