Smells and Bells

      School's Out.    It's been four months since my first blog post on the senses, and I still sit in the same "sea of smells" as before, although perhaps it’s a bit mustier. But, if I've learned anything, it's to appreciate the less pleasant sensations. A monolithic sensory palette is no palette at all, and as such, I wish to spend my last blog post meditating on a new sense, one with much more potential for linguistic expression: hearing.    Around me, dozens of sounds swirl around my head. Heavy feet stomp from above, creaking the hundred-year-old wood. A door slams, followed by sharp, clear laughter reminiscent of wind chimes. Cars rumble alongside the buzz of crickets and thick summer heat. And in the distance, I hear the faint mumblings of Kendrick Lamar's new album. With sound, the unseen world becomes realized, and I find myself able to connect with it beyond my physical limitations. In this sense, I ground myself into a universal narrat...

       After having read both of Ariel Glucklich’s Sacred Pains, I think the most shocking thing I learned — after the incredibly detailed explanation of torture methods used during the Spanish Inquisition and the notion that communicating pain creates similar behavior to that of the Marquis de Sade — was that while touch can inflict pain, lack of touch can too. It seems paradoxical at first, but upon further thought, I realized how powerful, prolonged touch deprivation could be.       To preface, I’ve never been an exceptionally touchy person. My family is Catholic, so any physical sentimentality we have for each other remains locked away until a death-bed confessional. Occasionally, we hug as hello or goodbye, but for the most part, we keep our hands to ourselves.       This is not to say I was deprived of physical touch as a child. If I asked for a hug or kiss, I quickly received one, but very rarely did I have that impulse....

  I read Yann Martel’s novel, Life of Pi, almost a year before its film adaptation was released — and I remember really liking it, despite only understanding some of its key themes. At 11, any notion of spirituality or metaphysics flew over my head, but I recognized the weight of these discussions when they appeared within the book. It meant something when Pi converted to Christianity and Islam while still practicing as a Hindu. It meant something when Richard Parker, Pi’s Bengal tiger companion, did not say goodbye after they survived 227 days at sea together. And it meant something when Pi told two (very different) versions of his story to the Japanese transport officials and allowed them to choose which one they wrote in their report. But I couldn’t understand what.  The story compelled me in a way few books previously had. It itched in the back of my mind and made me feel like I had stones in my heart. My hands shook with nervous energy every time I turned a page. For a ye...

     My uncles like to say that to be a Chaffiotte means that cooking is in the blood. They trace it back to our ancestor Antoine who, in 1911, immigrated from France to work as a butcher in New York City. He spent the first few years alone in this new country, working in hotels and butcher shops to save up so his wife, Elise, and young sons could cross over and join him. In his diary, he wrote that the time apart was an impossibly lonely experience, made only worse by the vast differences in language and culture.      Food meant something very different in the United States than it did back home in Autun. Americans valued quantity over quality. Comfort over the joy of experimentation. Recipes were strictly followed to avoid the risk of not presenting the promised experience. It seemed that only the bourgeois class could enjoy “fine dining” and have the opportunity to savor the true value of a meal.            So, like a...

  Deborah Greene begins the sixth chapter of her novel, Aroma of Righteousness, by writing that fragrance, like death, is fleeting (197). Immaterial. Ultimately and unavoidably ephemeral. And I agree with this, to a point. The sensation of scent tends to only permeate for a few moments, and while its memory may linger for years to come, smell remains trapped in a muted paradox, inaccessible and unspeakable until the physical source returns. However, I believe that in cases of great emotion — like the examples of martyrdom Greene presents — smell can transcend its liminality.  I’ve heard documentarians describe places of great human tragedy as retaining a smell decades after the actual event. Almost as if the locations are haunted not just by memory of suffering but the sensations of it as well. For Auschwitz, it’s the “smell of death,” for the Cambodian killing fields, it’s “the smell of rot,” and for me, it’s the smell of formaldehyde. Allow me to explain.  When I was...

       Just as Diane Ackerman writes, surrounded by perfume samples and flowers, I too sit and respond amongst a sea of smells. To my left is my bright yellow coffee cup filled with Cafe Bustelo’s café con leche — of the K-Cup variety. In front of me, rose incense filtering up to the ceiling. And to my right, a package of seaweed chips and an “essential day moisturizer” proclaiming to be made of the finest silt from the Dead Sea (whether or not this is true is irrelevant, as I, personally, cannot verify the smell of the Dead Sea or its precious mud). Yet, each unique scent blends to create a patchwork of stories, memories, and perhaps, most importantly, myself. I am swathed in a perfume of my own creation. Not, obviously, to the level of quality or precision used by a master perfumer, but each item is selected with intention. Pieces of myself, gifts from loved ones, memories of travel surround me, and I remember everything.           It ...