July 23, 2007
The smells of love and happiness
Originally published January 25, 2002
A few weeks ago, I blogged about my son leaving with his bloodless cunt mama after "visitation." I wrote that if I closed my eyes, I could still smell him as if he were here. A few of my friends read that blog and asked me, "what did he do, CRAP ON YOUR CARPET? How does your boy smell, anyway?
My son bears the scent of bubble gum toothpaste and Johnson's Baby Shampoo. He smells of dirt, enjoyed enthusiastically, and sweat completely pure of caffene, nicotine, alcohol and cholesterol. He smells of youth and growth and innocence. To me, he smells like the purest love I've ever known. And I declare to all the doubters: ALL OF THAT STAYS IN HIS ROOM WHEN HE'S GONE! I know because I CAN SMELL IT!
I once read that of the five senses, the olfactories are the ones most closely connected to the memory inputs of the brain. I would never have guessed that myself, because hearing certain music can zap me right back to a time and place in my life where the memories are vivid. But I'm beginning to reconsider this nose thing.
When I go to the bloodless cunt's house to pick up my son, she treats me as if I were a stranger. She is polite, the way she would be to any stranger, but it's as if I never played a part in her life, never shared a bed with her for ten years and never fathered HER son. The dogs, however, go nuts. They see me and come running, then take one sniff around my ass to confirm their suspicions and go into tail wagging, tongue flopping frenzies. I am mobbed. I am licked and nuzzled and expected to pet them all, and I do. THEY never divorced me. SHE DID. They remember me and love me and they know by their noses who I am. They have olfactories plugged directly into their memory banks, and they never forget a person who was good to them. I cannot say the same thing about certain people.
The woman who bought our mini-farm had all four of my goats hauled away last Saturday. Yeah, I was divorced from them, too, and I have no idea what will become of them. The fate of the 28 chickens we owned is a mystery to me, but I wasn't nearly as attached to the chickens as I was to the goats, especially after the chickens stopped laying eggs. I am certain that the bloodless cunt doesn't think about it. But I do. Goats and chickens have a distinctive aroma. I can't say that it was pleasant, but it is firmly lodged in my memory. Once upon a time, it smelled of home.
I have no animals around my house now except me. The woman I occasionally sleep with tells me that I smell good. I'll take her word for it and go straight for her memory banks when I have seduction on my mind. But she's not here now. Neither is my son. But I can smell them both, and the memories are good.
All content © Rob Smith