Crazy Talk

The acrid smell of ammunition propellant wafts through my mind every now and then. Not the memory, but the actual smell. Now, for example, sitting at my desk in a corporate office for no apparent reason, I smell it clearly. Slightly sweet and alarming.
Another smell that sometimes insinuates itself is weathered cotton duck canvas. Also diesel exhaust. And aviation hydraulic fluid. These are some of the more pleasant smells. There are others–burning or decaying things–that don’t bear mentioning.
The better smells that haunt me remind me of early, frigid mornings on rifle ranges, of distant desert afternoons under a blazing Asian sun, parachute drops, and dusty convoys. The smell comes first, then the memories fill in around it.
I can only explain it as synesthesia caused by some nearby stimulus. All I know to do with decades of memories no one around me can possibly understand is to write about them, one sight, one smell at a time, as they occur to me. For a long time, I’ve pushed these things to the back of my mind, thinking it’s not normal to have these memories invade my present, that people will think I’m crazy if I talk about them. The more time that passes, the less I care about that sort of thing.
Is it like that when we die? Do all the sights, sounds, and smells we’ve ever experienced return to us at once? I hope so.
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One comment

  1. “You own everything that happened to you. You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves in your heart–your stories, visions, memories, songs: your truth, your version of things, in your voice. That is really all you have to offer us, and it’s why you were born” – Anne Lamott

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