Precise and powerful as a Bengal tiger's teeth, a winter chill has clamped down on the Northeast here in the U.S. As I understand it, man-eating tigers attack from the rear of their prey and the cold has some of that surprise within it -- unexpected and lethal and inescapable, though of course such adjectives have nothing to do with nature and everything to do with the men and women who make up adjectives.
I wonder why dangers that approach from the rear are somehow more compelling than those that come head-on. Either way, the danger is the same, but coming from the rear seems to heighten the horror and helplessness. What improvement do I expect by facing a hungry or cranky Bengal tiger?
The cold means that the house is buttoned up tighter than a destroyer on high seas. Windows and doors and nooks and crannies are battened down against the onslaught. The furnace and wood stove, bless their hearts, are working well: No tigers need apply.
But was there ever a blessing that did not enrich some curse?
The reinforced defenses that keep the chilly tiger out also underscore the situation within ... in this case the smells of a household awash in people who use cologne and perfume and powerful deoderants. I feel as if I were living in a yuppie whore house. My daughter, her husband and my son all seem to possess bottles and tubes and aerosols -- all with upscale labels and intended to make these people seem better than what they already are. Besides leaving me literally gasping for fresh air, these olfactory applications offend some sense of dignity and delight: It may be au courant, but these upscale smell-goods have all the subtlety of a five-dollar hooker. Ralph Lauren, Yves St. Laurent, Chanel, and scented candles purchased by way of making a wider statement ... oh God! my kingdom for an honest arm pit or unwashed athletic sock!
Nor am I off the olfactory hook: Each morning I light two pieces of quite good incense and place one in the kitchen and one in the living room. They burn for perhaps 30 minutes and play some role in reminding and nudging me. And yes, I like their smell. But when they are done, nothing lingers, nothing cloys, nothing asks for more and more and more of whatever it is that is "better" in life. Gone is gone ... whereas the imperatives of Ralph Lauren, Yves St. Laurent and Chanel seem to be for-fucking-ever!
Oh well, I am reliably informed on the TV and elsewhere -- informed by the mediocre-let's-compromise world -- that there is a product called Fabreeze, an aerosol air freshener that comes in many scents ... one of which is no scent at all. So perhaps I will buy this scent that eradicates scents and bend a knee to a pay-for-it scented world.
It does make me wonder what was so god-awful about arm pits and athletic socks in the first place: Showers and washing machines are pretty good tools.
Alternatively, I guess I will wait for spring and the blessing of an open window.
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