Stop and Smell the Patchouli Man
It’s going on two years since I dropped you, my former ally, as easily and automatically as I used to tap your rear to drop the smouldering ash from your lashes. I never thought I’d be capable of ditching someone who had stood by me for more than fifteen years so coldly and unapologetically but, when the time came, there was no question about it. You had to go – that was all there was to it. You had to go to make space for someone new; two new versions of myself, one refined, one unique and as united as she is separate of me. And while I don’t crave your weirdly calming presence between the tip of my middle and index finger, between the tip of my lips, that deep intake of breath and that little extra high, I can’t say that I never look back on all the good times we shared. As poisonous as our relationship may have been, you brought an air of importance to casual situations and conversations, a sense of ritual to every-day tasks and voids.
Gently swiping that soft, perfectly white paper from within its carton booklet – preferably the old school Mascot variety, with its olive green cover and a quote from someone noteworthy spurring on the philosophical thoughts of the day – and holding it between my thumb and index finger, shaping it into a little taco shell, ready to be stuffed and rolled up like its cousin, burrito. There’s a quiet anticipation here, the same you might feel were you going to bite into an actual burrito. Only you’re not anxious for your tongue to be shocked into a sensory overload of flavours. Instead, it will find itself momentarily zapped by the bitter bite of this misunderstood herb, and that zing will quickly travel on up the insides of your cheeks, tickle your teeth and slowly dry out your palette. And then it happens. The finest form of orgasmic masochism.
The throat opens, welcomingly, creating a steady vacuum, a bit like a scene from Gaspar Noe’s Enter the Void – or the entire film on timelapse – slowly sucking in that earthy, ashen concoction and, ironically enough, opening your lungs to this sensation. One that can make your feet feel numb and your brain swim and your heart beat a million miles a minute or none at all. Ultimately, it is nothing more than a (re)creational, full-body sigh in the post-coital twilight and the nocturnal heartbreak, a social lubricant and waving wand of empowerment for anxious nail-biters and café philosophers. A treat. An accessory. The two women discussing The Ageing Paradox on Richard Linklater’s Waking Life didn’t need it to emphasise the intensity of the moment and the matter of hand. But any past or present addict will almost certainly miss the filtered or electronic little helpers wildly gesticulating along with them. Because those are the type of moments that make the ritual all the more celebratory.
Whenever I pass by my wardrobe, I still pick up on your scent lingering on some of the clothes I have not washed since we parted. And I think of you like an ex, a past, toxic relationship the emotional and physical scars of which have marked me for a life time. Moments like these trap me in a spiral of self-disgust, before throwing me into a deep pondering of how easily humans find themselves confronted with an identity crisis inspired by something as trivial as you. Or clothes. Or whatever fucking (un)wellness trend of the day. But as I steadily move towards a second year keeping the turkey good and dead and frozen in my mind’s freezer, it gets easier. As my nasal passage continues to unclog and my tastebuds return to tasting colours, I find myself experiencing the kind of gratefulness I tend to mock behind hashtags.
I could do without the overwhelming barrage of the Isse Miyakis and teen quantities of Axe, but, when an uneventful day comes to a close with a fleeting instant of sensory euphoria swirled into my path by a man freshly bathed in patchouli, I know our parting of ways has been worth it. I much prefer to let his floral attitudes blossom my soul, than to ever invite you back into my life to clog my body and fog my brain. We had good times you and I, there’s no doubt about that. But just as the Patchouli Man said to me the other day, es un bello dìa – a beautiful day to let go.