What I'm "Reading"

I open Precipitations: Contemporary American Poetry as Occult Practice and my nose is hit by the scent of laundry. I read "Our sense of the situation we are in determines how we interpret things" and the rising smell of dryer sheets invades and permeates my thinking. I only read this book when J.D. and I do laundry--and now-- it has soaked in the smell of detergent, bleach, warm cotton socks spinning in dryers. Now I can read "intelligence requires a Heideggerian 'being in the world,'" but all I think about is 7 loads of clothes: darks, lights, delicates, reds. It's the smell of midnight and "20 minutes to go." The pages have been assaulted by those dryer sheet molecules--sinking into the fabric of the text with ink and paper. Downy "water lily and jasmine" or is it "vanilla and lavender" -- it doesn't matter, they smell the same -- merges with the smell of words: positions, capability, doubt, and composition.

Does one word smell more than another? I press my face into my book. Yes. "Descartes" on page 16 smells less than "world" on page 17. "Learning" smells pungent. "Uncertainties" is close enough to the binding so it still smells mostly vague, like paper. "School" in the top right corner smells like my fingers holding the book-- sliced cheese -- lunch. I put my whole face into the book-- pushing my cheeks up against "ecology" and "influenced" on both sides and smell-- nothing, just air, just the binding, maybe glue. I like that smell best.

Now I reflect that smelling my book instead of reading it, here in my office, must seem a little strange. My office mates are politely trying to ignore me. Maybe they're afraid next time I'll try drinking a book or chewing the book -- to test if "famous" tastes more salty than "Robert Duncan"-- probably not. Maybe "anthology" is sweet -- maybe "commitment" bitter? The truth is that I like inhaling words, tasting them too. Although, next time I'll find a book that hasn't soaked in the Delmar Laundromat.