The battle between my brain and me

I like to spray on a bit of cologne in the mornings, not so much to please others but because the smell of wood sage and sea salt is a pleasurable companion during the day. On other days, when I need to make public appearances, the scent of oud and bergamot wraps me in a protective veil, not unlike the favorite jacket I like to wear on those occasions. In fact, I even wear that scent during important Zoom meetings.

 

But after a couple of minutes the smell evaporates, and with it goes the enjoyment or the defensive power it carried.

 

The other day, on the website of a niche parfumier I read an explanation: When the brain recognizes a scent as not dangerous it no longer spends any more attention on it.

 

I wondered what other experiences I miss out on because my brain has decided it's not worth paying attention to. Are there pleasant smells other than my colognes that I do not perceive, strange and wonderful colors I do not see, subtle signals given out by people I do not detect? What particularly disconcerts me is that my brain takes these decisions without consulting me.

 

Then again, who is the I that wants to have a say? Doesn’t the sense of self stem from the brain? But it feels as if there are two of us: the me who tries in vain to convince my brain to allow me to smell the wood sage and sea salt and the brain who completely ignores those pleas.

I tried to trick my brain by wearing different colognes intermittently, hoping that it would be put off guard by the sheer variety. One day I would spray on an orange and sandalwood scent, the next day fig infusion, then intense vetiver followed by lime basil and mandarin. But after I’d worn each of these scents a couple of times, their smells vanished into this big and alluring venue that my brain, like an invisible bouncer, denies me access to. 

 

So just as when I was a young boy cloistered in my room there’s only one thing left for me to do: use my imagination. Qualia like smell and taste cannot be fully imagined, they can only be experienced. But I can think of a Provencal field with sunflowers when I walk our dog Lucy through the streets of Barcelona, or I can see the glittering blue expanse of the Mediterranean when I stand in front of an audience. I can build an experience in my mind—and choose to pay attention to that.

 

No one can take my fantasies away from me, not even my own brain.  

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Han Nefkens will take a break in August