2800

Always, the numbers. Somehow, mysterious numbers trigger thoughts as much as scents or symbols. When I see '60', it is as pungent to my mind as the scent of ammonia or the sight of a red circle.

Today, it is 2800.

Senses as a Way of Knowing

Throughout the scaffolding and steel of our bodies runs the silver line of nerve and axon, of filament and spark. The largest mass of this hides in the storehouse, the granary of our heads; but the mass outside is greater than the complex clump within.

The senses are not the ineffable chemical ocean of our emotional selves, but they are the main source of input, the neural net that shifts like a littoral at the periphery, sending messages up the shingle and through the tiny grains along the beach. The senses are directed messengers, sensitive each one of them to specific things that turn them on or off, or more on or less on, moron or lesson.

We have many senses: sight and sound, smell and taste and touch — these five kings claimed the kingdom centuries ago. But they are not infallible, and they are not alone. We have balance and temperature, location and motion, hunger and pain, and a host of other minor players which occasionally may take the stage and steal a scene.

The senses give us data, one datum at a time or many; data by themselves do not constitute information unless a context is woven to give them meaning. And when that meaning is verified, when definition and validity, generalisability and reliability, utility and transferability are all satisfied, the meaning becomes knowledge.

Sensory perception on its own is not knowledge, but it is a way to knowledge. It provides ceaseless, ever self-censored increments of material. From the many strands of sense, each of us builds a structure, weaves a tapestry, crafts a framework. It is the way we know what seems to be, the material underpinning of reality.

Foodism

In my father's mouth are many receptors. As he has aged, many of them have closed down and no longer receive guests. Food has to have a stronger flavour to appeal to him. Some basic taste sensations are magnified, their impact carried by simpler substances — salt, sweet. The complex aromas of his earlier years have diminished, undone by time.

It will no doubt be the same for me, as it has been for generation after generation of those under the sun. And I suspect this is why we are often so much less discerning of food when we are young than when we are older.

It's not that the young are less picky, but that their pickiness towards food is in terms of simpler things — texture, colour. When very young, bitterness is poorly tolerated, but sourness is fine. As the palate matures, all kinds of odd flavour sources have to be savoured and analysed — umame, menthol, tannins, vanilla, pink peppercorns, sea salt... — and the tongue is able to feel the difference as it acts as the platform that eventually brings in the powers of the nose.

One day, this is gone, as the palate ages to simplicity. But the memory of taste makes us search for what has been lost, and we have often gained the spending power to go looking for it. Sadly, it is gone forever.

If food is the music of love, then love too may go this way. We play games when younger, like strong sensations when very young, and aim for complex blends when we think we have matured. But at the end, all we need is the simple, direct stuff and the wisdom to appreciate it for what it is. Sometimes, old love is strong but consists of a limited palette: plain affection, basic respect, a sense of humour that will overcome daily difficulties.

Getting old, one should divest; one should become simpler, more appreciative of things. Food is food; love is love; music is music. The last of life is the best of life, because it all heads towards one point, that which keeps us all human and the same — the boundary between sensation and the lack thereof. There is no food beyond that line.

Olfactory Confusion

I bought some store-branded liquid hand-soap a short while back. On the label, it said 'Chamomile'. I washed my hands with it. I thought to myself, Passionfruit.

I had the sudden urge to run outside and sniff everything in my garden. Fortunately, I suppressed that urge, or my nose would probably be twice the (admittedly large) size it already is.

Common Scents

It's rained again this morning, and the air is redolent with the somewhat annoying scent of wet dog. The wet-dog smell is one of the three or four primary odours which raises my hackles. The sense of smell is like that; associations bond intimately from smell to brain to memory, and you recall much more than you would through text or cerebration alone.

I remember people by scent sometimes. To this day, specific perfumes or fragrances will trigger a cascade of images about a particular person and what that person meant (or means) to me. It happens without warning, much of the time. The fragrance need not be particularly rare; all it has to do is be there.

Extrasensitive

My senses are insufficient. I don't know the people I work with anywhere as well as I knew the previous lot. And that leads to me being less sensitive than I ought to be. It's hard. From people you've worked with 2, 4, 6 years continuously – to people you've seen for a bit and worked with hardly at all. I feel blind, deaf, dumb.