Smell The Writing

Cosmetic Addictions, New Breasts - Part 2

I walked over to the empty blue-leather couch. It was positioned like the pharmacy at the back of Walgreens, far away, forcing me to walk through the whole room. Each momento, knick knack, and framed montage sought my attention.

Dr. Marty wheeled his ergonomic chair around to the coffee table.

“How do you like the fancy chair?” I asked.

“I love it,” he said. “As you can imagine, I sit all day long. This chair has really helped me feel more comfortable, without back aches or something that feels like the start of a hemorrhoid.” He started fiddling with the chair nobs.

At least he didn’t have some leather monstrosity: overstuffed lattice work with buttons and funny colors, perched on top of fragile bases anchored by cheap rollers, always at risk of toppling. Left in the sun, exposed to heavy clients, the leather cracks, splits open, and spills polyester fiber into the air.

“Eames also has a lounge chair and ottoman. They’re at home.”

“Eames?” I said. “But that is an Aeron.”

“Yes. The couch is Eames.”

It’s also silly blue. Designers, like writers, cannot control how their work is used. Or read.

“Which Eames?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“Which Eames?”

“Charles Eames? Or his wife Ray?” He knew the ad copy but not the history. Charles Eames was even from St. Louis.

“Ray?”

“It’s a funny name for a woman,” I said.

“I like it.” He would. “It’s tough to get those in blue.”

“Women?”

“Yeah, women,” he said. “No. I have a matched set. The chair’s also blue. I fall asleep in it too often to have it here because as you know, it’s hard to get work done when asleep. You’re a writer, what kind of chair do you have for writing?”

He would probably talk about luggage with the same enthusiasm.

“I have Louis XVI styled antique chairs with a simple medallion back. Chairs are like clothes, I don’t wear extra large shirts when mediums fit. Some chairs are too large.”

“Those are nice chairs?”

Dr. Marty probably judged the qualities of his office furniture by dramatic lines of ad copy.

“Yeah. And a nice desk too.”

“Really? Like mine?” he asked.

I do not like modern desks - too much storage and accommodation for computers, too much structural clutter.

“No. My desk is another antique.”

“You like antiques?”

“Craftsmanship, and detail. My desk has details like fluting and cabling, and flourishes like the rosettes and scrolls.”

“Form and function, right?”

Dr. Marty was probably influenced by vapid lines of copy, too.

“I tried to convince Dee that we should get a Louis XVI canopy bed. She wants to use the money for a car. I also am looking for a server to match my desk.”

“You want your computer to match your antique desk?”

“Server as in furniture, not server as in computer. I write mostly by hand. When I’m ready, I do my editing and proofing on a computer.”

“You write by hand?”

“It’s the only way to write. The feeling of ink on moleskine. That creates the physical sensation of not just writing, but articulating.” I started using my hands. “The smell and sheen of freshly polished wood and treated leather. Those smells. It’s like Pavlov, and instead of salivating, I write…”

“Smelling and then writing. Yes,” said Dr. Marty. “I bang my computer if it’s ready, clacking my keyboard. The sound and rhythm, and I just keep going to keep the tune playing.”

“My desk has polished bronze mounts including four candlesticks. Sometimes, I write in the quiet of the night to only lit candles. The built in clock…”

“Built in clock?”

“The hutch has a built-in, Swiss made antique porcelain clock.”

“Nice.”

“It ticks and tocks. Steady, not like your clanking.”

“Cool.”

Unlike when Dee says “cool,” Dr. Marty’s use of the word sounded contrived. I didn’t want him to say my approach to writing was “cool” any more than I wanted Buddy to call me “Dude.”

“Using a pen and paper is that important?”

“As a kid, you know, I used to take a single candle into the mirrored bathroom. I’d stare at myself for a long time. Sometimes I’d just close my eyes. I write the same way.”

… continued

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Cosmetic Addictions, New Breasts

Part 2: Smell The Writing
Part 1: Detail, Time Square