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Jan 11, 2021 The raw stuff of life is only changed by the meanings we give it. Memory can be dissolved by scent, but also redeemed. This is Per Fumar, a column by Mishka Hoosen about the olfactory art of perfumery and how it has impacted his life. When my seizures come, it’s almost always a smell that sets them off. The scent of bricks, sometimes, or the scent of menstrual blood. Sometimes all it takes is a single breath, and time collapses in on itself. I’m five years old again, or thirteen the world distorts, color and light shifting and deforming until I don’t know any separation between me and the wall I fall against. The world concentrates into a screaming in my lungs, and my muscles spasm until I feel I’ve been electrocuted. Every twitch sends my nerves screaming, and the world swims until my brain can’t process sight at all.

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