I'll sniff you out, if my nose will have anything to do with me.

My brain's just not been into this lately. Maybe something to do with not having enough sleep lately. Maybe having to do with the fact that I started writing something else down on Friday that hasn't run its course yet. Perhaps something will come of it. Probably not. I have a habit of eating my projects alive, losing interest and leaving them to die of neglect. When I was five years old, someone gave me a ball of yarn and for the next five years that same ball occupied me, as I knit and tore it apart who knows how many times.

I've been reading All That is Solid Melts Into Air by Marshall Berman on the train in the morning. It discusses the works of several modernist thinkers, along with the art and culture of the time. Goethe, Marx, Baudelaire - these I get. But then he moved into a body of Russian thought that hits me and bounces off. I feel dense.

Still, the thought that one could meet his nose out on the street is kind of amusing, especially if one's nose outranks him and will now have nothing to do with him.

I guess I could have been a nose, except that I like spicy food and I'm kind of allergic to some perfumes. But there was this one time when my rowing team was at a regatta where we all slept on the floor of a room and inevitably everyone's uniforms got tossed about. I took it upon myself and my trusty sharpie to write peoples names inside them. But first I had to figure out who each belonged to, and how do you tell otherwise identical garments apart? Smell.

Each had their own blend of deodorant, shampoo, lotion, aftershave, fragrances and body odour that made my uniform labeling remarkably accurate. Which I suppose was good, since I was writing on peoples' things with permanent markers.

Not that I try really hard to sniff after people or anything. I just notice that sort of thing, and I tend not to forget.