handling industrially

The sign on the white work van in the parking lot said "Industrial Handling" in black letters. Duly noted. I entered the Shopping Temple (i.e., mall) at the Lord & Taylor entrance and strolled through the aisles, passing through invisible clouds of fragrances pour homme, pour femme, pour vous, pour moi, pour anyone. Without being asked for a passport or visa, I passed from the spice-, herb-, mineral-, and floral-infused fragrance domains into a new country, The Land of Emollients. Behold a liquid arsenal of softening secrete agents; salves, balms, potions, lotions, creams. A festival of mollificaring, appeasing, pacifying, soothing. Just the word, emollient, softening its surrounding syllables. A haven of healing for those of us marred by Industrial Handling. Those of us man[gender-neutral]handled, scarred, scratched, or atrophied into scaly, itchy Walking Wounded. We the thick-skinned survivors of industrial-scale emotional, perhaps even physical, handling, more accurately, mishandling. We the escapees out from under the thumb of verbal racks and industrial-strength conveyors of caustic charm. And who among us has not qualified at one time or another as a candidate for  the Legion de Malhonneur? Sure, maybe we naively or hopefully enlisted for our manufactured misery. Some of us stumbled into the 55-gallon drum of acidic animosity or arid indifference, slowly leaking. So be it. We paid the cost of Industrial Handling, didn't we? A cost too dear. But for now we welcome with open arms (and hands, legs, faces, necks, you-name-it) every variety, brand, and concoction of moisturizing healing; every texture, thickness, consistency, and volume of unguent; all and every extreme unction, to anoint our sickness. And theirs, too; the Industrial Handlers. I stopped. I asked two ladies in waiting at the counter in The Land of Emollients for a sample. Your most excellent and edifying elixir, please. They knew right away. No hesitation or forethought. This is it. The taller of the two Emollient Ambassadors (she with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes) placed a small tube, 0.5 oz. / 15 g, in my left hand. I curled my fingers around the tube, made a slight bow, and turned around. I exited the store. The white work van was gone. Frisson accomplished. 

the human brand

What are you wearing

It's waterproof, windproof, too

No, what are you wearing

Yeah, no, the jacket, my gloves, the scarf

No, really, tell me

Do you like it

Yes, sort of, yes

Ombre Spicebox Rouge Rogue

Really

Really

Is it showing

What do mean

Can you tell

I can tell

Can I try it

Sure, did you shower

Your deodorant

HideNSeek

Makes scents to me

What about body odor

Mine

What about it

Yours, your body double

My doubled body

Yes, that

Dusk grapefruit coffee ginger seasalt lemon rose vanilla smoke maple clementine

No, not quite

Oak bergamot verbena tobacco dawn nutmeg black pepper sandalwood cardamom ocean

Hardly

Rosewood agarwood orange blossom sage pimento musk orris cacao mancera twilight almond

Not at all

Pekoe cactus pine sugar fern noon mint fog anise river pistachio gardenia cherry

More like it

Maybe

Top notes

Subtle

Yet bold

A statement

More like a hymn

Pour homme

Or femme

Finis

Fine

the notable sauvage

Does etymology determine destiny? 

I have taken a liking to the new fragrance Sauvage by Dior. I sampled it at Lord & Taylor, where I've gotten friendly with Gaylord, at the men's fragrance counter. After wearing (does one truly "wear" a fragrance? Or does it wear you? Isn't more like you unwear it, one molecule at a time?) sample spritzes, I received favorable responses from strangers and familiars alike, as in: "Oh. What is that you're wearing?" Or, "You smell nice." Or, "I like it. It's you." Admittedly, my coltish impatience sometimes takes the impolitic form of forwardly inquiring, "How do you like the way I smell?" which defeats the whole notion of pheromone subtlety or sophistication. Oh well. So be it. C'est moi. Noblesse oblige.  

Sauvage is described by its makers as "[a]t once refined yet untamed," along with a lush landscape of other-wordly flowers and forests and fauna (such as wolves in the night). As with wines or coffees or teas, fragrances embrace arcane and evocative vernaculars. As a copywriter, I would love the daunting challenge of bringing a fragrance to life by a marriage of word and image. Anyway, it's too late for that. The folks at Dior have already delivered a scintillating bouquet of sensual syllables and smoldering images.

Before I go any further, allow me this disclaimer: Dior didn't put me up to this. I'm not in the habit of crafting product endorsements. Dior isn't paying me. They've never heard of me. But it's my story. I needed and wanted something to write about, and this is what popped into my head via my personal olfactory highway.

Wearing the fragrance prompted me to look up the French word "sauvage" and to meander etymologically, which I like to do, as you know, if you've ever read anything at all here.

I discovered "sauvage" is employed in the wine business. But that's not what drew me to it. I further learned that adjectives such as wild, untamed, natural, earthy, unspoiled, fierce, ferocious, indomitable, valiant, sylvan, primitive, unauthorized, and savage emanate from this word's web of wonder and enchantment. You can imagine why the copywriters and perfume artisans might applaud the allure of these words as they adhere to and then float off of the printed page or webpage -- most importantly, if these words, and unnameable others, transmit pulsing hums of desire to anyone under their invisible halo.

Would knowing the etymology of sauvage all by itself lead me to it, even absent its aromas?

I don't know. I'm not out of the woods yet on that one.