Flowers, Rot and Other Devotions

I’ve found that certain smells have an uncanny ability to transport me back to moments I thought were long gone. Like the jasmine crowns described here, or the sharp, tangy smell of blue cheese—oddly compelling despite being somewhat repulsive. There’s a strange magnetic pull to those scents that combine sweetness with a hint of decay, which seem to hold layers of memory and emotion simultaneously. In my experience, smells become these strange time machines. One whiff of cheap body spray or the lingering chlorine from a pool can instantly recreate the feeling of teenage summers, awkward friendships, and late nights spent barely understanding myself. This kind of sensory memory feels more embodied and raw than photos or stories ever do—it’s like the scent is stitched into your skin or the fabric of your clothes. The way smells hold onto the presence of people who are no longer around is especially powerful. I once found myself repeatedly smelling a borrowed jumper, caught between comfort and melancholy. It reminded me not just of that person’s physicality but of the whole atmosphere they carried—the safe spaces, the laughter, even the quiet sorrows. Such scents create an intimate archive that doesn’t just recall moments but reawakens feelings that words rarely capture. Moreover, the contrast between 'pleasant' smells like jasmine or vanilla and 'yuck' smells like mouldy books or sweaty skin highlights how memory is not always sweet or neat. There’s beauty in these dissonant fragrances—they tell stories of growth, decay, love, and loss in ways that perfumes alone cannot. Embracing the full spectrum of smells, including those we don’t like, can reveal a richer, more honest narrative of our lives. This small digital zine’s reflections resonate deeply because they merge the personal with the universal. Everyone has experienced the subtle, sometimes strange hold of scent on memory and identity. Sharing these honest, often messy devotions helps us connect—across time, place, and even absence—reminding us that our bodies remember far more than we realize.