Sensorium: My Bag of Sensory Stimuli

I'm like Mary Poppins or Hermione Granger, only blonder and wearing a groovy jumpsuit.

I have an L.L. Bean tote bag. It’s cute. There are two short straps that sit snug around my shoulder, pressing up against my body as I walk. Two navy blue stripes track down the side, stopping for a breath at the wide fold-out foundation, then continue onto the other side. On one side of this bag, I have pierced an enamel pin of the goose from Untitled Goose Game through the canvas. Directly below this goose (who, I might add, is wielding a sharp kitchen knife within its beak), is the word Sensorium, embroidered with a deep, eggplant thread. My favorite writing friend gifted it to me.

This is my bag of Sensorium. My bag of sensory stimuli.

sen·​so·​ri·​um sen-ˈsōr-ē-əm, -ˈsȯr- plural sensoriums or sensoria -ē-ə 1. : the parts of the brain or the mind concerned with the reception and interpretation of sensory stimuli. broadly : the entire sensory apparatus.

My intention is to keep journals in this bag. To store the words I use to evoke sensory response. When I travel, this bag is for my laptop, my portable keyboard, my pens and pencils, my erasers and red ball points. This bag embodies the tools I use to convey emotion through touch, taste, sight, and sound. When you open this canvas tote, you can hear the roar of the ocean, crashing into each grain of sand. Your fingers brush up against the bumpy surfaces of ribbed sea shells, the slimy underbellies of sea slugs, the prickly backs of sea stars. The salty ocean air tickles the hairs in your nostrils, your mouth waters, the back of your throat expands.

I recently started a chapter in my book where the protagonist is making coffee for herself and her new neighbor. This is how it goes:

My nose was dry the next morning, coated in a dark, crusted blood. It was likely from the fan I left on all night, blowing cool air into my face, accompanied by the tiny space heater I placed next to my bed to level out the temperature of the room. It was a habit that I desperately needed to break. Or at least throw a humidifier into the mix and call it a day.

I swung my legs out, pressed my toes into the hardwood floor, and flexed my calves, my hamstrings, squeezed my glutes. My lower back popped. I kicked out my legs, massaging the tops of my knees, and then resurfaced. In one fell swoop I stood, raising my arms above my head, leaning left and right, pushing the morning yawns out of my lungs, shaking my head left and right, stretching my jaw, widening my eyes. I raised my eyebrows as high as they could go. I found it was the most effective way to wake up early while living alone.

I slipped into my slippers, as one does, and shuffled into the kitchen. I’d learned not to flick on the kitchen lights so early in the morning, so I went about making my coffee in the dark. The light of dawn poured into the kitchen from the large bay window above my sink, casting soft shadows against the linoleum. It was more than enough light, having already mastered the process. I pulled down the large ceramic French press that came with the rental. I grabbed the kettle off the stove, took a quick peek inside to make sure no spiders had found it a fine place to snooze, and then filled it with hot water from the sink.

I placed it on the stove stop, using a long lighter to light the gas burner, and made quick use of the grinder since the sink water was already near boiling and I couldn’t allow my second impression with my neighbor to involve burnt coffee.

It all timed out beautifully. As I was pouring the grounds into the French press, the kettle began to squeal. I picked it up off the burner, gently poured enough water to cover the coffee, and then placed the kettle on the counter to cool, ever so slightly. I stirred the blooming coffee with a long spoon, closing my eyes and listening to the soft tinkling of metal against glass, and then topped it off with more hot water. I popped the plunger on top (unplunged) took two of my favorite mugs down from the cupboard (classic porcelain; one donning a middle aged penguin in an apron, doing dishes in their very 70s-style kitchen, the other covered in nondescript scribbles of bunnies fornicating) and held them by their handles in one hand, while balancing the very full French press in the other.

It’s a rough draft, but in order to illustrate my point, let’s jump into our bag of Sensorium and see what we can find.

1. Touch and Sight: "My nose was dry the next morning, coated in a dark, crusted blood." - This provides a tactile sensation and visual imagery related to the state of the character's nose.

2. Touch and Movement: "I swung my legs out, pressed my toes into the hardwood floor, and flexed my calves, my hamstrings, squeezed my glutes." - This describes physical movements and sensations, engaging the sense of touch.

3. Sound and Sight: "As I was pouring the grounds into the French press, the kettle began to squeal." - This involves auditory and visual elements related to the sound of the kettle.

4. Sight: "The light of dawn poured into the kitchen from the large bay window above my sink, casting soft shadows against the linoleum." - Describing the play of light and shadows appeals to the sense of sight.

5. Touch and Sound: "I stirred the blooming coffee with a long spoon, closing my eyes and listening to the soft tinkling of metal against glass." - Engaging touch through stirring and sound through the tinkling of metal against glass.

These sensory details enhance the reader's connection to the character's experience, making the narrative more vivid and engaging.

What could I add to make this even more stimulating for the reader? Well, for one, I’ve noticed there isn’t yet a sense of taste in the mix. And that wouldn’t necessarily mean that our narrator has to directly taste the coffee. She could be reminiscing on a coffee she had when she was first learning to brew. A Panama Natural that tasted of syrupy sweet strawberries. The way it made her salivate with each sip. Or it could be the smell of the coffee she’s currently brewing and the aroma hitting the back of her throat, picking up notes of hickory and bourbon at the back of her tongue.

The beauty of the Sensorium is that it allows the writer to connect to the reader through experience and memory. When we touch on a sensory reaction as a writer, our reader can pull a memory they have that relates directly to what our character is experience. These unique experiences become comparable, compatible, and often cause us to have a visceral, emotional reaction.

It’s incredible, really. That words can bring us together in this way.

In all honesty, though, I’m too scared to use my bag at all. At the moment, it sits cozy in my closet, home to a vibrant jumpsuit gifted to me by the same fabulous writer friend, with whom I will be matching in said jumpsuit this January.

It just might be the most sensory stimulating item of clothing I own.