ghoulnextdoor
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Everything posted by ghoulnextdoor
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Within every collection the Lab creates, there’s always that one scent that seems perfectly quaffable, so delightfully juicy and spirited and effervescent , that no one would blame you or think you’d taken leave of your senses if you just tipped the bottle past your lips and downed the whole thing in one gulp. Of course, let’s please not do that and I am definitely not suggesting it! I would, however, suggest conjuring a cocktail inspired by this fragrance, an ineffable tipple of our own devising: a libation citrusy and bright, with an undercurrent of something earthy and bitter and strange. Do patchouli bitters exist? Maybe patchouli syrup? An Aperol Spritz with a smallest dropper drip of dank, and perhaps mythical, patchouli bitters.
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Three Rounds, One Fall, No Submission
ghoulnextdoor replied to Ina Garten Davita's topic in Good Omens
A soapy, creamy white floral musk paired with the vaporous ghost of a charcoal briquette ; the soft scent of summer’s wilting gardenia blossoms against the vast and vaulted cloudless, cerulean cathedral of an August afternoon sky, while you wait for the hurricane to hit. A moment’s glimpse of an endless heaven…before all hell breaks loose. -
When I first sniffed this, I caught notes of coffee, milk chocolate, and the cozy comfort of warm, worn-in robes? But today it smells of a delicate porcelain cup of black tea brightened with a spritz of lemon, warming and softening the embossed tooling of the old leather book it is perched upon. Those wily Satanists! I can’t quite get a fix on them, but it’s a wonderful scent, either way.
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There’s a quote that is used frequently as people’s Twitter bios: “though she be but little, she is fierce!” and I regret to inform you that until just now, I had no idea that is taken from some dialogue in a Midsummer Night’s Dream, but I’m not as well-versed in my Shakespeare as I ought to be and anyway, that’s not my point. Anathema Device smells like a fierce, little creature: a teeny-tiny, big-eyed anime blackcurrant wearing comedically large cyborg boxing gloves. This is a pulpy, juicy beatdown of a berry scent, strengthened by a vaguely metallic backbone, powered by a syrupy amber core.
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There’s a scent, or the dreamy memory of a scent, that I really love and I feel like I may have mentioned it before. A sort of plastic-y, vanilla scent, like maybe if you buried your nose in your 1980’s Strawberry Shortcake doll’s synthetic hair and just huffed that strangely pretty childhood fragrance for a moment or two. Imagine if you crossed that memory with a pocketful of lemon candies and a wisp of Antique Lace. Now that I think about it, if you’re bummed that Antique Lace is no longer available, I think Sister Mary Loquacious has got a similar feel and would make a lovely substitute.
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Slate Black Clouds Tumbled Over Eden
ghoulnextdoor replied to Ina Garten Davita's topic in Good Omens
A storm, gathering on the horizon all afternoon has with boom and bluster, announced its arrival, as torrential rain begins to rattle and splatter against the windows. Placing a clean, earthenware pitcher in the far corner of your darkened kitchen, you watch a slow trickle, drop by drop, suspend and fall with an inaudible swish and a soft clink from that rotted, sagging spot on your roof. These cold droplets smell chilled, earthy, and electric. As a shriek of lightning splits the sky in two, you inhale the comforting scent of yeast rolls browning in the oven. They only have a few minutes left on the timer; you send a small hope skyward that they finish baking before the power goes out. Slate Black Clouds Tumbled Over Eden, interestingly, smells like all of these things. -
A startled apple tree awoke in a rainforest, and surprisingly, flowered and flourished far from its midwestern orchard home amongst the lush, humid jungle vegetation; or, a few ripe apple slices hidden in the midst of a tropical fruit platter, touched on one side by tart pineapple, the other by jammy guava.
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I can’t reconcile myself to these notes but what I can tell you is that it smells like being fifteen and skinny dipping in your boyfriend’s grandparent’s swimming pool when they’re out of town for the summer and it’s a blistering hot day, with the tose-tickling scent of chloramine, concrete hot enough to barbeque teenage feet, and the wisp of spicy-oak mossy-lavender Drakkar Noir in the air. I don’t think any of these are unpleasant smells (I actually still love Drakkar Noir and that’s totally what I am going to name my Norwegian Ridgeback one day.) Anyway, this scent conjures fun memories for m
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Wet, just out of the bottle, there is something about Mr. Czernobog that tugs at the edges of memory. A sweet, spicy heat, but tempered by a child-like treat. Milk and grains. Soupy cinnamon oatmeal, or a forbidden breakfast cereal like Cinnamon Toast Crunch? Or…no! I have it. Little Debbie Pecan Pinwheels. Once applied to skin, however, that strange, wonderful association fades as a mentholated, metallic aspect momentarily asserts itself. From there it becomes an iron tooth lost amidst coniferous detritus underfoot.
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Black Silk Orchid looms from the vase sweet and shadowy, summoning associations of a trio of BPALs I know and love: the dark brown sugared musks of Smut, the deeply vanilla-patchouli incense of Snake Oil, and Haunted's murky, mysterious amber glow. There's a breezy element that runs through it, though, something that sets it apart, conjuring something wholly new. It's a thin, weird wind, not brisk and autumnal and not of the gentle spring variety; it's not outdoorsy at all. More like a draft from deep within your home that you can't locate, a door that maybe you didn't even know was there, ajar and inviting things from beyond. It's full of darkness and a bit dusty, emanating from somewhere utterly, disturbingly, unknown. A prickling shiver you feel when somewhere in the old house, in an unused, forgotten room, a vampire quietly steps out from inside a grandfather clock at the stroke of midnight.
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Blue Silk Rose, with notes of sugared violets and dried blackberry and elusive hints of citrusy rose and smoky musk, is a light, impish fruity floral that's the olfactory equivalent of excellent advice from astrologist Rob Brezny, something fun about liberating our imaginations and encouraging us to visualize life as a mythic quest. It's the playful poetry of the weightless, mid-air hops and skips between dodging the shadows or jumping over the cracks in the sidewalk, a bright pop of color on a grey day, a tiny reprieve from the everythingness of everything in a waft of fleeting sweetness.
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Silk Tiger Lily very nearly gives me savory vibes when sniffed right out of the bottle--something like saffron and cumin mingled spice cupboard tendrils-- and from there on, the evolution is just extraordinary. First, a briny ginger fire, a spicy salinity, as if the knobby little rhizome has been treated to an oceanic pickling; then, seamlessly, a warm, peppery floral with a nose-tickling lemon halo, beautiful, bracing, and buoyant.
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-The manky, softly rotting vegetation and the dry, smoky embers are a spellbinding and pretty sophisticated arboreal chypre-like combination -Makes me think of little forest goblins gone for a weekend of glamping -This is ingenious
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-I feel like…it’s not what you think it’s going to be! -Warm autumn gourd -creamy sweetness at the outset, and then it morphs into something sort of airy and green and cool with a crisp bite….but still somehow a little sweet? – It is sort of like a cold soup…but more of a palate-cleansing dessert soup? -Like a fancy little after-dinner treat Ina made for Jeffrey because they are trying to eat less cake but they still want to end the meal on a sweet note.
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-This seems to have that delicate vanilla and phantom floral of Antique Lace -Also a smokiness that gives it a bit of depth of heft and an almost bitter 70% dark chocolate quality. -A great many people will like this one!
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An Open Grave Underneath the Heavy Leaves
ghoulnextdoor replied to zankoku_zen's topic in Halloweenie
-Dry leaves on sun-warmed ground on a cloudless day, no decomposing plant matter or off-gassing leaves, here -Light and clean, just this side of sharp, dry, and cool. Almost lemony, but…a cool weather, frost-tolerant lemon? -Conjures the scent of air so pure and clear that you can smell winter from a month away -
-A a dash of eerie, with the spot-on decaying harvest of those dead leaves -A spike of edgy with the bright bite of red currant, sort of like a punk in a twilight graveyard -Like Linnea Quigley stripping in a cemetery, but with the addition of holly, and wintry greenery and Christmas lights? –Festive, in a naked, brain-eating zombie way?
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-An anonymous benefactor (or villainous arch-nemesis) has sent you an unmarked packing crate, the olde-timey kind that cursed objects are stowed away in for overseas travel. -Inside this box, once you have opened it with your rusty crowbar and/or Wile E. Coyote dynamite, all of a sudden everything goes sepia-tinted and you’re wearing a stiff corset and pointy-toed boots, and you see that swaddled inside is a bundle of fragrant, crackling autumn leaves several layers deep cocooning a mysterious bundle. -You slowly peel away the autumnal wrapping to reveal that you have been gifted with a thick, glossy, twisting rope of Icelandic black licorice, dank and herbaceous and salty and delicious. Also included is a copy of the Icelandic version of Dracula, but you can go ahead and scrap that with the rest of the packing materials, it’s trash. -Wow, these boots and corset are tight. But sepia-tinted November afternoons are lovely. And black licorice, as you are late in life to discover, is freaking phenomenal.
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-This does smell deeply of the “April-clear” feeling referenced in the poem this perfume is inspired by; of daisies and dandelions, tremulous in a grassy spring breeze. -A frank, appraising stare from the ghost of one’s self. Uncomplicated and uncompromising and free of all sentiment. Lemongrass smells like a cross between citronella and geranium to me, and that is the powerful core of this scent, a truth that you must get to the heart of and climb inside and ultimately embody…in order to properly meet the gaze of this other version of yourself.
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-French toast from fancy, eggy bread? – Ultra-luxe crème brûlée bread pudding? -A floral, cedary thing? A sweet breakfast casserole, plated on a fragrant wooden tray, served with a spray of lilac? -Tobacco? leather? Eating the above in parlor while your uncle oils his saddle nearby with an unlit pipe clamped between his teeth? -At the very backside…ivy and green tea? Maybe? There is a lot going on with this one! A lot of loveliness, but still…a lot. -To sum up, this is a delectable morning meal in a very charming and efficiently run haunted bed and breakfast which also happens to have a stable nearby.
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-At first: a decimating wave of nostalgia, something that smells like memories and echoes of hearts long silenced -Minerals and sooty carbon, oil, and wax and flickering flame -The taste of oxidized copper and ghostly pigments -At the last: the portraits have been taken down for a cleaning, dusted and polished, and the heavy curtains drawn to let the sunlight scour away the shadows. A slightly sweet, vaguely citrusy lightness remains.
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-Both translucent and occluded; cloudy visions in a teacup -The tea was palest green and pleasantly bitter -The pretense of a facade. A re-veiling of revelations for politeness and appearance’s sake. Embarrassed by what we shared after too many martinis, we pack it all back in, like we never said it in the first place. And now we are all pretending not to know each other’s secret scars, the ones that have seeped into our bones, and which are haunting both our own bodies and undermining our connections with others. -What has got me thinking of martinis? There’s something about this scent, that, along with conjuring visions of secrecy and uneasy trust and damaged connections… makes me think of how I described my first sip of a martini: “sweet at the sip, savory at the swallow.” -A trickery of the tongue, conned by aromas that lure you in and then morph and twist and disarmingly: junipery herbal and briny berries, and a bittersweet woodiness. -This one was quite a journey, but cheaper than therapy. -(I haven’t called my therapist in ten months.)
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-Do you have a moment to talk about the autumnal gustatory goodness that is the Downeast Maine Pumpkin bread recipe from Allrecipes? -Can you imagine this earthy, spicy bread gyrating alongside the breathtakingly tarted-up Christina Aguilera, Mýa, P!nk, Lil’ Kim, in the 2001 Lady Marmalade video? -Or maybe I need to pretend I’m not a million years old and divulge that the molasses-moist pumpkin loaf was most recently a guest dancer in this Cardi B's WAP video because it is without a doubt a certified freak seven days a week. -Brown sugar caramelized crumbs and boozy pumpkin flesh and musky black satin sheets and you don’t cook, you don’t clean and while we don’t have to guess how you got that ring, I am gonna place bets that you probably ordered that amazing pumpkin bread from Goldbelly. -Waaaay later. In a twist that no one was expecting, the filthiest Smut yet calms with time and becomes a soft, warm and disturbingly refined thing? But also very, very hot. Look, I don’t know how to talk about sex because I am incredibly repressed, but smelling my wrist right now gives my lower bits a jolt that’s both electric and wibbly and it’s as if Mads Mikkelsen is smoldering at me from one side of the room and Tessa Thompson has brazenly caught my eye from the opposite corner and I don’t know where to look or what to do with myself so I just lock myself in the bathroom and cry. But in a good way? I mean I don’t know how your libido works, so I can only speak for me. -Maybe let Pumpkin Smut do the speaking for you.
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This really does smell like a sad, 20 ft. tall skellington on the day after Halloween. A sort of morose green note bringing down that lofty sandalwood, the chill breath of lavender extinguishing the warmth of a candle illuminating a week-old jack-o-lantern’s rotting grin.Evocative of that bummer feeling of gloomy liminality, that space between where we started and where we’re going, the bitter business of the banished excitement of the thing that just passed and not knowing what to next look forward to. The feeling of emptiness after sustained contact with the ineffable.
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Dead Leaves, Vanilla Bean, Pink Fig, and Brandied Dates
ghoulnextdoor replied to Seajewel's topic in Halloweenie
This is scent of the Amazoness Quartet, CereCere, PallaPalla, JunJun, and VesVes of the Dead Moon Circus in Sailor Moon Super S, boiled down to their essences and formed in molds into sweet, fruit-jellied, squidgey, flower-shaped candied versions of themselves. I will not be taking any questions at this time.