gwyllgi

The first time I tried this, it was so sharp out of the imp that I couldn't pick out any notes and it faded to nothing after about 10 seconds on my skin. I shrugged and wrote it off, figuring it was just a blend that didn't agree with my nose. Trying it again, I have to wonder why I didn't pick this up before. It's almonds, dry, spicy almonds. I periodically make curry almonds for a pick-me-up or when I'm feeling ambitious in my snacking, and this is what it reminds me of: curried almonds, hot out of the oven. My skin didn't devour it this time, either; it's still almost too strong, after I applied it a bit heavily to be able to pick up a scent on it. Now that I know, I can apply it a bit more sparingly in the future and still be able to enjoy the gorgeous smell. Here I'd thought it was a good thing I didn't like it: it's one more bottle I don't have to buy. Alas and alack, onto my list it goes. (Such hardship, finding marvelous smelly things.)

The first time I tried this, I thought it was pretty, but nothing particularly distinctive. I'm not quite sure what I was thinking at the time, or if my chemistry has changed that much, but suddenly it's frankincense and musk and orchid, with a wee bit of rose (but no lavender that I can pick up). The frankincense was playing second fiddle the last time I tried it, if not planted in the last chair, but it's the first chair now, its strength carrying the other notes and transforming them into a lovely, melodic whole. It never seems to go powdery on me, but instead stays rich and deep. Musky florals usually go musty on me, but this doesn't have even the faintest sign of mustiness. Because of the depth, it doesn't strike me as much of a summer scent - I think the humidity of the area would amp this up to an overwhelming level - but it's definitely something I'll pick up a big bottle of once the weather starts turning again.

This is an unusual, steamy floral, and I'm surprised by just how much I like it. It's definitely a white floral, but it's a white floral that evokes images of enormous, tropical flowers blooming along a beach. The white ginger makes it so warm that it's impossible not to think of Hawai'i. Given other comments about its being very thin and fleeting, I wasn't expecting this to last at all. About fifteen minutes after I put it on, I keeled over between one sentence and the next and took a long nap (which I felt positively decadent doing, even if I was home from work because I was tending my ill mother, not for a vacation). When I woke up almost two hours later, it was still going so strong that I could smell it from feet away, warm and heady. I love ginger in any form but hadn't had luck with blends including it in the past, so I'm thrilled to finally have found one that works for me. This is going on my ever-increasing list of things I need bottles of.

... Oya’s ofrenda is a Nigerian potion of love and war, sweetened by darkest plum. Oya winiwini! When I first tried this, I noted it as a very strong fruit scent, like the plum version of Kabuki. Revisiting it, I think that it was entirely unfair of me to pass it off that way, as this is a lovely, lovely fruit scent that deserves to be loved on its own merits. Before BPAL, I never knew that I would like plum scents. It never even occurred to me. Since then, though, I've discovered that plum is one of my favorite notes - no only do I love it, but it loves me (which is a welcome change). This is a stronger plum than most of the others I've tried, with a bit of spicy-sweet-ozone in the background. Each time I sniff, trying to pin down that background note, it shifts to something else. I think I smell honey, then I think I smell opium, then I think I smell ozone, then I think I smell orange. The plum is always there, but the constantly-shifting notes supporting it are what make this blend particularly special. After trying this the first time (and passing it off as a plum Kabuki), I tossed the imp into my storage box and figured that it was okay, but not anything that I needed. I'm now wondering what in the world possessed me to think that, because this is such a beautiful, complex scent that it's only the fact that I've already got three outstanding orders that's keeping me from putting one together just for this.

The contradictions of modern Japan are one of my many fascinations, and so I was particularly looking forward to trying what sounds like it would be a pell-mell scent. I certainly wasn't disappointed; it encompasses perfectly the confluence of modern and traditional. When I first opened the imp, it was bamboo, bamboo, and more bamboo. I like the scent of bamboo, but it tends to be overpowering on me, so I kept my fingers crossed as I put it on. The bamboo mellows almost instantly, while the florals come forward and flirt with a faint metallic tang, with just a hint of fruit. The fruits fade fairly quickly on me as well, so I was left with metallic florals which for some reason made me want to pick up ikebana again. Hm. My only problem with this is that my skin devours it, so it's terribly fleeting. Given my hesitance to slather (especially in the summer), this is going straight into a locket as soon as I get my 5ml. (With the metallics, I'm thinking this would be spiffy as a scent for my car, too. Kabuki needs a break.)

Anything with lime is a marvelous thing in my book, so I was very happy when I got this as a frimp. It's one that I get a lot of change in, from imp to wet on skin to dry. In the imp, I get lime. Lots and lots of lime. Not quite limeade-lime or margarita-lime, but a sweet, less tart sort of lime. Wet on my skin, I get jasmine. Jasmine, jasmine, jasmine. It's enough to send me reeling, as jasmine and I don't get along very well. Jasmine is an overachiever. As it dries, the jasmine burns out a bit, and suddenly lotus and tuberose are there - with lime. Lime is the ballsy one of the bunch, dragging the others forward and showing them how to have a good time. It stays sweetly floral with that hint of citrus tang after that, with great throw and a long life. When I first tried this, the notes I made to myself were that this is like a heavier type of linen scent. Trying it again, I still get that impression; it's a linen scent for people who think linen scents are too soft. This is what happens when a linen scent starts dancing on the bar. I'm not quite sure why I hadn't picked up a 5ml of this yet, but it's on the list for my next order, because - whoo, lime!

This smells, to me, like a spiced orange ball. A spiced orange ball that's gone off. I'm not really sure where it's coming from, but once this hits my skin it takes on a strange sort of sourness - it's sour and musty. It smells like a spiced orange ball that's been in someone's closet for a few years, stuffed behind the awful painting that Aunt Marge gave you last Christmas. In the imp, it smells like a faintly spicy-sweet patchouli, so I'm sure that the ickiness is coming from my skin. It's a bit heavy for me to see wearing it in a locket and it's not a room scent I'd particularly go for, though, so I suspect this one will be going off to find itself a better home.

The cypress and myrrh made me nervous - the latter in particular. My experiences with myrrh have been varied and usually distasteful, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect from this blend. What I ended up with wasn't anything like what I'd thought. It's a blend I can't really pick notes out of, just as I can't really pin down what type of scent it is. It's floral, but it's herby, it's dark, it's sharp, it's languorous. I wasn't expecting to like it as much as I do. It's the wrong season for me to want anything but an imp yet, but I'll keep it in mind for when I stop wanting sweeter, lighter scents. This is also a scent that for some reason doesn't provide me with any imagery. It smells like a sacred grove, but it eludes me otherwise. Given this, I think it would be marvelous for a scent to use when writing something dark and mysterious; it's inspiration in a bottle.

I'm not usually a fan of rose scents; they tend to smell artificial to me, when they aren't overpowering. As such, I probably never would have tried this if it hadn't been a frimp. Wearing it, I reached the conclusion that this is a rose scent for people who don't like rose scents. It's a light rose, a small wild rose rather than a genetically-manipulated cultivated rose. It's very pretty, very soft, and makes me think of pale petals floating in a milk bath. I'm still not a huge fan of rose scents, but I like this one enough to use up the imp. My mother absolutely adores it, so there's a big bottle on the way for her, which I may have to borrow occasionally once the imp's gone.

This is a very, very green scent, but not grassy. It smells like an aloe leaf when you first crack it open, sharp and clean, with a faint, earthy scent underscoring it. I really like this scent, as it's one of the few green scents I've come across that don't promptly go grassy on me. My skin devours it, though; within an hour, it's almost completely gone. It's definite a big bottle for me, but I think I'll be using it primarily in an oil burner or a locket to try to draw the scent out.

This is the first BPAL blend with grapefruit I've tried, and it does nothing to lower my high expectations. I adore plum scents, so this one was a given to try. It is everything I wanted it to be and more, with grapefruit adding a sweet tang to the plum, while the other notes (which I can't quite separate) ground it, keeping it from being too fruity. I can't even pin down the words I want to use to describe this. As such, I'll just say that it makes me happy, and I absolutely love it.

The first time I tried this, I wasn't terribly impressed; the tea rose overwhelmed the violet and left my nose burning. Tea rose and I aren't friends. Trying it again, the tea rose is less dominating, so I imagine it was something about my chemistry at the time. Now that it's not the tea rose at center stage, this is a lovely, winsome violet scent. It's violet playing dress-up, swaddled in fur, elaborately coifed, and with a perfectly-placed beauty mark. The tea rose adds a hint of sharp that perfectly embodies a spoiled, selfish nature that simply doesn't know anything else. I may have to give this one a few more tries before deciding whether or not to get a big bottle; if it stays primarily violet, it'll be a definite, but if I end up with more instances of the march of the tea rose, I think it'll be a pass.

This is sweet, very sweet. It reminds me vaguely of Akuma, only like Akuma's little sister, trying hard to be grown up but with none of the strength and only a little bit of the promise. It starts out as a bit of spicy orange blossom, but it fades into strawberry and carnation. I like the carnation in this, but strawberry is far from my favorite note. It's terribly fleeting, too; barely fifteen minutes later, and my skin's all but devoured it. This one is, I think, a pass.

I generally like sage and bay quite a bit, so I was eager to give this one a try. It's lovely, slightly musty and masculine, and indeed quite regal. It loses a bit of its appeal on my skin, though; cedar dislikes me, but its evil intentions are kept in check by the sage, so it comes out smelling like an old house, rather than sour wood. It's an old house that hasn't been lived in for a while, but which was well-loved. Oddly enough, this scent also seems to drive one of my cats absolutely wild. As soon as I put it on, she's in my lap, cozying up to wherever I'd applied it and kneading like there's no tomorrow. I've never seen any of my cats have this reaction before, so I may keep it around just for that amusement's sake.

I love BPAL aquatics, and muguet and ginger only promise to make them better. And then I hit the gardenia. I'm coming to realize that gardenia hates my skin, as nearly every blend I've tried goes rancid on me. This, sadly, is no exception. Once it hits my skin, it smells like rotting vegetation lining a stagnant pond. It never shifts from this, so this is, sadly, not one that's destined to remain in my possession.

Cranberries are a huge industry in Wisconsin, and I'm fortunate enough to not be terribly far from a number of cranberry marshes. One of those marshes also supports a gift store which features, among other things, hand-made cranberry soaps. I've been using these almost exclusively since switching from my beloved LUSH's Figs and Leaves. As such, a cranberry-based perfume oil sounded ideal. When I first put this on, the cranberries are in the background, and the combination of the other notes make it smell like black cherry. As it dries, the cranberries come forward, tempered with a hint of smoke and musk. After about fifteen minutes, it loses some of the cranberry and sweetens, with more smoke coming out. It never quite becomes cranberry juice, which is nice as the scent of that is rather repellant to me, and the sweet, smoky cranberries I end up with is an absolutely perfect match for my soap. It's certainly a lovely scent, but one that I think suits late autumn, rather than spring or summer. It's a warm, comfortable scent, perfect for settling in with a cozy quilt and a fuzzy sweater.

Ozone notes are among my favorites, so I was really looking forward to trying Lightning. I certainly wasn't disappointed; I'm in love with it on my skin, in a locket, in an oil burner, in my car's diffuser, and in sachets. This strikes me as the scent of heat lightning, or the lightning that comes before the rain hits. It's sharp and a bit tangy, flirting sharp but never quite embracing it. It doesn't change much from imp to skin for me, and it stays strong for hours. I've tried various storm scents in chain brands before, but never particularly liked them; they've been too apparently alcohol-based or too sharp and sour. I'd all but given up on finding one I liked. I'm terribly glad to have been proven wrong with this oil.

Once this hits my skin, this becomes poppy and paperwhite, with a hint of black narcissus. This is just fine with me, as I absolutely love these notes. It doesn't change much as it dries, only softening a little bit so the tuberose comes out. It stays strong but not overwhelming, and lasts for hours; I put this on in the morning before work, and I was still getting whiffs of it long after I'd gotten home. Strangely, it also reminds me of an old perfume I never knew the name of, scavenged from my great-aunt's house years after it had gone off. Whatever it smelled like originally, this is what it smelled like by the time I got it, and it makes me want to hunt up that old bottle again. It's also quite evocative of its name. It puts to my mind the hedonism of Hollywood's Golden Age, with a leading lady in an evening dress posed on a chaise longue, a cigarette holder held against red lips by one perfectly-manicured hand. This isn't a scent to use when you want to accomplish something, but it's marvelous for setting a mood.

When I read the notes, I was excited to try this - violet and vanilla are all scents I've enjoyed immensely in the past and, while I'm not particularly fond of it, I don't have anything against gardenia. Something about this blend just doesn't like my skin, though. I can smell the violet, I can smell the vanilla, I can smell the gardenia, all as separate notes. Somehow, though, when they mingle, my skin makes them awful, like a thin skin barely containing something rotten. I'd hoped it was a fluke the first time, but the second had the same results, which puts this imp onto my "never ever put on skin!" pile. It smells just fine in the imp, darkly floral, more violet and vanilla than gardenia (which seems to be the main culprit in the stench on my skin), so I suspect this is just my skin. When I'm feeling brave, I may give this a try in a diffuser or a locket, but it'll take me a while to be willing to give this one a shot again.

Lotus is one of my favorite floral notes; it's aquatic and sweet - but not too sweet - and light, and always very peaceful. As such, I was really looking forward to trying Kurukulla. The roses come out to dominate the lotus fairly quickly; it smells vaguely like tea rose to me, though I'm not certain if it's actually tea rose or just the combination. I'm not particularly fond of tea rose, so this doesn't push happy buttons for me, but it mellows fairly quickly into rose under lotus, depth under beauty. It strikes me that this is a scent for lovers. It's distinctly feminine and soft, innocent and sweet. This isn't a scent for seduction, though; this is a scent for lying in the grass together, comfortable in your skins.

In the imp and wet on my skin, I get white tea - nothing else. This impression lasts through the initial drydown, but, after fifteen minutes or so, the ginger starts coming through, spicy-sharp. At this point, it becomes the exotic cousin of Embalming Fluid, more worldly, perhaps a bit cynical, but still charming. The ginger never seems to become more than a hint, which puts it a notch below Embalming Fluid on my list. If the ginger had a bit more play with the tea, it'd rocket right up to be one of my favorites.

In the vial, this is... hm. Something I can't quite pin down, not any of the listed notes, but somehow sweet. Wet on my skin, it's nothing but star anise. It's the star anise show, starring star anise, with a special guest appearance by star anise. It's overwhelming and almost cloying; it makes my nose burn. If I ride it out and give it a while to settle, the star anise stops being such a huge drama queen and instead deigns to share a wee bit of the stage with the cherry blossom and sandalwood. At that point, it's lovely, evocative of hanami, should one manage the miracle of finding a secluded spot. Sadly, it's also as fleeting as cherry blossoms themselves; it's barely settled into perfection before it's gone.

While I like all the notes in this (barring myrrh - we have a mutual antagonism, but it's behaving here), it's so terribly, terribly strong that I can't wear this; having dabbed it on for the purpose of testing, I've got my wrist as far away from my nose as it can be, and I'm still smelling the lily. It's strong enough that it's nauseating me, which is terribly sad as I really like the smell. Since I can't wear this, I put a drop into some paraffin to burn and that worked so marvelously that my initial frustration was completely overwhelmed. As a diffused scent, it's absolutely gorgeous; once it's not so terribly heavy, the florals are really able to shine over the incense notes, and I can focus on them rather than suppressing my gag reflex. I may end up picking up a bottle of this simply for sachets, as this is a perfect scent for those.

Almond! Lovely sweet almond, almond butter! It's gorgeous! And then I put it on. As soon as it hits my skin, the almond is gone and everything is myrrh. I keep sniffing it in the hopes that the almond will return, but, as time goes by and all I smell is myrrh, it seems unlikely. The myrrh fades eventually, but then it becomes just faded myrrh, not almond. Weep. I certainly like this one enough to try it in a diffuser or a locket. If I can keep that almond longer, this is certainly a keeper.

This is certainly a unique scent, and, while I'm not quite certain I like it, I certainly don't dislike it, either. On my skin, it becomes a very smoky floral, but it's a dark floral. It's the big brother of Asphodel; where Asphodel is the flowers' ashes, Hades is the full blooms. It's somehow a tragic scent, but also strong - it's the scent of someone who has suffered much hardship, yet who is not weakened by it. Made distant, yes; made cold, yes; made weak, no. It's a scent of transition. The longer I leave it on, the more I like it. It keeps a strong throw but loses its overwhelming strength after a few minutes. The only real change I pick up on my skin is that the cypress recedes as it dries, leaving behind florals and ambergris. It's certainly not a scent for every day, but it's a wonderful scent for days when you need strength to see you through changes.