doomsday_disco

A diaphanous, nocturnal blend that shimmers between airy radiance and shadowed warmth. A silvery wash of moonflower and white heliotrope drifts over cool iris and gossamer musk, while golden amber resin and benzoin glow softly beneath like the living heat of beating wings. Threads of honeyed beeswax and tobacco flower lend a faint, feral sweetness, and a dusting of frankincense ash and myrrh smoke curls at the edges, recalling the dark from which she rises. Amelia Jane Murray, Lady Oswald

Macabre domesticity; a little warmth for a long eternity. A tender absurdity of frozen grins reflecting in the sooty iron of a merrily-aflame stove. Banked coals of labdanum pulse with amber flame, while a dusting of clove, coal ash, and brittle vanilla scuffs the hem of dusty patchouli linen. James Ensor

Vanilla Incense and Roasted Tonka Bean.

Spiced Honey and Raw Patchouli.

Palo Santo and White Amber.

Desert Sage and Palo Santo.

Cacao Dust and Ashes.

Brown Sugar and Oak.

When I was a child in the 1970s, I lived in a newly built neighborhood in Los Angeles that bordered land still undeveloped. The city thinned out behind my house and gave way to open hills. Wild horses thundered past, roadrunners darted through the chaparral and tumbleweeds, and at night, the coyotes sang. Some of my earliest memories are of lying awake and listening to their voices rise and fall in the distance, a wild and communal music that became a comfort to me. At pivotal moments in my life — initiatory moments — I would encounter coyotes crossing my path. These sightings were never casual. They appeared briefly and decisively, always coinciding with periods when something in my life was shifting or about to transform. Coyotes are among the animals closest to my heart, not simply for their presence in my early life but for what they represent. They are creatures of the in-between, thriving at the margins, adapting where others cannot. (Or will not?) Across cultures and throughout history, the coyote has been revered as a sacred being: Trickster and Creator, a deity of dance, song, storytelling, and celebration. Coyote is the bringer of change and chaos and a figure who embodies duality itself, at once helpful and harmful, wise and reckless. In myth, Coyote carries the wisdom of foolishness, acts as a benign prankster who has the singular power to defy and reverse fate, and becomes the unlikely bearer of gifts to humankind. Through disruption and mischief, Coyote teaches that survival depends on adaptability and that transformation often arrives disguised as disorder. Coyotes inhabit liminal space, and to embrace them is to embrace uncertainty as a companion. A spirit of defiance, resistance, and persistence, they should be venerated as an icon of our times. A scent for the coyotes of my childhood, sun-bright, resilient, and quietly feral: amber fur, white sage, chaparral, smoked palo santo, California sagebrush, clever sparks of white pepper, and sweet tonka bean. (Featured photo: the author with her first coydog, Chico. No, we didn’t know he was a coyote mix when we adopted him. A neighbor’s standard poodle magically gave birth to a litter of electric-amber puppies and I fell in love. Chico was beautiful to me: lava-orange fur that was shaggy like his coyote sire, but curled sweetly at the ends like his mother’s. He was strange, ridiculous, and delightfully clownish. I loved him so very, very much. In true Southern California form, Chico was not my only coyote mix. Arthur, my second coydog, was a shepherd/coyote, and I miss him equally. RIP, my wild boys. I love you forever.)

Roselight is a gentle love-bonding oil crafted to help fortify partnerships and relationships during challenging times. A balm for frayed nerves and sharp words, it coaxes remembrance of shared laughter, of private language, of the sweetness that first took root. Anoint the wrists, the pulse at the throat, or the space above the heart before speaking hard truths or making heavy decisions. Wear it to bridge divides and bring comfort. Let it serve as a promise to protect what is tender, to fortify what is faithful, and to keep choosing one another with patience, warmth, and deliberate grace. Contains: three rose oil variants, heartsease, violet blossoms, angelica root, orris root, benzoin, lavender, ylang ylang, jasmine sampaguita, and a touch of warming spices.

Cool-toned brown jelly with silver shimmer & shifting blue and green micro sparks.

“Well, Mrs. Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me something of my neighbours: I feel I shall not rest if I go to bed; so be good enough to sit and chat an hour.” “Oh, certainly, sir! I’ll just fetch a little sewing, and then I’ll sit as long as you please. But you’ve caught cold: I saw you shivering, and you must have some gruel to drive it out.” A fireside chat over a basket of sewing, as snow falls outside Thrushcross Grange. Hearthsmoke and smoldering clove-dusted firewood, rivulets of beeswax dribbling into snow flurries.

“I have no pity! I have no pity! The more worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething, and I grind with greater energy, in proportion to the increase of pain.” A feral and unrepentant animalic musk slick with heat, tangled with smoked birch tar that clings to skin like soot and desire. Refined cologne masks a deep, grinding base of dark resins, cracked leather, and vetiver root; earth torn open, roots exposed. An elemental fury, a wild, fanatical embrace terribly alive in its darkness.

“Oh, I’m burning! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? Why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I’m sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the window again wide: fasten it open!” An incandescent amber storm. Strata of glowing ambers piled deep and restless, molten and honeyed, threaded with dark, resinous veins that pulse like blood under skin. Free, wild, elemental: the storm at her heart, beating against the glass until it shatters.

Angelica archangelica has long been associated with protection, purification, and blessing. In European folk practice it was carried against illness and misfortune, burned to cleanse spaces, and planted near doorways as a ward. In hoodoo and rootwork it is used to break crossed conditions, guard against harmful influences, strengthen women, and reinforce spiritual authority. The root is often carried in a mojo bag for protection and luck, added to floor washes to clear negativity, or dressed with oil and kept on the altar as a standing guardian. During the great plague years in Europe, angelica was regarded as a life-preserving herb. Physicians and herbalists recommended it as part of protective cordials and vinegars, and it was chewed or worn to guard against contagion. Paracelsus, the 16th-century physician and alchemist, praised angelica as a powerful remedy in times of pestilence, viewing it as a plant marked by divine intent for the preservation of life. Its reputation as a plague herb strengthened its identity as both medicine and spiritual safeguard. Its scent reflects that history. The root is dense and fibrous, with a sharp green opening that quickly settles into dry soil, resin, and a faint sweetness reminiscent of sap and old wood. There is a subtle heat to it, peppery without being hot, and a clean bitterness that reads as clarifying rather than harsh.