doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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Black Butterfly Moon: Black Orchid and Crushed Berries Hair Gloss
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Hair
Black Orchid and Crushed Berries. -
I don’t know if all kids love Krampus, but mine sure does. She first met him a decade ago at Dark Delicacies, where he was portrayed by our dear friend, Bill Rude. She loves Krampus so much that we took her to the Gnigl Krampuslauf in Salzburg in 2017. Her intention to join the Los Angeles Krampuslauf as a wee Krampus was curtailed by the pandemic, but hope springs eternal. Kids love horror. They’re attracted to the strange, the uncanny, the mysterious. This is why they love characters like Krampus, despite the threat of being scooped up into a bag and tossed into a river. Kids embrace horror. They always have. Children understand that the world is stitched together with shadows, and that sometimes the shadows have teeth. They’re drawn to the strange, the uncanny, the impossible; they see the edges where reality blurs. Horror is not a trespass for them, but a playground: a place where the monstrous becomes knowable, where fear becomes understanding. Terror tales are a ritualized fear, safely cocooned in myth. This is why they love figures like Krampus, even with his clanking chains and sacks full of disobedient little souls. To a child, Krampus is not simply a morality lesson or a grim parental warning – he’s a symbol of freedom, of things that are wild, dark, and uncontrolled. Children instinctively know that monsters serve a purpose, that they give shape to anxieties too formless to name. They let kids practice both bravery and defiance, and they teach kids that though the world can be frightening and unpredictable, they can traverse its tangled forests and survive the darkness. I believe that children also know in the deepest part of their mythic, dreaming souls that monsters protect, challenge, and guide. Sometimes, the monster under the bed is the only one who truly understands you. Kids love Krampus, not in spite of his menace, but because of it. His is the shadow that makes the light shine brighter, and the rattle of his chains reminds them that stories, both light and dark, belong to them. A playdate with monsters: crimson musk stirred into molten sugar, ruby pomegranate syrup, tart cherries, a dusting of clove-spun candyfloss, and a drizzle of warm vanilla resin.
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Tangy cream cheese folded through warm bakery dough, still puffed from the fryer, and thick, dark wild blackberry jam.
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Lime Blossom & Amber Sugar.
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The weather’s cold, so devilish hard My income friend, is suffering from the cramp, So please excuse this impecunious card, As all I’m good for is a used up. Sugared-crusted marshmallows and cinnamon candies.
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We're that relative who tries to make everyone try a green pie! This one dances lightly on the palate.
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Voluptuous Bulgarian rose unfurls like crimson silk, met by the dark, resinous warmth of freshly cracked coffee beans.
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“Piglet,” said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, “you haven’t any pluck.” “It is hard to be brave,” said Piglet, sniffing slightly, “when you’re only a Very Small Animal.” Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: “It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us.” Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more… Pink clover and wild strawberries, red bean paste, pink vanilla, sweet acorns, apple blossom, caramelized almond, and a shy puff of sugar.
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Not exactly my definition of a happy Christmas, but to each their own. Wild pansies, white honey, and frothy cream.
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Espresso poured over lush condensed milk and a bright thread of lemon, sweetened with Licor 43 and finished with a dusting of warm cinnamon.
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Freshly roasted coffee beans releasing their dark, velvety warmth amongst ribbons of molten caramel and a haze of deliciously radiant golden amber.
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Smoked tonka bean, vetiver root, white patchouli, oolong tea, hazy, muted brown amber, and vanilla husk. Odilon Redon
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“O come and go with me, no longer delay, Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away.” — “O father! O father! now, now keep your hold, The Erl-King has seized me — his grasp is so cold!” The spell breaks like a sudden crack in an ice-bound lake. Opoponax incense and black oud plunging into a heart-stopping shiver of ambergris accord and eucalyptus leaf.
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The dark, roasted bite of freshly crushed coffee beans folded into the sinuous heat of Snake Oil’s infamous bestseller. Bitter espresso grounds smoldering under a curled-up hiss of sugared patchouli, spiced amber, and velvety vanilla.
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Volatile, earthy, and defiant: dusty leather, tobacco leaf, clove bud, green patchouli, and black pepper. Honoré Daumier
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A bitterly cold, bone-white chypre; austere polar musk, vegan ambergris, and white tea combine to make a genteel, frigid perfume as bright and sharp as the first crack of glacial ice.
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Nothing beats that classic fluffy, bouncy texture, rendered eternally moist thanks to shreds of fresh carrot, delicately spiced and slathered in lavender cream cheese icing – including the obligatory carrot on top, piped in purple frosting.
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By loving friends you are surrounded, Oh, be not blind to this, I pray. They wish that joy and mirth unbounded May crown your happy Christmas day. Winter oak, hazelnuts, and butterscotch rum.
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Pumpkin custard swirled with thick eggnog, dark roast coffee, grated nutmeg, soft cinnamon, and a drizzle of brown-sugar syrup.
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A bloodless scent stitched together like delicate antique lace, with a hint of powdered violet, plum brandy, and gleaming aldehydes.
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Strawberry preserves twisting through clouds of pink cotton candy and marshmallow fluff.
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May Christmas shed lustre around you. Amber-illuminated roasted chestnut, cardamom, caramel, and allspice.
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Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn’t. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh. When I first heard his name, I said, just as you are going to say, “But I thought he was a boy?” “So did I,” said Christopher Robin. “Then you can’t call him Winnie?” “I don’t.” “But you said——” “He’s Winnie-ther-Pooh. Don’t you know what ‘ther’ means?” “Ah, yes, now I do,” I said quickly; and I hope you do too, because it is all the explanation you are going to get. Honey-slathered buttered toast, glittering amber beams of sunlight, warm milk, cotton stuffing, and cuddly roasted vanilla.
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On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: “Now is it true, or is it not, “That what is which and which is what?” On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it’s true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose—but whose are these? On Friday—— Hot, sunny cardamom amber and milky musk, honeyed rice and snowy slush.
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A dirge sung to Atropa bella-donna: caramelized patchouli root, crushed purple berries, and opium tar.