doomsday_disco

War of the Roses? Not anymore! After years of fragrant hostilities, BPAL’s Reigning Yule Queens, Snow White and Rose Red, lay down their arms. Two beloved Yule blends are bound together at last: frost-bright petals and deep, blood-warm rose, entwined with winter air and the green snap of freshly cut stems. A hard-won peace, sealed in perfume: cold beauty and velvet warmth.

Winnie-the-Pooh sat down at the foot of the tree, put his head between his paws and began to think. First of all he said to himself: “That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you’re a bee.” Then he thought another long time, and said: “And the only reason for being a bee that I know of is making honey.” And then he got up, and said: “And the only reason for making honey is so as I can eat it.” So he began to climb the tree. He climbed and he climbed and he climbed, and as he climbed he sang a little song to himself. It went like this: Isn’t it funny How a bear likes honey? Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! I wonder why he does? Then he climbed a little further … and a little further … and then just a little further. By that time he had thought of another song. It’s a very funny thought that, if Bears were Bees, They’d build their nests at the bottom of trees. And that being so (if the Bees were Bears), We shouldn’t have to climb up all these stairs. He was getting rather tired by this time, so that is why he sang a Complaining Song. He was nearly there now, and if he just stood on that branch … Crack! “Oh, help!” said Pooh, as he dropped ten feet on the branch below him. The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. A golden gourmand for a philosopher. Wild clover honey buzzing with mead fizz, a gust of woodsmoke, and a dusting of ambered pollen.

A tumultuous scent for tumultuous times: dragon’s blood resin, black clove, thunderous black musk, scorched 7-year aged patchouli, tabac absolute, and crushed pomegranate.

Have I spoken this day of aught else? Is not religion all deeds and all reflection, And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hands hew the stone or tend the loom? Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations? Who can spread his hours before him, saying, “This for God and this for myself; This for my soul, and this other for my body?” All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self. He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked. The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin. And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage. The freest song comes not through bars and wires. And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open but also to shut, has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn. Your daily life is your temple and your religion. Whenever you enter into it take with you your all. Take the plough and the forge and the mallet and the lute, The things you have fashioned in necessity or for delight. For in revery you cannot rise above your achievements nor fall lower than your failures. And take with you all men: For in adoration you cannot fly higher than their hopes nor humble yourself lower than their despair. And if you would know God be not therefore a solver of riddles. Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children. And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain. You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees. A perfume of the sacred in the ordinary and the value of labor, joy built from the things you carry into the temple of your days. Golden hay, frankincense tears, hearthsmoke, amber-streaked cedar, and beeswax.

An ode to persistent typos and overconfident, profoundly incorrect autocorrect. Dedicated to Ali in gratitude for years upon years of undangling my participles. Proceeds from the sale of this scent benefit Philadelphia’s Childrens Literacy Initiative who helps provide Black and Latino children with high-quality and culturally sustaining literary education. 7-year aged patchouli, candied dates, and dried red currant.

“Good morning, Eeyore,” said Pooh. “Good morning, Pooh Bear,” said Eeyore gloomily. “If it is a good morning,” he said. “Which I doubt,” said he. “Why, what’s the matter?” “Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.” “Can’t all what?” said Pooh, rubbing his nose. “Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush.” “Oh!” said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, “What mulberry bush is that?” “Bon-hommy,” went on Eeyore gloomily. “French word meaning bonhommy,” he explained. “I’m not complaining, but There It Is.” Every solid friend group has at least one goth kid representing. Soft grey musk, pink thistle, lavender ash, tea leaves, pale iris, grey lilac, and rain-soaked moss. Each purchase of Gloomily, Gloomily comes with a 1/32 oz imp of The Donkey’s Tail. The Donkey’s Tail is not available for sale on its own, and make sure you keep it safe as you never know where it might end up.

Here’s hoping 2026 is less an endless replay of spectacular wipeouts and fail videos and more a year that finally sticks the landing. Leather tack, saddle soap, bay rum, carmine wool, black silk, crushed winter grass, a billowing cascade of pipe tobacco, and a shot of adrenaline.

“O father, see yonder! see yonder!” he says; “My boy, upon what doest thou fearfully gaze?” — “O, ’tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud.” “No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud.” A dread shape forms in the mist: chilled white musk, rain-soaked earth, and a gleam of blackened steel.

An aromatic panel of gingerbread conveniently drilled at hip-height, smutted up with patchouli and boozy brown musk.

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.

At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom, Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and praise him though he slays them. Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the citadel I have seen the freest among you wear their freedom as a yoke and a handcuff. And my heart bled within me; for you can only be free when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you, and when you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfilment. You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief, But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound. And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding have fastened around your noon hour? In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains, though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle your eyes. And what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may become free? If it is an unjust law you would abolish, that law was written with your own hand upon your own forehead. You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by washing the foreheads of your judges, though you pour the sea upon them. And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed. For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride? And if it is a care you would cast off, that cart has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you. And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared. Verily all things move within your being in constant half embrace, the desired and the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished, the pursued and that which you would escape. These things move within you as lights and shadows in pairs that cling. And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light. And thus your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom. When the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light: frankincense and myrrh smoke, silver musk, ambergris accord, ti leaf, benzoin, and violet ash.

O, who rides by night thro’ the woodland so wild? It is the fond father embracing his child; And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm. The pale sugared blossoms of innocence wrapped tightly in sleet-soaked arms. Vanilla bourbon, cream peony, and white carnation enveloped in a warm, protective fortress of tonka, white cedar, orris root, red amber, and leather.

Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back — For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. – Rudyard Kipling A scent for strength through solidarity against the encroaching horrors of authoritarianism. Silvered fir, life-giving soil and immovable stone, black sage, rue, hellebore accord, winter moss, cypress, fossilized amber resin, and vetiver. May the thundering chorus of our voices — entwined, rising, unbreakable — scatter the darkness.

This strongly reminds me of Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris (Lilith meets the Gargoyles of Paris: stone and ancient incense, beeswax and lavender smoke). I believe this hair gloss features the same incense and stone notes, although I'm not really getting any beeswax from the scent in my hair. The hair gloss has great longevity. Most hair glosses disappear not long after I apply it to wet hair, but I was still able to smell this one when I held my hair up to my nose by the end of the day. In dry hair, it was more noticeable and had even better longevity, but this isn't one of those hair glosses that hits you with a cloud of scent when you go to wash your hair, and it's not one that will linger after a wash. I'll definitely be hanging on to my decant of this, but I don't think I'd reach for it enough to warrant a full bottle -- mainly because I don't have a ton of church-y or resinous scents in my collection to pair it with. But if you enjoyed Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, you should enjoy this, too.

A frost-edged nave of stone, where stained glass glimmers with the light from prayer-lofted votives. Spirals of incense drift through the chill winter air, mingling with the solemn drip of beeswax from altar candles. Cedar pews gleam under centuries of prayer, and the air hums with hushed devotion.

After thirty years of reluctantly drinking coffee, Ted has become a bean aficionado thanks to a local shop called the Head Nut. Recently, we bought French vanilla and bourbon chocolate beans from them and ever since that day, Ted has been hooked. Of course, Ted’s morning coffee is the breakfast beverage equivalent to a cozy hug: a slow-simmered swirl of brown sugar melting into steamed milk, wrapped around the soothing, sweet warmth of vanilla-infused espresso.

A festive and urgently mammalian response to inclement weather: a pair of blushing musks daubed with French lavender, flecks of fresh snow, and trickles of chilled champagne.

It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind, That you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself. And for that wrong committed must you knock and wait a while unheeded at the gate of the blessed. Like the ocean is your god-self; It remains for ever undefiled. And like the ether it lifts but the winged. Even like the sun is your god-self; It knows not the ways of the mole nor seeks it the holes of the serpent. But your god-self dwells not alone in your being. Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man, But a shapeless pigmy that walks asleep in the mist searching for its own awakening. And of the man in you would I now speak. For it is he and not your god-self nor the pigmy in the mist, that knows crime and the punishment of crime. Oftentimes have I heard you speak of one who commits a wrong as though he were not one of you, but a stranger unto you and an intruder upon your world. But I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each one of you, So the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also. And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree, So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all. Like a procession you walk together towards your god-self. You are the way and the wayfarers. And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone. Ay, and he falls for those ahead of him, who though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone. And this also, though the word lie heavy upon your hearts: The murdered is not unaccountable for his own murder, And the robbed is not blameless in being robbed. The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked, And the white-handed is not clean in the doings of the felon. Yea, the guilty is oftentimes the victim of the injured, And still more often the condemned is the burden bearer for the guiltless and unblamed. You cannot separate the just from the unjust and the good from the wicked; For they stand together before the face of the sun even as the black thread and the white are woven together. And when the black thread breaks, the weaver shall look into the whole cloth, and he shall examine the loom also. If any of you would bring to judgment the unfaithful wife, Let him also weigh the heart of her husband in scales, and measure his soul with measurements. And let him who would lash the offender look unto the spirit of the offended. And if any of you would punish in the name of righteousness and lay the ax unto the evil tree, let him see to its roots; And verily he will find the roots of the good and the bad, the fruitful and the fruitless, all entwined together in the silent heart of the earth. And you judges who would be just, What judgment pronounce you upon him who though honest in the flesh yet is a thief in spirit? What penalty lay you upon him who slays in the flesh yet is himself slain in the spirit? And how prosecute you him who in action is a deceiver and an oppressor, Yet who also is aggrieved and outraged? And how shall you punish those whose remorse is already greater than their misdeeds? Is not remorse the justice which is administered by that very law which you would fain serve? Yet you cannot lay remorse upon the innocent nor lift it from the heart of the guilty. Unbidden shall it call in the night, that men may wake and gaze upon themselves. And you who would understand justice, how shall you unless you look upon all deeds in the fullness of light? Only then shall you know that the erect and the fallen are but one man standing in twilight between the night of his pigmy-self and the day of his god-self, And that the corner-stone of the temple is not higher than the lowest stone in its foundation. Unbidden shall it call in the night, that men may wake and gaze upon themselves: Oman frankincense, Peru balsam, cardamom, and smoked amber. The sales from February, March, and May’s scents from the Prophet series (On Giving, On Eating & Drinking, On Work, On Joy & Sorrow, On Buying and Selling, and On Crime and Punishment) benefit the ACLU because we are in desperate need of civil rights protections right now. The Take Action area of their website presents handy opportunities for speaking out against current and ongoing injustices, even if you only have a few minutes to spare.

This mostly smells like a cherry lollipop. It verges on cherry tootsiepop, but the cherry is not that dark -- it is lighter and brighter. The pink pepper in this is pretty subtle, and most like the pink pepper found in Red from the Fraggle Rock Line. It doesn't have a kick to it like it does in some blends, nor does it have a bubblegum-y quality to it like in High-Strung Daisies. I couldn't pick out anything ginger-y, and upon looking it up, I saw that white ginger is a flower -- but I'm not smelling anything floral here, either. I've tested this a few times and slathered it on as a scent of the day, and it always stayed close to my skin. I like this and will be hanging on to my decant, but I don't think I need a bottle. I just wish it had some more oomph!

Liqueur-soaked twin cherries reeling from a double pony-kick of pink pepper and white ginger.

Snake Oil and Candied Pomegranate.

Celestial drama. Radiant pomegranate crowned with golden amber and saffron, a waft of singed frankincense, and velvet black cherry. From a 13th century Manuscript of the Apocalypse

Each purchase of Gloomily, Gloomily comes with a 1/32 oz imp of the Donkey’s Tail. The Donkey’s Tail is not available for sale on its own, and make sure you keep it safe as you never know where it might end up. “That Accounts for a Good Deal,” said Eeyore gloomily. “It Explains Everything. No Wonder.” Doubles as a bell-pull: a beribboned strip of French lavender, bourbon vanilla, silver thistle, grey musk, pink silk, and well-loved grey cotton.

I haven't actually had this soda, or its namesake pie, so I can't compare it to the actual thing, but this smells like a fizzy, tropical (maybe pineapple-y?) soda with something clean beneath it (not sure if it is an aldehyde or a musk), as well as some graham cracker crust and some whipped cream. I really wish that clean aspect weren't present in this, because it's the most pie-like of the 2025 pie frimps since it actually has a discernable crust note (which smells delicious!). I'm still going to hang on to my frimp, though.

Disclaimer: this perfume oil is not blue, it is not combustible, and it is not caffeinated.