doomsday_disco

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.

Third in a series of prototypes for scents that were supposed to smell like… er… fucking, crafted for a musician’s promo.

Coconut Milk and Rice.

Bottled sunshine.

A psychedelic evocation: electric lime rind and green tea absolute explode, sharp and strange, into a heart of violet-tinged wild plum while poppy smoke and ancient amber twist through black cherry incense, infernal red musk, and sugared nag champa.

Lightly-honeyed skin musk bathed in pale incense smoke, a dusting of ritual chalk, black fig, clove bud, ambrette seed, and tobacco flower.

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.

Alas my love you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously For I have loved you so long Delighting in your company. Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight. Greensleeves was my heart of gold And who but my lady Greensleeves? Alas my love that you should own A heart of wanton vanity So I must laddie think alone Upon your insincerity. A sorrowful 16th-century love ballad reimagined as a yuletide hymn: heavy bolts of oakmoss-colored velvet, a heart of gold weeping sticky tears of balsam.

Espresso poured over lush condensed milk and a bright thread of lemon, sweetened with Licor 43 and finished with a dusting of warm cinnamon.

Strawberry preserves twisting through clouds of pink cotton candy and marshmallow fluff.

A long, chilled night where tomtenisse cavort in the deep forests with the spectral revenants of autumn. Lingonberry jam, clove bud, frankincense smoke, frost-laden skeletal branches, and steaming bowls of tomtegröt.

The perfume of French Quarter mornings: rich chicory coffee, earthy and bittersweet, drifting through the powdered-sugar clouds of warm beignets dusted to luminosity.

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.

This Spiritualism is the nepenthe which the ancient philosophers sought, to prolong life for ever; you cast off your bodies like an old garment. The pathway of this new science is as clear to the spirit as the names of the constellations are to the astronomer. In the great realm of the spirit there is no room for death to abide ; he has gone out with the ignorance, and blindness, and prejudice of the past, and life, only life, remains as your inheritance. Mrs. Tappan then paused. After a moment’s silence she delivered the following inspirational poem:— O beautiful white mother Death, Thou silent and shadowy soul, Thou mystical, magical soul, How soothing and cooling thy breath! Ere the morning stars sang in their spheres, Thou didst dwell in the spirit of things, Brooding there with thy wonderful wings, Incubating the germs of the years. Coeval with Time and with Space, Thy sisters are Silence and Sleep ; Three sisters—Death, Silence, and Sleep, How strange and how still is thy face! In the marriage of matter to soul,” Thou wert wedded to young fiery Time, The now weary and hoary-haired Time, With him thou hast shared earth’s control. O beautiful spirit of Death, Thy brothers are Winter and Night; Stern Winter and shadowy Night, They bear thy still image and breath. Summer buds fall asleep in thy arms, ’Neath the fleecy and soft-footed snow, The silent, pure, beautiful snow; And the earth their new life-being warms. All the world is endowed with thy breath, Summer splendours and purple of wine Flow out of this magic of thine, O beautiful angel of Death What wonders in silence we see The lily grows pale in thy sight; The rose thro’ the long summer night Sighs its life out in fragrance to thee. O beautiful angel of Death, The beloved are thine, all are thine ! They have drunk the nepenthe divine, They have felt the full flow of thy breath. Out into thy realm they are gone, Like the incense that greeteth the morn, On the wings of thy might they’re up-borne, As bright birds to thy Paradise flown. They are folded and safe in thy sight, Thro’ thy portals they pass from earth’s prison; From the cold clod of clay they have risen, To dwell in thy temple of light. O beautiful Angel of Life, Germs feel thee and burst into bloom, Souls see thee and rise from the tomb, With beauty and loveliness rife. On earth thou art named cold Death, Dim, dark, dismal, dire, dreadful Death, In heaven thou art “Angel of Life.” We are one with thy spirit, O Death ; We spring to thy arms unafraid, One with thee are our glad spirits made. We are born when we drink thy cold breath,— Oh, Angel of Life, lovely Death. The concluding hymn was then sung, after which Mrs. Tappan uttered the following benediction—“ May the peace of the loving spirit of the Heavenly Father and His angels abide with you, and the life that knows no death bear you on to the immortal world.” The Spiritualist, Oct. 15, 1873 Poem by Cora L.V. Richmond The lily grows pale in thy sight; the rose, through the long summer night, sighs its life out in fragrance to thee.

The scent of ghost stories told beside a crackling fireplace, with garlands of evergreen hanging beside October’s carved pumpkins. Hearthlight and jack o’lanterns cast shadows on cobwebbed corners. Candied orange peel, mulled cider, smoked myrrh twirling through a cranberry garland, balsam resin and amber-drizzled pumpkin, smoldering hearthwood, and the soft honeyed glow of dripping beeswax.

Soothing, warm and quietly radiant: espresso kissed with honey, swirled into warm steamed milk, and crowned with a dusting of cinnamon.

Lime Blossom & Amber Sugar.

Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. “Aha!” said Pooh. (Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum.) “If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit,” he said, “and Rabbit means Company,” he said, “and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um.” So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: “Is anybody at home?” There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. “What I said was, ‘Is anybody at home?'” called out Pooh very loudly. “No!” said a voice; and then added, “You needn’t shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time.” “Bother!” said Pooh. “Isn’t there anybody here at all?” “Nobody.” Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, “There must be somebody there, because somebody must have said ‘Nobody.'” So he put his head back in the hole, and said: “Hallo, Rabbit, isn’t that you?” “No,” said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. “But isn’t that Rabbit’s voice?” “I don’t think so,” said Rabbit. “It isn’t meant to be.” “Oh!” said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: “Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?” “He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his.” “But this is Me!” said Bear, very much surprised. “What sort of Me?” “Pooh Bear.” “Are you sure?” said Rabbit, still more surprised. “Quite, quite sure,” said Pooh. “Oh, well, then, come in.” So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. “You were quite right,” said Rabbit, looking at him all over. “It is you. Glad to see you.” “Who did you think it was?” “Well, I wasn’t sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can’t have anybody coming into one’s house. One has to be careful. What about a mouthful of something?” Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o’clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, “Honey or condensed milk with your bread?” he was so excited that he said, “Both,” and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, “But don’t bother about the bread, please.” And for a long time after that he said nothing … until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. “Must you?” said Rabbit politely. “Well,” said Pooh, “I could stay a little longer if it—if you——” and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. “As a matter of fact,” said Rabbit, “I was going out myself directly.” “Oh, well, then, I’ll be going on. Good-bye.” “Well, good-bye, if you’re sure you won’t have any more.” “Is there any more?” asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, “No, there wasn’t.” “I thought not,” said Pooh, nodding to himself. “Well, good-bye. I must be going on.” The Hundred Acre Wood’s resident Virgo (affectionate). The scent of neat rows and polite refusals: toasted oats and clover honey, crushed lemon verbena, wild carrot leaf, and white tea poured with exacting care. A dab of condensed milk on a clean spoon, a faint rustle of vetiver, and a courteous cough to suggest that your visit has gone on quite long enough.

This smells like orchid and patchouli. The patchouli adds some earthiness, while the orchid has a powdery quality to it that's not like baby powder whatsoever -- it is a gentle powderiness that reminds me of Death Cap. On me, the orchid remains the dominant note throughout wear, but the rooty aspect of the scent cozies right up to it. Definitely one for orchid fans who are also fans of earthy scents.

Since 2026 contains a whopping THREE Friday-the-13ths (Fridays-the-13th?) we’ve decided to call in some misfortune-warding reinforcements. Each version of this year’s 13 perfume oil will be accompanied by its own bonus luck charm: a free 1/32oz imp of an original perfume oil inspired by lucky finds from our seasonal crossroads wanderings. Those who collect all three will end up with a veritable bracelet’s worth of lucky charms to treasure and wear as needed! First up, for February: SNOWY CIRCUS PEANUT. Found on a trek through Minneapolis this winter, this boon of odd fortune is a bit of frozen banana-adjacent marshmallow’ish sweetness snuggled in a pillow of freshly-fallen snow. (The review thread for the 13 that this belongs with can be found here.)

I concur with the other reviews: this has Snow White's snow but with a bit of smushed candy-like banana and something marshmallow adjacent and reminiscent of circus peanuts. But Snow White's snow is pretty quick to overtake the banana in this. I like this way more than I thought I would. I wish I could obtain more of it without buying the 13 (which didn't work out on my skin). But I'm very grateful to my decanter, who gifted me a tester to try.

It has been such a long day/month/year, so I wanted to distract myself by making something absurdly sweet and shockingly gourmand. This is a sticky, gloopy, joyful plop of marshmallow fluff, cotton candy, vanilla froth, condensed milk, taro root, honeycomb, macadamia cream, sugared champaca, caramelized tobacco, campfire toffee, black dates, coconut, and ambered benzoin swirled into dark, smoky cacao. 13 is significant, whether you consider it lucky, unlucky or just plain odd. Many believe it to be unfortunate… … because there were 13 present at the Last Supper. … Loki crashed a party of 12 at Valhalla, which ended in Baldur’s death. … Oinomaos killed 13 of Hippodamia’s suitors before Pelops finally, in his own shady way, defeated the jealous king. … In ancient Rome, Hecate’s witches gathered in groups of 12, the Goddess herself being the 13th in the coven. Concern over the number thirteen echoes back beyond the Christian era. Line 13 was omitted form the Code of Hammurabi. The shivers over Friday the 13th also have some interesting origins: … Christ was allegedly crucified on Friday the 13th. … On Friday, October 13, 1307, King Philip IV of France ordered the arrests of Jaques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, and sixty of his senior knights. … In British custom, hangings were held on Fridays, and there were 13 steps on the gallows leading to the noose. To combat the superstition, Robert Ingersoll and the Thirteen Club held thirteen-men dinners during the 19th Century. Successful? Hardly. The number still invokes trepidation to this day. A recent whimsical little serial killer study showed that the following murderers all have names that total thirteen letters: Theodore Bundy Jeffrey Dahmer Albert De Salvo John Wayne Gacy And, with a little stretch of the imagination, you can also fit ”˜Jack the Ripper’ and ”˜Charles Manson’ into that equation. More current-era paranoia: modern schoolchildren stop their memorization of the multiplication tables at 12. There were 13 Plutonium slugs in the atomic bomb that was dropped on Nagasaki. Apollo 13 wasn’t exactly the most successful space mission. All of these are things that modern triskaidekaphobes point to when justifying their fears. For some, 13 is an extremely fortuitous and auspicious number… … In Jewish tradition, God has 13 Attributes of Mercy. Also, there were 13 tribes of Israel, 13 principles of Jewish faith, and 13 is considered the age of maturity. … The ancient Egyptians believed that there were 12 stages of spiritual achievement in this lifetime, and a 13th beyond death. … The word for thirteen, in Chinese, sounds much like the word which means “must be alive”. Thirteen, whether you love it or loathe it, is a pretty cool number all around. … In some theories of relativity, there are 13 dimensions. … It is a prime number, lucky number, star number, Wilson Prime, and Fibonacci number. … There are 13 Archimedean solids. AND… … There were 13 original colonies when the United States were founded. Says a lot about the US, doesn’t it? – – – Since 2026 contains a whopping THREE Friday-the-13ths (Fridays-the-13th?) we’ve decided to call in some misfortune-warding reinforcements. Each version of this year’s 13 perfume oil will be accompanied by its own bonus luck charm: a free 1/32oz imp of an original perfume oil inspired by lucky finds from our seasonal crossroads wanderings. Those who collect all three will end up with a veritable bracelet’s worth of lucky charms to treasure and wear as needed! First up, for February: SNOWY CIRCUS PEANUT (review thread located here).

This is mostly about the smoked cacao and champaca on me, making it an incense-y chocolate on my skin. I get touches of the coffee, coconut (well, more than a touch of that after the scent has been dry for several hours), and the buttery condensed milk, but nothing can hold a candle to the champaca and chocolate. Because of this, it's not as sweet as I expected it to be, despite the long list of gourmand notes. I don't need a bottle of this one and probably won't keep my decant -- but I wish I had liked it, because I was fortunate enough to get a tester of Snowy Circus Peanut from my decanter, and I was pleasantly surprised by that and wish I could get more of it without having to commit to a whole bottle of this 13.

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.)

Frosted cedar, moonlit amber, black plum, vetiver, smoked oakwood, violet shadows, and feathery incense. Ohara Koson