doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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Don’t you just love that new hearse smell? A stylish, contemporary corpse-carrier for the most discriminating clientele: traces of embalming fluid clinging to white satin curtains and fresh white leather seats.
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Cascades of balsa filigree lace, white kid gloves displayed on cherrywood mannequin hands, and a frilly sachet of dried tea rose.
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It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playground and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls. Radiant emptiness: a breezy citrus-touched aldehyde with a hint of sunny amber and dusty heliotrope, and the metallic tang of sun-warmed iron bars.
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But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here. It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell! Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like. It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. In this damp weather it is awful. I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me. It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell. But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of the paper! A yellow smell. Scorched wood and oversteeped chamomile petals pressed wetly into beeswax, brittle fossilized amber, a whisper of honeyed hay and saffron, and the sweet decay of overripe butter figs.
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Goth music and goth culture are for everyone. The more, the scarier! But try telling that to the troll who’s appointed themselves as guardian of an entire subculture, which they alone seemingly understand every nuance of. So purely for fun, we asked Drew Rausch to visualize this archetype for us as an undead horror host called the GOTHIC GATEKEEPER, who smells like every record store dickhead demanding that you name three songs from the band whose shirt you’re wearing… but the goth version. Behold: pleather, incense, and a ton of vinyl.
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A crimson corset unlaced in candlelight. Rain against stained glass. The slow heartbeat of desire beneath black velvet. Dark rose steeped in spiced wine and blood orange, tangled with clove and plum, while a pulse of smoky labdanum and black vanilla drapes the air in velvet shadows. A perfume of ruin and rapture crafted for lovers who haunt each other through centuries.
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Lace curtains tremble as candle wax tears drip onto the edges of faded love letters. Love that lingers beyond the grave: violet shadows blooming in chilled air, the hush of moonlight on marble skin, a tremulous veil of moonflower petals, and sandalwood incense smoke drifting through cracked glass.
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Addressing you directly, dear reader, with this important message: NYAHHHH!! Cheeky blackcurrant against a backdrop of scorched goat’s milk, festooned with ribbons of scarlet musk, dried plum, and sweet rose-infused amber.
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A rich bourbon cream skin musk, formulated to announce and enhance whatever version of oneself is currently coming forth.
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A rich bourbon cream skin musk, formulated to announce and enhance whatever version of oneself is currently coming forth.
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A rich bourbon cream skin musk, formulated to announce and enhance whatever version of oneself is currently coming forth.
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Violet and Hay Absolute.
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Cocoa butter, coconut, tiare, and a squirt of pumpkin juice. (This is a perfume oil inspired by the scent of old school 80’s tanning lotions. Do not use this as a sunblock, as it’s… a perfume oil. Please be cautious with sun exposure, use sunblock every day, etc.)
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It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions. The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others. No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long. A smouldering, unclean scent: turmeric-dusted acrid marigold, linseed oil, bitter orange peel, crumbling plaster, clotted vanilla, and a whiff of sweet mildew.
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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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Dead Leaves, Molten Lava Cake, and Raw Cacao.
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Dead Leaves and Apple Pie.
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Every leaf tells a story.
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Piles of ube pumpkin cheesecake batter blorped into a brown sugar graham cracker crust.
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There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside-down. I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths didn’t match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher than the other. Indolic jasmine glaring through a haze of tobacco yellow and stained lace.
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You’re a grownup, no one can stop you from slurping up clouds of rooty foam from around a giant glump of pumpkin ice cream squished onto the rim of a frosted goblet.
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Saying “bone apple teeth” instead of “bon appétit” seems to take on a special meaning in the context of Halloween treats. Here’s a scent commemorating the allure of everything our dentist would have us avoid: a luscious red apple rendered nigh impenetrable by armored plates of toffee and caramel, sprinkled with bone-dry cinnamon-glazed almonds and hard bits of popcorn.
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A scent inspired by the debris left over from frantic last-minute costuming sessions. Torn scraps of velvety black voodoo lily mingled with dried rose petals and a flash of red peppercorn.
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The Lovebirds wanted to be spooky this year, and we didn’t have the heart to tell them that no one will be fooled. A frothy strawberry malted with papaya juice and black cherries, topped with marshmallow cream.
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An intangible vapor, an obfuscating mist: grey iris, ambergris, mallow blossom, white tea blossoms, and scorched milk. Alfred Stieglitz