doomsday_disco

A jolly Christmas for some. For others? Not so much. Frosted sage, icy green and menacing.

Red winter berries crushed under tiny claws, fermented wild cherry and mulled brandy spilling into russet feathers.

Billowing bulbous blobs of grapefruit marshmallows.

Pine sap and amber ashes.

The crime of Lady Violet at Gilravage Hall in Neglected Murderesses. Black Darjeeling brewed to the edge of acridity, its dark tannins laced with the faint metallic sigh of tarnished silver. Bruised and rain-damp wisteria petals clinging to a loosened knot of fraying violet ribbon. The lingering ghost of charred wood from a dormant hearth drifting beneath a sweep of velvet the color of fading bruises, tangled with the ragged threads of silk-stitched roses.

A sticky brown sphere of black treacle, dried fruits, and brandy with a double honk of marshmallow fluff and buttercream.

Hot, sultry beeswax and blushing pink apple.

A handful of dates and black figs plopped into a frosted glass frothing with cranberry champagne.

Not exactly my definition of a happy Christmas, but to each their own. Wild pansies, white honey, and frothy cream.

May Christmas shed lustre around you. Amber-illuminated roasted chestnut, cardamom, caramel, and allspice.

Ylang Ylang and White Apple.

Brown sugar cookies with fat chunks of cinnamon-dusted apple and swirls of caramel.

A bottomless swirl of black leather, dead branches, and flaming pumpkin guts.

Pumpkin spiced and buttery.

Hazelnut Spread and Mini Marshmallows.

For the spooky kids down the shurr.

Happy Halloween, all! Brian here — Doc Constantine to some — making my occasional guest appearance narrating BPAL scent copy. The Porcelain Bat came into our lives last year, the morning we staggered home from New York Comic Con. Samantha and I were running on fumes—suitcases still in the car, clothes sticky from the long drive, brains mushy from lack of sleep. All we wanted was showers, silence, and unconsciousness. Instead, at the crack of dawn, we encountered a fluffy ball of chaos. Sam was the first to notice. She was upstairs when she heard a shuffle in the bathroom. At first, she thought it was a mouse, but when she leaned closer, she froze. Pressed against the frosted glass of our under-sink cabinet was the very distinct, unmistakable silhouette of a bat. One wing splayed, tiny body smushed, like it had been waiting all week for us. Her scream shook the walls: “BRIAN! THERE’S A FUCKING BAT IN THE BATHROOM!” I was so exhausted that her words barely made sense. “I know all those words,” I muttered, “but not in that order.” By the time my brain caught up, Sam had cracked the door open. The bat had managed to get out from under the sink and was boinging around the bathroom like a rubber Halloween toy brought to life. It zipped around the bathroom, frantic, wings flicking against tile and towel racks. For a creature that small, it felt huge—its wingspan may have been a mere handful of inches, but to us, shrieking bat-startled banshees, it was a twenty-foot beast. Everyone’s goth AF until a bat is flying straight at your face in your own house. Sam called every bat rescue service in Delco and all neighboring counties, but no one could give us an assist until at least ten hours later. We didn’t have that kind of time, not with the bathroom locked down and our bladders on strike. So we started preparing. I pulled on every piece of protective gear I owned: chainsaw helmet, gloves, goggles. If I could’ve found hockey pads, I would’ve worn those, too. Sam looked me over and frowned. “BUT YOUR NECK ISN’T COVERED!” I glared at her. “Don’t.” “WHAT IF IT’S A VAMPIRE BAT?” The joke is funny in hindsight, but in that moment I wasn’t laughing. I peeked through the old-fashioned keyhole, heart hammering, but saw nothing. Was it perched on the towels? Hanging from the door? Clinging to the ceiling like some tiny gargoyle? There was no way to know. So finally I muttered, “Fuck it,” shoved open the door, and went in with a plastic storage bin and a scrap of cardboard. Luck was on our side, and the little guy had ended up in the bathtub. The porcelain sides were too slick for him to climb: a tiny prisoner in the big white basin. Carefully, gently, we lowered the bin over him. He rustled his wings but didn’t fight. We slid the cardboard underneath, lifted him up, and carried him outside. Out on the porch, we set the box (opened, so he could make his way out on his terms) on a shady table and let him rest. Our tiny intruder, the Porcelain Bat, had survived his ordeal. And so had we. The sweet little guardian of our bathroom sink. The warm, unsettling thrum of musky fur and leathery wings smushed against frosted orris root and vanilla plaster dust.

If you sign his black book, he’ll give you a free stick-and-poke with his pitchfork! Tattoo ink steeped in infernal musk, with a splash of brimstone cologne.

Every leaf tells a story.

Nothing will squash our interest in creating new pumpkin scents!

Vanilla and Tobacco Flower.

the butterfly having disappeared my spirit came back to me — Wafū, trans. R. H. Blyth Wings unfolding in darkness, an echo of silence, the softest flutter, and then gone. Shadow-dappled tuberose and black orchid, buffeted by crumpled violet leaves and ink-dipped tea roses. A glint of obsidian musk slinks beneath, woven with scorched vanilla resin, dusty myrrh, and the faintest touch of crushed blackberry skin.

These are dark times indeed... so here's a gourmand for the brooding scholar. The warm, nutty richness of roasted macadamia folded into the dry papery musk of time-worn tomes bound in crackled leather; golden drips of beeswax candlelight flicker against polished teakwood shelves, while the smoky warmth of fireplace smoke lingers in the air. (Nutty portmanteau absolutely intended. Don’t @ us.)

The Lovebirds wanted to be spooky this year, and we didn’t have the heart to tell them that no one will be fooled. Fuzzy foamed milk with peppermint cream, green currants, and sugared green apple.

Just imagine all the tattoos hidden below as you walk through the cemetery... maybe you’ll get to see some of them in person one day! Grave loam, mushrooms, Spanish moss, a smear of ink, and a blob of braaaains.