doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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Dark, dewy patchouli leaves gathered under the moon’s silvery gaze, their earthy aroma rooted deep with forest shadows and resinous moss.
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“If I were chust your doggie. I know vot I vould do, Effry place vot you vould go I vould be going, too!” A warm slab of Kirschenmichel served with a cup of blue chamomile tea.
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My eyes behave the way they do Cause my thoughts are all of you! Doggone it! Cherry-chip brookie batter garnished with a sprinkle of freshly cut grass.
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Welcome to your new home: warm cedar planks, a tousled cotton blankie, and a red leather collar complete with bright gold chain.
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An invitation: black amber and pink peony sealed in a creamy white paper envelope.
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Desert Sage and Palo Santo.
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Coyote Moon: Desert Sage and Palo Santo Lotion
doomsday_disco replied to doomsday_disco's topic in Lotion
I love this one. The palo santo in this reminds me of the palo santo in TAL Security Blanket, which has a very cool feel to it, and it pairs perfectly with the desert sage note. It's not the same as the purple sage note in Wolf Moon: Purple Sage and Pinon Hair Gloss, but I feel like if you like the sage vibe in that one, and enjoy palo santo, that you will enjoy this scent as well. It's a very comforting scent. I absolutely need a bottle. -
Winners only beyond this point! Blue hydrangea, airy white musk, and pink jasmine buds.
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Serbian / шљива A plum-soaked kiss smoldering with clove and anise, and a sultry exhale of dusky brandy.
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Finnish A playful, tidy, sweet bruise: chilled blueberry cardamom cream.
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Apricot, cream musk, bourbon vanilla, and golden bergamot.
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“We must not look at goblin guys, We must not buy their truffles: Who knows what chocolate they wiped On their pantaloons and ruffles?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen With their choco pies. Sorry, that was terrible. Coconut covered chocolate lumps, gnarly patchouli, and sweet benzoin.
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“The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, ‘Let me in – let me in!’ ‘Who are you?’ I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. ‘Catherine Linton,’ it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of LINTON? I had read EARNSHAW twenty times for Linton) – ‘I’m come home: I’d lost my way on the moor!’ As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child’s face looking through the window.” A ghostly feminine perfume rising from the stiff binding of old diaries. Violet leaf and antique rose curl through the air, smeared with ink.
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Creamy coconut flesh, cold and pale as moonlight.
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Patchouli and Smoked Vanilla.
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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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Liberty: In the Form of the Goddess of Youth, Giving Support to the Bald Eagle
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Limited Editions
Liberty, luminous and unafraid, bright with conviction, guided by idealism and steadied by resolve. A scent that is clear, exalted, and alive with purpose: olive leaf, pale amber, joyous neroli, polished brass, feathery vanilla chiffon, and spicy carnation. Edward Savage -
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.
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“Oh, I’m burning! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? Why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I’m sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the window again wide: fasten it open!” An incandescent amber storm. Strata of glowing ambers piled deep and restless, molten and honeyed, threaded with dark, resinous veins that pulse like blood under skin. Free, wild, elemental: the storm at her heart, beating against the glass until it shatters. Formulated to be layered with HEATHCLIFF, or worn as a standalone scent.
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Brown Sugar and Oak.
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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.
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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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An aromatic panel of gingerbread conveniently drilled at hip-height, smutted up with patchouli and boozy brown musk.
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You pray in your distress and in your need; would that you might pray also in the fullness of your joy and in your days of abundance. For what is prayer but the expansion of yourself into the living ether? And if it is for your comfort to pour your darkness into space, it is also for your delight to pour forth the dawning of your heart. And if you cannot but weep when your soul summons you to prayer, she should spur you again and yet again, though weeping, until you shall come laughing. When you pray you rise to meet in the air those who are praying at that very hour, and whom save in prayer you may not meet. Therefore let your visit to that temple invisible be for naught but ecstasy and sweet communion. For if you should enter the temple for no other purpose than asking you shall not receive: And if you should enter into it to humble yourself you shall not be lifted: Or even if you should enter into it to beg for the good of others you shall not be heard. It is enough that you enter the temple invisible. I cannot teach you how to pray in words. God listens not to your words save when He Himself utters them through your lips. And I cannot teach you the prayer of the seas and the forests and the mountains. But you who are born of the mountains and the forests and the seas can find their prayer in your heart, And if you but listen in the stillness of the night you shall hear them saying in silence, “Our God, who art our winged self, it is thy will in us that willeth. It is thy desire in us that desireth. It is thy urge in us that would turn our nights, which are thine, into days which are thine also. We cannot ask thee for aught, for thou knowest our needs before they are born in us: Thou art our need; and in giving us more of thyself thou givest us all.” A scent for wordless communion, an immersion with the divine: silver frankincense and white myrrh, blue lotus absolute and white sandalwood.