doomsday_disco

A twinkling rosy rosé garnished with a curly sliver of clove-studded orange peel.

Vanillekipferl plunked in a pile of pine needles.

About two miles from the village of Canton, Me., is a cosey, old-fashioned farm-house which is located directly opposite a graveyard, with no other house in sight. From the window of this little house nothing can be seen except the graveyard with its gleaming stones, and the hills and mountains round about. The family that has been occupying the house moved out not long ago, declaring that they could not stand it any longer, that they were wellnight distracted by the demonstrations. When they told their story a former resident, who now lives in Hartford, announced that he had known for years that the place was haunted. He had not told any one for fear of the ridicule of his neighbors. The demonstrations were not only in the house, but in the barn and around the premises. Regularly every night at 12 o’clock a team of horses rushes from the direction of the village, rumbles over the little bridge at a slashing gait, and then disappears. It never reaches the house. Instead, ghostly voices address the members of the family who have the temerity to live there, the voices coming from all parts of the house, but never so clearly that they can be located. On one memorable night a member of the family went to the barn just at dusk without a lantern. A figure stood at the corner of the building, and he ran to learn what the straggler wanted about the place. The figure silently and mysteriously melted into the shadows and was gone. The Buffalo News, April 20, 1904 A spectral cacophony of shimmering, translucent dun sandalwood, grey amber, and wraith-chilled chestnut galloping through the mist-cloaked shadows of time, a clattering of clove and black pepper, and a crack of phantom leather.

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.

Absinthe and Lavender Tar.

Brown Sugar and Oak.

Jasmine Absolute and Champaca Petals.

Foweles in þe frith þe fisses in þe flod And I mon waxe wod sulch sorw I walke with for beste of bon and blod – 13th century song, anonymous Birds in the wood and in the space between woods, fishes in the flowing waters, I feel I must go mad from mourning because I journey with such sorrow for the beasts of bone and blood. Gnarled boughs of white oak, sweet chestnut, hazel, and holly, blood-red rowan berries, spikes of blackthorn, a scattering of melancholy lilac petals, cade, and crushed lily of the valley.

Are the black bonbons of my dreams, And your ruby cocoa reflect the hell, In which my heart is pleased to dwell. Dark chocolate, ruby cocoa, blood musk, golden honey, thick black wine, champagne grapes, tobacco flower, plum blossom, tonka bean, oakmoss, carnation, benzoin, opoponax, and sugar cane.

This goes on with the amber, heliotrope, almond blossom, and ink being the dominant notes, although the white tea is briefly there when freshly applied and then quickly retreats to the background. I'm not familiar with golden lotus, but nothing is jumping out at me as being similar to the bubblegum-like sweetness of pink lotus or the wonderful, airy blue lotus from Blossoming Vulva. The almond blossom adds a sweet creaminess to the scent and helps tames the heliotrope, which is somewhat sharp and perfume-y in this blend, but didn't turn go powdery on me for once. The ink note is on point and most noticeable during the wet phase of the scent and about an hour afterwards, but then it becomes mostly about the heliotrope and almond blossom cream, resting on a bed of amber. I like this and am pleasantly surprised the heliotrope didn't ruin this for me, so I plan to keep the decant. But I don't think I need more of this since I feel like almond blossom cream has popped up a lot lately, and there's a scent combo with an ink note that I really love and probably should have gotten a back-up bottle of (Neglected Calligrahy).

Lemon cream, incense smoke, and candle wax.

The lavender, orchid incense, champca orchid, and red labdanum being the strongest notes out of the gate, but the orchid incense ends up being the dominant note throughout wear. The lavender doesn't hang around for long after the wet phase of the scent, and I was expecting the patch in this to be a powerhouse, but I'm not getting much of it at all here. The oakmoss ends up cozying up to the orchid incense so that this mostly becomes an incense-y, mossy blend on me after several hours of wear. Since I prefer this during the first hour of wear when the lavender is still hanging around, I'm going to keep the bottle and use it as a sleep scent.

Lotus Root and Golden Amber.

Spiced Chestnut and Honey.

Vetiver Root and Swamp Oud.

There is our wildest mount- a headless horse. But though it runs unbridled off its course, And all our chocolatiers would seem defied, We have ideas yet that we haven’t tried. Dark chocolate, leather, sweet myrrh, tobacco absolute, and black amber.

Iris and Wild Patchouli.

An arrangement in which eros is expressed via liquid assets and cold, hard cash: shiny butterscotch and pale green vanilla mint.

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore. You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days. Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God. But let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow. Red currant-laced vanilla bourbon and orris butter.

Thick slices of coconut-frosted coconut cake dunked in a vat of Snake Oil.

Palatial grandeur in ruins, its decrepit majesty poised in the liminal space between decay and beauty. A haunting memory of all-consuming desire: the rich, earthy depth of oud, vetiver, and moss, grounded in the untamed wilds of the forest, echoing the ancient stones that remain. “It was a bad family, and here its bloodstained annals were written,” he continued. “It is hard that they should, after death, continue to plague the human race with their atrocious lusts.”

Bleached white sandalwood, ambrette seed, gurjum balsam, nagarmotha, Spanish moss, and lily of the valley.

 Sandalwood incense, dusky violet petals, mauve orris root, sweet labdanum, jasmine sambac, frankincense, and ti leaf.

Angora, Lady of the Rabbit skull – ceremonial matcha added to a steaming cup of earl grey, family heirlooms and artifacts, a packed suitcase, ruffles, buttons and bows, awaiting adventure. Earl gray and matcha, blackcurrant bud, white sandalwood, pink rose petals, honeysuckle, and white musk.

Come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him all the same. — Bram Stoker, Dracula Words to live by as we plunge headlong into 2025. Our first Lunacy scent of the year is a honking good time, in spite of it all: goosefeather-white sandalwood and orris butter splashed by sour cherry cordial, red plum juice, caramelized tobacco absolute, black champaca brocade, and a touch of red chili pepper.