doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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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.
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Blushing ruby chocolate swirling with vanilla, spices, and the dark, silky sweetness of Snake Oil.
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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.)
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Frosted cedar, moonlit amber, black plum, vetiver, smoked oakwood, violet shadows, and feathery incense. Ohara Koson
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Honey Dust and Toasted Oats.
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Tangy cream cheese folded through warm bakery dough, still puffed from the fryer, and thick, dark wild blackberry jam.
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Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn’t. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh. When I first heard his name, I said, just as you are going to say, “But I thought he was a boy?” “So did I,” said Christopher Robin. “Then you can’t call him Winnie?” “I don’t.” “But you said——” “He’s Winnie-ther-Pooh. Don’t you know what ‘ther’ means?” “Ah, yes, now I do,” I said quickly; and I hope you do too, because it is all the explanation you are going to get. Honey-slathered buttered toast, glittering amber beams of sunlight, warm milk, cotton stuffing, and cuddly roasted vanilla.
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Amber & Grey Musk.
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Buttercream-frosted angel food cake and a smear of strawberry lip gloss.
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Dark chocolate with a satisfying crunch of scorched black sesame, hazelnut, and patchouli leaf.
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Spanish A playful bite, sweetness bruised by desire. Black cherry liqueur, red amber, and crushed strawberries crushed with clove and cinnamon sugar.
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And a man said, Speak to us of Self-Knowledge. And he answered, saying: Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights. But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart’s knowledge. You would know in words that which you have always known in thought. You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams. And it is well you should. The hidden well-spring of your soul must needs rise and run murmuring to the sea; And the treasure of your infinite depths would be revealed to your eyes. But let there be no scales to weigh your unknown treasure; And seek not the depths of your knowledge with staff or sounding line. For self is a sea boundless and measureless. Say not, “I have found the truth,” but rather, “I have found a truth.” Say not, “I have found the path of the soul.” Say rather, “I have met the soul walking upon my path.” For the soul walks upon all paths. The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals. Lotus petals cast onto a dark and fathomless sea.
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Palo Santo and White Amber.
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Coyote Moon: Palo Santo and White Amber
doomsday_disco replied to doomsday_disco's topic in Duets & Menage A Trois
This duet has a pretty even balance of cool palo santo and white amber (the same white amber from scents like Hohensalzburg Fortress, Schönperchten, and The Grey Columns) during the first few hours of wear, but then the white amber ends up being stronger than the palo santo by the end of the day (although it's still very much present). The palo santo ends up leaning more into cologne territory after its initial cool blast, but it's still nice and comforting paired with the white amber. I'm going to have to spend more time with this to determine if I need more than my decant -- and if I could only get one palo santo scent from the Coyote Moon update, I'd definitely go with the Desert Sage and Palo Santo lotion -- but the decant is definitely a keeper! -
Pomegranate and Scarlet Chypre.
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A sensual, luxuriant scent that stays close to the skin: Australian sandalwood, tonka bean, benzoin, Siberian iris, bourbon vanilla, cardamom-infused amber, and mimosa petals. Egon Schiele
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Yuzu & Warm Honey Drizzle.
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Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide? And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech? The aggrieved and the injured say, “Beauty is kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.” And the passionate say, “Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.” The tired and the weary say, “Beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.” But the restless say, “We have heard her shouting among the mountains, And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.” At night the watchmen of the city say, “Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.” And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, “We have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.” In winter say the snow-bound, “She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.” And in the summer heat the reapers say, “We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.” All these things have you said of beauty, Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied, And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth, But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted. It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears. It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw, But rather a garden for ever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight. People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror. You are life and you are the veil; a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted: saffron-threaded sandalwood, white ambrette, wild narcissus, smoky yellow tobacco flower, and gilded vanilla.
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A scandalous affair between silk-furred conspirators: tails entwined beneath tables, furrrrtive glances stolen and held too long, stolen hours, arched backs, and the scent of unfamiliar catnip rubbed on jeweled collars. An indolent purr of cream-soaked shortbread biscuits, cracked cardamom, pink pepper, smoked vanilla bean, and cocoa powder.
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Calla lilies stained blood red by Snake Oil and daemonorops draco, flecked with poison-touched lily of the valley.
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Gliding through the velvet hush of midnight, she moves — barefoot on cool stone, wrapped in a whisper of clove-scented silk. A flicker of candlelight catches the curve of her throat, the glint in her half-lidded eyes. Dark florals, bruised and beckoning — black orchid, scarlet poppy, and moonlit tuberose — whisper their secrets against the heat of her skin. A breath of smoked vanilla curls like an incantation, weaving through ribbons of amber resin and spiced honey. Beneath it all, the slow, insistent pull of patchouli and oud, ancient and aching. This is the art of longing, the alchemy of desire.
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According to some authors, myrrh is the produce of a tree that grows in the same forests as the incense-tree, though most say that they grow in different places: but the fact is that myrrh grows in many parts of Arabia, as will be seen when we come to speak of the several varieties of it. A sort that is highly esteemed is brought from the islands also, and the Sabæi even cross the sea to procure it in the country of the Troglodytæ. It is grown also by being transplanted, and when thus cultivated is greatly preferred to that which is grown in the forests. The plant is greatly improved by raking and baring the roots; indeed, the cooler the roots are kept, the better it is. – Pliny the Elder Kataf myrrh, smoked sandalwood, and vanilla bean.
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Stone-faced charm, stone-cold sophistication. A mossy beard oil blend with a hint of beeswax, cathedral incense, blackened cedar, and aged oak.
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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.
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Voluptuous Bulgarian rose unfurls like crimson silk, met by the dark, resinous warmth of freshly cracked coffee beans.