doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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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 -
On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: “Now is it true, or is it not, “That what is which and which is what?” On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it’s true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose—but whose are these? On Friday—— Hot, sunny cardamom amber and milky musk, honeyed rice and snowy slush.
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The Wissahickon is one of my favorite places in the world, and whenever we can, Ted and I lose ourselves in its winding paths. This painting calls to mind one of our favorite trails in autumn, when the leaves have begun to surrender to the earth and sunlight filters through ember, rust, and gold. The air is rich with the breath of living things, the green pulse of growth softened and deepened by the bitter sweetness of decay. Olga Wisinger-Florian
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I'm surprised nobody has reviewed this one months after its release! This is rugged scent that's heavy on the well-worn leather and pine that is somewhat earthy and smoothed over by some sweetness from the apple. I get some moss and bark, and I feel like there might be some pine pitch in here along with the boughs. I don't know what bloodroot smells like (but I will when I get around to testing my decant of Wolf Moon: Bloodroot and Evergreens this week). The steel in this is pretty tame and does not add any sharp metallic quality to the scent whatsoever. While I don't feel the need to have more than a decant of this, I would like to try layering this with Snow White and see how that turns out.
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Then she summoned a huntsman and said to him, “Take Snow-White out into the woods. I never want to see her again. Kill her, and as proof that she is dead bring her lungs and her liver back to me.” The huntsman obeyed and took Snow-White into the woods. He took out his hunting knife and was about to stab it into her innocent heart when she began to cry, saying, “Oh, dear huntsman, let me live. I will run into the wild woods and never come back.” Because she was so beautiful the huntsman took pity on her, and he said, “Run away, you poor child.” Mercy interrupting violence: well-worn leather shadowed by pine boughs, moss-slick bark, bloodroot and steel, and a tremble of wild apple. (Review thread creator note: This is a new Yule scent. If you're looking to review the 2018 release of The Huntsman, which was a Tarot scent, please click here.)
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“I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.” Under an ambivalent sun that knows neither grief nor passion, the moor exhales over slate and stone. Heather and moss whisper against cold earth, entwined in creeping ivy; a soft lament, an uneasy stirring of agonized longing.
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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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“I have no pity! I have no pity! The more worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething, and I grind with greater energy, in proportion to the increase of pain.” A feral and unrepentant animalic musk slick with heat, tangled with smoked birch tar that clings to skin like soot and desire. Refined cologne masks a deep, grinding base of dark resins, cracked leather, and vetiver root; earth torn open, roots exposed. An elemental fury, a wild, fanatical embrace terribly alive in its darkness. Formulated to be layered with CATHERINE, or worn as a standalone scent.
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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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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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In the shadows of a neon hive-city, insectoid forms glide between thick curtains of bright green vines and crackling circuit boards. Blooming under sheets of acid rain and electric moons, this scent opens with the dark crackle of leather: slick, sunless, and alive with static. A surge of petrichor follows, like rainfall striking alien soil, soaking into a garden grown from strange seeds and synthetic spores. Peculiar blooms unfurl, humming with iridescent electricity. Moss clings to chrome roots, cybernetic orchids burst from humid soil.
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Streams of frozen amber, snow-dusted frankincense, birch bark, Peru balsam, and rivulets of smoldering beeswax. Gustav Lange
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Lime Blossom & Amber Sugar.
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A sun-warmed bloom, its fragrance unfurls in lush waves: rich and creamy, like chocolate and nectar mingling in the sultry air. A scent both decadent and wild, glistening with heady sweetness.
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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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Rain-dappled moss, golden silk, and sheer, gossamer vanilla.
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Coffee Bean and Cinnamon Stick.
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May Christmas shed lustre around you. Amber-illuminated roasted chestnut, cardamom, caramel, and allspice.
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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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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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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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His appetite is insatiable! Crumbs of gnawed marzipan and toasted hazelnuts tumbling through a thicket of patchouli and gunpowder and bouncing off of a throbbing cherrywood ramrod.
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A bronze chypre with molten amber, gleaming myrrh, and a hint of laurel leaf. Thomas Crawford
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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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Black Butterfly Moon: Black Orchid and Crushed Berries Hair Gloss
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Hair
Black Orchid and Crushed Berries.