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Unreleased scent from a fantasy film. White taffeta, silver glitter, and pale florals.
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Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil. For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst? Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts it drinks even of dead waters. You are good when you are one with yourself. Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil. For a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house. And a ship without rudder may wander aimlessly among perilous isles yet sink not to the bottom. You are good when you strive to give of yourself. Yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself. For when you strive for gain you are but a root that clings to the earth and sucks at her breast. Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, “Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance.” For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root. You are good when you are fully awake in your speech, Yet you are not evil when you sleep while your tongue staggers without purpose. And even stumbling speech may strengthen a weak tongue. You are good when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps. Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping. Even those who limp go not backward. But you who are strong and swift, see that you do not limp before the lame, deeming it kindness. You are good in countless ways, and you are not evil when you are not good, You are only loitering and sluggard. Pity that the stags cannot teach swiftness to the turtles. In your longing for your giant self lies your goodness: and that longing is in all of you. But in some of you that longing is a torrent rushing with might to the sea, carrying the secrets of the hillsides and the songs of the forest. And in others it is a flat stream that loses itself in angles and bends and lingers before it reaches the shore. But let not him who longs much say to him who longs little, “Wherefore are you slow and halting?” For the truly good ask not the naked, “Where is your garment?” nor the houseless, “What has befallen your house?” What has befallen your house? Myrrh resin, beeswax, black fig, cypress smoke, and vetiver.
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Ladies, is it gay to have a skeletal system? Short answer: YES! Because the human wrist was undeniably made to flap and go “enh.” There are many theories about the historical origin of the so-called “limp wrist” gesture, which has bedeviled arbiters of masculine/feminine presentation since at least the ancient Roman times. So when we defiantly flop our phalanges, we’re reclaiming a time-honored tradition! And letting our skeletons do what they do most naturally: camp it up. Did you know the human wrist is made up of eight small bones, plus the forearm’s radius and ulna? Factor in the four small ones that comprise that lightly extended pinkie finger, and the number of bones required to execute this delicate maneuver add up to FOURTEEN. No wonder we’re always so tired. So defy nature if you truly must, but never forget: when bones are all that’s left of you, the wrists will be extra floppy. And we think that’s worth celebrating while you’re still alive! This scent debuted in 2023 as “Is He, You Know” but since this is commonly deployed as an equal-opportunity aphorism, we’ve created a campy companion scent: sweet 13-year aged patchouli, peru balsam, white oakmoss, spikenard, bourbon vanilla, sugar cane, and a sprig of lilac.
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It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions. The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others. No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long. A smouldering, unclean scent: turmeric-dusted acrid marigold, linseed oil, bitter orange peel, crumbling plaster, clotted vanilla, and a whiff of sweet mildew.
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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.
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When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek , -- Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again, -- but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn! -- What is the Spring to me? Dark amber, dead leaves, khus, saffron, bitter clove, chrysanthemum, camellia, galangal, and a drop of oud. At first sniff out of the bottle I get a that 'greenhouse' smell of plants, not flowers, but plants. Which is probably the chrysanthemum talking. Then the Khus comes out to play which to my nose smells just like Vetiver. Once on my skin right away it becomes the smell of dead leaves all the way. *sniff sniff* Yep, dead leaves/dying plants with a very slight hint of smoke. After a few minutes it begines to morph and I start to smell a hint of the amber, clove and saffron. This amber is not as sweet as other amber blends, it is indeed 'dark'. The clove in the is very mild and on the back burner. I want to say it is slightly similar to Baghdad at dry down, but much darker and complex. After 20 minutes it morphs again and becomes sweeter and a little spicier. As it fades is is now all amber on me. I love sweet/spicy scents and this phase is my favorite so far. This one is such a morpher and all the phases are wonderful. It's such an exotic dark and sexy blend, I love it! So yea, dead leaves on a crisp day in autumn and a faint whiff of Halloween spiced amber. Yep, I'd say this IS the smell of the girls perfume from the Type O' Negative song 'Black #1' fer sure.
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An oil of courage, daring, and reckless, unbridled joy. Contains: dragon’s blood absolute, frankincense, Tahitian vanilla absolute, blood orange, master root, apricot fruit compound, ginger root, heliotropin natural isolate, and fossilized amber.
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Cracked leather and faded ink, dust-heavy pages steeped in echoes of prayer. Beeswax candles gutter in the shadows, their pale, amber light feebly holding back the dark. Low murmurs of frankincense and oakmoss anchor the stern hush of eternity. Vincent Van Gogh
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By moonlight—the moon shines in all night when there is a moon—I wouldn’t know it was the same paper. At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be. I didn’t realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind,—that dim sub-pattern,—but now I am quite sure it is a woman. A perfume of veils and bars, moonlight slashing through prison walls: silvered lavender and white iris shuddering like lamplight on stained plaster, ambergris frothing through vanilla husk, and the phantom outline of a rose-touched woman’s silhouette.
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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 rich bourbon cream skin musk, formulated to announce and enhance whatever version of oneself is currently coming forth.
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But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here. It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell! Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like. It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. In this damp weather it is awful. I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me. It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell. But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of the paper! A yellow smell. Scorched wood and oversteeped chamomile petals pressed wetly into beeswax, brittle fossilized amber, a whisper of honeyed hay and saffron, and the sweet decay of overripe butter figs.
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Smoked tonka bean, vetiver root, white patchouli, oolong tea, hazy, muted brown amber, and vanilla husk. Odilon Redon
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The whistle cries. Cheek pressed to the cool glass, breath fogging faintly as orchards and riverbanks blur past in watercolor hues. The air fills with rose creme and warm pastries from the dining car. Night falls. The train glides along the darkened coast, and lights shimmer in the distance like earthbound stars. Burnt sugar amber, polished French oakwood, cacao fleur, blushing peony, and cashmere musk.
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A 2023 Halloween concoction which maybe should’ve been a Yule all along! Wooly and witchy, fuzzy and scuzzy, long green fingers tipped with ruby-red nails: raw wool, sweet oakmoss, and cranberry brandy.
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A bitterly cold, bone-white chypre; austere polar musk, vegan ambergris, and white tea combine to make a genteel, frigid perfume as bright and sharp as the first crack of glacial ice.
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A fatal temptation: vanilla bean paste, allspice, ground almond accord, cinnamon sugar, golden caster sugar, and a dusting of icing sugar.
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A bloodless scent stitched together like delicate antique lace, with a hint of powdered violet, plum brandy, and gleaming aldehydes.
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A leathered up, musky interpretation of BPAL’s Antique Lace: dry flowers, aged linens, and the faint breath of long-faded perfumes with well-worn leather and caramel musk.
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A whiff of seasonal dread, candied and cursed; the perfect gourmand perfume for holiday melancholics. A dense, boozy thud of brandied plum, candied citrus peel, dried cherries, sherry, blackened clove and nutmeg, ambered dust, moth-eaten burgundy velvet curtains, and a tiny plume of smoke from recently-spent matchsticks.
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Flapjacks drowning in an intoxicating blend containing wormwood essence, light mints, cardamom, anise, hyssop, and the barest hint of lemon.
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*clinks bottles* *clinks shovels* How about one for the road? Fizzy pop and a syrupy slick of motor oil splashed across disintegrating tan leather seats.
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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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Slushy white mint, vanilla cream, lemon drops, grapefruit, and yuzu!
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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.)
