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Showing results for tags 'March 2026'.
Found 150 results
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Caramel cream, golden oud, sweet amber, praline milk, hazelnut, and cacao.
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Honey and Oat Granola.
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Creamy white chocolate stirred into warm rice pudding with condensed milk and a dusting of cardamom sugar and saffron.
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Dark chocolate with a satisfying crunch of scorched black sesame, hazelnut, and patchouli leaf.
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Polished santol wood warmed by sun, the faint sweetness of coconut husk and rice powder, crushed sampaguita blossoms, pandan leaf, and a touch of palm sugar, oud, and chocolate suman.
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A salty skin musk dusted with pink pepper.
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Honey Dust, Patchouli, and Orris Absolute.
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Red tobacco, crimson musk, sweet red patchouli, nutmeg, vanilla bourbon, rose geranium, and saffron-gilded red amber.
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Asahina Yoshihide in a Tug-of-war with the Little People
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Lupercalia
Bourbon vanilla, caramelized benzoin, blackcurrant, and black dates. -
Sugared lemon cream, lemon peel, raw sugar cane, cucumber, and black tea.
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Tangy ruby chocolate studded with bright shards of candied orange peel.
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Death had come into the land from the time Osiris had been closed in the chest through the cunning of Sêth; war was in the land; men always had arms in their hands. No longer did music sound, no longer did men and women talk sweetly and out of the depths of their feelings. Less and less did grain, and fruit-trees, and the vine flourish. The green places everywhere were giving way to the desert. Sêth was triumphant; Thout and Nephthys cowered before him. And all the beauty and all the abundance that had come from Rê would be destroyed if the pieces that had been the body of Osiris were not brought together once more. So Isis sought for them, and Nephthys, her sister, helped her in her seeking. Isis, in a boat that was made of reeds, floated over the marshes, seeking for the pieces. One, and then another, and then another was found. At last she had all the pieces of his torn body. She laid them together on a floating island, and reformed them. And as the body of Osiris was formed once more, the wars that men were waging died down; peace came; grain, and the vine, and the fruit-trees grew once more. And a voice came to Isis and told her that Osiris lived again, but that he lived in the Underworld where he was now the Judge of the Dead, and that through the justice that he meted out, men and women had life immortal. And a child of Osiris was born to Isis: Horus he was named. Nephthys and the wise Thout guarded him on the floating island where he was born. Horus grew up, and he strove against the evil power of Sêth. In battle he overcame him, and in bonds he brought the evil Sêth, the destroyer of his father, before Isis, his mother. Isis would not have Sêth slain: still he lives, but now he is of the lesser Gods, and his power for evil is not so great as it was in the time before Horus grew to be the avenger of his father. – Padraic Colum In the account preserved by Plutarch in On Isis and Osiris, Osiris is betrayed by the cunning of Set and sealed within a chest, a king slain and committed to silence and darkness, his body later torn and scattered across the land he once made fertile. Death enters Egypt with that closing of the lid of his sarcophagus. Destruction engulfs the kingdom, and the fertile soil of grain and vine yield to the encroaching desert. Isis refuses the reign of fragmentation and shadows. In a boat of reeds, she searches the marshes, patient and relentless, gathering one fragment and then another, though the gods’ penis has been consumed by a river fish. She laid the pieces together and reformed Osiris through spell and sacred utterance, enacting the mystery that Plutarch describes as the restoration of the good and ordered principle against chaos and devastation. She fashioned a phallus for Osiris through her craft and magic, and conceived their son, Horus. As Osiris was reconstituted, peace returned, the fields bloomed green once more, and through their union, a third god is created. Alchemically, the body is dissolved into multiplicity, scattered into chaos, and through the labor of love is gathered and consecrated into renewed form. From this restored polarity emerges a third: Horus, the child born of their union, guarded by wise Thoth and steadfast Nephthys, raised to confront and overcome Set. In Horus, the Lovers create continuity and correction, a living reconciliation that tempers destruction without erasing it, for even Set remains, diminished and bound within a larger order. Esoterically, this is sacred marriage enduring beyond death, the Lovers as integration and reconciliation of life and afterlife and the power of the passion and devotion of the lovers to create new life from death. Isis does not deny mortality but transforms it. Through her love and labor, Osiris lives again, enthroned in the Underworld as Judge of the Dead, dispensing justice and granting immortality through balance. The union of Isis and Osiris is altered yet unbroken, shifted from earthly kingship to eternal dominion. This is the Lovers as cosmological force, the force of the reassembly of creation itself. Isis and Osiris embody the Lovers as divine covenant transcending death, unconditional devotion that restores wholeness, and the sacred act through which two become not only one, but three. Their bond does not end at the tomb; it passes through it, transforms it, and returns bearing life immortal, a testament that love, when joined in true polarity, does not perish but remakes the world. Blue lotus incense and kyphi resin dancing in a dusk-shadowed temple, black loam of the Nile and green papyrus crushed beneath bare feet, myrrh and cassia steeped in date honey, a glimmer of lapis and gold leaf pressed into linen, and a surge of floodwater returning to parched earth.
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Cardamom cream, sweet bourbon, tolu balsam, toasted bamboo, raw cacao, and hinoki.
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You also, Hyacinthus, would have been set in the sky! if Phoebus had been given time which the cruel fates denied for you. But in a way you are immortal too. Though you have died. Always when warm spring drives winter out, and Aries succeeds to Pisces, you rise and blossom on the green turf. And the love my father had for you was deeper than he felt for others. Delphi center of the world, had no presiding guardian, while the God frequented the Eurotas and the land of Sparta, never fortified with walls. His zither and his bow no longer fill his eager mind and now without a thought of dignity, he carried nets and held the dogs in leash, and did not hesitate to go with Hyacinthus on the rough, steep mountain ridges; and by all of such associations, his love was increased. Now Titan was about midway, betwixt the coming and the banished night, and stood at equal distance from those two extremes. Then, when the youth and Phoebus were well stripped, and gleaming with rich olive oil, they tried a friendly contest with the discus. First Phoebus, well-poised, sent it awhirl through air, and cleft the clouds beyond with its broad weight; from which at length it fell down to the earth, a certain evidence of strength and skill. Heedless of danger Hyacinthus rushed for eager glory of the game, resolved to get the discus. But it bounded back from off the hard earth, and struck full against your face, O Hyacinthus! Deadly pale the God’s face went — as pallid as the boy’s. With care he lifted the sad huddled form. The kind god tries to warm you back to life, and next endeavors to attend your wound, and stay your parting soul with healing herbs. His skill is no advantage, for the wound is past all art of cure. As if someone, when in a garden, breaks off violets, poppies, or lilies hung from golden stems, then drooping they must hang their withered heads, and gaze down towards the earth beneath them; so, the dying boy’s face droops, and his bent neck, a burden to itself, falls back upon his shoulder: “You are fallen in your prime defrauded of your youth, O Hyacinthus!” Moaned Apollo. “I can see in your sad wound my own guilt, and you are my cause of grief and self-reproach. My own hand gave you death unmerited — I only can be charged with your destruction. — What have I done wrong? Can it be called a fault to play with you? Should loving you be called a fault? And oh, that I might now give up my life for you! Or die with you! But since our destinies prevent us you shall always be with me, and you shall dwell upon my care-filled lips. The lyre struck by my hand, and my true songs will always celebrate you. A new flower you shall arise, with markings on your petals, close imitation of my constant moans: and there shall come another to be linked with this new flower, a valiant hero shall be known by the same marks upon its petals.” And while Phoebus, Apollo, sang these words with his truth-telling lips, behold the blood of Hyacinthus, which had poured out on the ground beside him and there stained the grass, was changed from blood; and in its place a flower, more beautiful than Tyrian dye, sprang up. It almost seemed a lily, were it not that one was purple and the other white. But Phoebus was not satisfied with this. For it was he who worked the miracle of his sad words inscribed on flower leaves. These letters AI, AI, are inscribed on them. And Sparta certainly is proud to honor Hyacinthus as her son; and his loved fame endures; and every year they celebrate his solemn festival. – Ovid Beloved of Apollo, the Spartan prince Hyacinthus was cherished above all companions. They raced beneath the open sky, hunted together, and Apollo trained his beloved in the art of prophecy, the lyre, and the discus. Some say Zephyrus, the West Wind, grew jealous and bent the arc of the throw one day and the shining disc, meant as sport, struck Hyacinthus down. Though he used all his skill in the art of healing, the god could not save Hyacinthus’ life. … when he beheld thy agony Phoebus was dumb. He sought every remedy, he had recourse to cunning arts, he anointed all the wound, anointed it with ambrosia and with nectar; but all remedies are powerless to heal the wounds of Fate… – Bion Apollo gathered Hyacinthus in his arms as the light dimmed from mortal eyes and wished to join his lover in the realm of death, but it was not to be. Where the blood touched earth, Apollo pressed his grief into the soil and from that wound sprang the hyacinth, petals veined with lament, marked with the cry of immortal love and immortal mourning. The flower became a living testament, renewed each spring, a sign that love does not vanish. The Lovers revealed in their most tender truth: that though love and devotion cannot provide a shield from the slings and arrows of the Fates, memory makes love eternal. It is love that refuses oblivion. Blood into blossom, rubedo unfolding in vegetal fire. Beauty bound to mortality, and through that binding made eternal. Golden laurel and sun-warmed skin, cypress shadow and noontide amber, crushed violets, lilies, and poppy, gilded myrrh, date palm, and hyacinth petals.
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Cardamom, bourbon cream, white sandalwood, and incense.
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Lilac-soaked amber cream, orris root, blue lotus absolute, white sandalwood, and purple yam.
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French A sweet whisper against the throat: raspberry coulis and cassis steeped in powdered sugar and rose syrup, melting into benzoin, tonka bean, and a soft blush of white musk.
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Among the many botanical curiosities that populate the traditions of Hoodoo, folk magic, and conjure, few possess the quiet majesty and enduring reputation of Queen Elizabeth Root. Known botanically as Iris germanica and commonly referred to as orris root when used in perfumery and herbalism, this humble rhizome has long been regarded as a potent spiritual ally. Beneath its unassuming exterior lies a symbol of feminine sovereignty: a root associated with love, authority, charisma, and the cultivation of personal power. The dried root itself offers a small lesson in patience and transformation. Hard and unyielding when whole, Queen Elizabeth Root does not readily reveal its fragrance. Once cut, grated, or pulverized, it releases the soft violet-like sweetness that has made orris root prized in perfumery for centuries. Within Hoodoo and related folk traditions, Queen Elizabeth Root is revered for its association with attraction and magnetism. It is most frequently worked by those seeking to draw love, deepen romantic attention, or cultivate passionate connections. Yet its influence extends beyond the sphere of romance. The root is also valued as a charm for increasing charisma and popularity, encouraging eloquence in communication, and strengthening one’s authority in relationships or negotiations. It is believed to help its bearer command respect and secure favorable outcomes in situations where influence and presence matter. Because of these qualities, Queen Elizabeth Root has traditionally been regarded as an emblem of feminine power. Carried as a talisman, it is said to enhance personal magnetism and reinforce one’s ability to shape the circumstances of one’s life. In folklore, the root is sometimes linked with figures such as Queen Jezebel, another symbol of commanding presence and irresistible allure. Beyond matters of love and influence, Queen Elizabeth Root is also associated with inner perception. Some traditions hold that it may aid in prophetic dreaming or support divinatory work, subtly opening the mind to intuition and symbolic insight. In this role the root becomes not merely an instrument of outward magnetism but also a key to inward awareness, encouraging the practitioner to listen more carefully to the quiet language of dreams and omens. The iris plant itself has long carried associations with nobility and elegance; its flowers appear in royal heraldry and classical gardens alike. In sorcerous lore, this regal imagery becomes concentrated in the root. To carry it is, in a sense, to carry a fragment of symbolic sovereignty: a reminder that presence, dignity, and charm are forms of power that can be cultivated and consciously directed. Thus Queen Elizabeth Root occupies a distinctive place within the landscape of folk magic. It is not a tool of aggression or coercion but one of magnetism and influence, working through attraction rather than force.
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The sun illuminates all. It is sublime consciousness, infallible clarity, perfect revelation. The Lovers live in the sun’s gaze, their union open, witnessed, and sanctified, the beams of life-affirming light warming and sustaining them. Amber and heliotrope aglow with golden frankincense, neroli, citrus peel, golden rose petals, and smoldering cedar incense.
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Asian pear, pear sugar, lemon zest, and white musk.
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Russet Honey, Patchouli, and Tobacco Absolute.
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Heliotrope, black plum, muguet, tolu balsam, violet wine, labdanum, frankincense, and mauve patchouli.
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A mountain rises between the Lovers, separating yet connecting, suggesting that union, transcendence, and spiritual ascent require hard work, perseverance, and the surmounting of obstacles. The mountain is the path to integration, a symbol repeated across depictions of the Lovers. Nothing worthwhile comes easily. Stone and well-tread mosses warmed by golden resins, wind howling across crag and cliff, and white-capped with sunlit frankincense.
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The Lovers suspended beneath hostile stars; innocent, youthful love caught in profound celestial tension. Two households, both alike in dignity, are bound by ancient grievance, and beneath their banners walk two young hearts caught in the inexorable turning of the spheres. “A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life whose misadventured piteous overthrows,” and the heavens themselves draw down to witness and grieve the dazzling catastrophe of first love. Their passion is as swift as lightning, tender as dawn, perilous as prophecy. They move as mirrored flame, twin spirits divided by inherited hatred, Gemini energy refracted through vendetta and family saga. In one another they glimpse completion, a reflection unmarred by the violence of the world beyond the balcony that hems them in. The polarity that surrounds them only sharpens their longing. Night and day, Montague and Capulet, poison and potion, oath and silence: each intrinsic, fated duality entwines them closer together. The “black-brow’d night” shelters their whispered promises and heart-rending declarations of love, wrapping them in a darkness that protects and consecrates, while the “garish sun” exposes, divides, and drives them back into the machinery of blood feud and overweening pride. In this reversal, shadow is mercy and daylight is threat, and their passion flourishes in secrecy as though it were a nocturnal bloom opening only when the world’s vigilance sleeps. Night gathers them into momentary wholeness, but the harsh light of dawn demands polarity. Their struggle is not only against their families but against time itself, against the relentless return of morning that tears them from the refuge of darkness and thrusts them toward consequence. Their love is not permitted to grow and thrive, and instead it burns brief, bright, and absolute with the shattering, pure conflagration of a supernova. In the long, shadowed sleep of death they accomplish what life denied them, and the warring houses, confronted by the cost of enmity, lay down their arms. Love as transmutation, sorrow as reconciliation, and what was divided is brought, through tragedy, into uneasy harmony. This is the Lovers as one soul divided, as the soul split and reunited through fate and consequence, union under celestial tension, and devotion that outlives breath and fundamentally alters the world that sought to forbid it. Crushed red rose and night-blooming jasmine unfurl over Verona stone warmed by summer dusk, sugared violets and bitter orange peel steeped in pale cypress smoke, with a single thread of myrrh rising like a whispered vow in the dark.
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In Tristan und Isolde, the music itself mirrors a yearning that cannot find solace within the confines of flesh, a longing that cannot be satisfied within the constraints of mortal love. “O sink hernieder, Nacht der Liebe,” they implore, calling down the night as sanctuary and sacrament, and in the final transfiguration, “In des Welt-Atems wehendem All,” they yield themselves to the vast eternity of the cosmos. The Liebestod unfolds as love’s consummation through annihilation. They lift the cup and the world alters its course, not by whim but by the immutable heartbeat of destiny dancing through their veins like quicksilver, dissolving the boundaries of crown and oath, eroding the rigid architecture of law until only longing remains. The potion works as mercurial catalyst, sacred and profane entwined so completely that no mortal decree can separate them, and their love is swept into an inexorable tide that pulls them beyond honor, beyond fealty, beyond the sunlit world. Here the Lovers are fate-struck, their devotion defying and shattering the visible order while revealing a deeper one beneath it, for in their undoing lies transformation, and in their surrender the eternal marriage of longing and oblivion. Then, being with the Queen for the last time, he held her in his arms and said: “Friend, I must fly, for they are wondering. I must fly, and perhaps shall never see you more. My death is near, and far from you my death will come of desire.” “Oh friend,” she said, “fold your arms round me close and strain me so that our hearts may break and our souls go free at last. Take me to that happy place of which you told me long ago. The fields whence none return, but where great singers sing their songs for ever. Take me now.” “I will take you to the Happy Palace of the living, Queen! The time is near. We have drunk all joy and sorrow. The time is near. When it is finished, if I call you, will you come, my friend?” “Friend,” said she, “call me and you know that I shall come.” “Friend,” said he, “God send you His reward.” As he went out the spies would have held him; but he laughed aloud, and flourished his club, and cried: “Peace, gentlemen, I go and will not stay. My lady sends me to prepare that shining house I vowed her, of crystal, and of rose shot through with morning.” And as they cursed and drave him, the fool went leaping on his way. – The Romance of Tristan & Iseult Drawn from the best French Sources and Retold by J. Bédier Rendered into English by Hilaire Belloc Dark wine spilled on oak, pine boughs and love philtres, rose petals and sea-salt, storm-wind over cold stone battlements, myrrh smoke braided with heart-pulses of red musk awash in tears, tinkling fairy bells and the bitter sweetness of forbidden fruit steeped in a silver chalice.