The Woman Behind It

[doomsday_disco]

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.

[Invidiana]

The Woman Behind It All is reminiscent of gauzy off-white curtains, of shadows flitting back and forth on plaster walls, making you wonder if the vaguely human silhouettes are a trick of light or something more. Something like the fuzzy glow of lamplight buzzes in the background. Phantoms of a woman's perfume hang in the air. Haunting and realistic, this is a dimly room where ghosts are not afraid to show themselves in some form. 

Edited October 19 by Invidiana

[Amoraexcena]

Darn. In the bottle, this one has some complexity and promise, on my skin the white iris overwhelms everything else, it's practically an iris single note. ~30 min in, I can occasionally get a ghostly hint of something else undernearth that's shifty and gauzy and compelling - but I take a second closer sniff and it's all iris again.

 

I'll let it sit for a bit and see where it goes, but this is likely getting passed on to someone whose skin would appreciate it more. 

[ghoulnextdoor]

Sneaking into Deborah Turbeville's Unseen Versailles, elegant ghost stories and hazy hallucinations of antique decadence. A sliver of lavender soap worn translucent, the waxy trace of vintage lipstick on forgotten drinking glasses, pale powdery woods exhaling through dust-shrouded chambers. Those fleeting witnesses—hairpins, papers, cosmetics left in neglected storage rooms—so delicate an open window might blow them all away. The specific scent of beauty rituals frozen mid-performance, isolation and romanticism suspended in abandoned gilt, the haunting intimacy and immersion of faded grandeur where pristine splendor once might have kept you behind velvet ropes.

Edited Friday at 05:05 PM by ghoulnextdoor