galleywest

If you're looking for something without lavender (which I do not like--I get tired of lavender being nigh on the only scent retailers can recommend for sleep), I must recommend Seance. I always wear Seance to bed. It smells like a big, warm, wood-paneled mansion to me. It really helps me calm down and get to sleep. I put it on my wrists and sometimes a little on my neck.

Because the lab and its following have grown significantly since they used that bottle, it would be impractical and time consuming for them to use it now. They now utilize automated bottle filling equipment which is one of the reasons that they stopped offering the 10 ml bottles. Also, they use a fairly standard bottle that is easier to keep in stock. That said.......boy, it sure is cute. What a score! What?! No house-elves to help out? No Oompa Loompas to pack orders?? Bummer.

Wow! I looooove that bottle! I can understand why they don't do the labels anymore--time-consuming and all that--but anybody know why they stopped using those bottles? They're adorable. Uh-oh, now I coveteth...

Transcript, 28th Precinct, re: statement from assault victim. VICTIM: The last thing I remember is opening the vial... OFFICER: And this was at what time? V: I, uh, don't remember exactly. In the evening, after 7 sometime? O: Go on. V: Next thing I know, I'm lying face down in the alleyway--I don't even know where I am, you know? I get up and check to see if I'm hurt, right? And my brain is just--my head is just spinning, and-- O: So you check to see if you're injured, at that time did you check to see if you were missing anything? V: Yes--well, I mean, I started to, but then...I smelled it. O: "Smelled it"? Smelled what, exactly? V: [shudders] It was--it was something horrible! I'll never forget it! not as long as I live! O: Please describe it--be specific, okay? Just walk your way through it. V: Okay...uh, well...it was sweet. It was overwhelmingly sweet. And there was something else...something spicy along with it...there was cinnamon, I know that, but, uh...what's that other thing they put in pies and stuff? O: Vanilla? V: No... O: Cardamom? V: Ew! No... O: Nutmeg? V: Yes! Yes, that's it! Nutmeg! I smelled that. It smelled just like a pumpkin pie actually, now that I think about it...but plasticky and overly sweet. I can't explain it... O: Actually, you've explained it quite well enough. I think I have to tell you that we've been experiencing a rash of these crimes lately. We always see more of them around Halloween. V: What? You...you know who did this to me? Because I'm telling you, I can get the smell off of me no matter how often I wash my hands! Who? Who is it?? O: Well, we're not entirely sure about any kind of real identity here, but we've been calling them "pumpkin Jack-ings." Don't worry--we'll catch this guy. Now, I need to set you up with a perfumist so we can work up a note profile on on our Jack. [end recording]

A BLADE OF GRASS Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, "You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams." Said the leaf indignant, "Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing." Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again -- and she was a blade of grass. And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, "O these autumn leaves! They make such a noise! They scatter all my winter dreams." Autumn leaves scattered among blades of grass. Dear Readers, I am delighted to be able to present to you, in honor of this lovely scent, a long-lost addition to Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. What many people do not know is that in addition to the ground-breaking Trancendentalist piece "Song of Myself", Whitman also wrote another, shorter poem titled "Smell of Myself". Whitman had to publish the first edition of Leaves of Grass with his own money, and thus seems to have chopped out a number of interesting works in order to cut down on the expense. The fate of many of these poems, including "I Thought I Left My Keys Here", "The Rabbits Are Ruining My Garden", and "I've a Stain on My Shirt", remains unknown. A recent private auction in Lithuania has brought this gem back to light, however, as well as Whitman's long-rumored but nary confirmed obsession with essential oil-based perfumes. Without further ado: Smell of Myself I sniff myself; and what I smell, I assume you do too. For every atomizer belonging to me, as good has sprayed on you. I loaf about a bit, I loaf and observe the scent of a spear of summer grass. My house and my rooms are full of perfumes--the shelves are crowded overflowing with them! I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it; The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I'll get longer wear out of the oils and so shall not cut it. The atmosphere is not a perfume, which is a pity. I shall use my lovely green scent to remedy this. Ah yes! It is in my nose forever, I am in love with it. I will close all my curtains, become undisgiused and naked, I am mad for it to be slathered about my person. The scent of the grasses, echoing, playful, bright, sunny summer grasses, reminding me of summer lawns, of playful days and evenings passed, the passing of summer games in the yard The sniff of autumn leaves, some green and some dry Of the cooler evenings just beginning, the play of longer shadows on the ground, of winds whispering cleanly through the colorful trees. It is the smell of health, of the outdoors, the sharp, green, leafy scent of nature itself. Have you smelled the grasses blowing in the wind? Or the bright, calming, whistling autumn leaves? Have you found your perfect grassy scent? I have, I have!

From the files of Dick Streetsmart, Private Eye. There was something fishy from the start. The dame--and there's always a dame, see?--had asked me to meet her down by the pier. She sounded upset on the phone, which could have been an act, but she'd promised to double my usual fee, and that made me an attentive audience. The pier was empty, and just as I was cursing myself for being a chump, I heard her. "Mr. Streetsmart?" The voice I had heard on the phone called out to me. I looked around but...nothing. And…maybe I'd skipped lunch again, but I could swear I smelled something like…cucumbers. Cucumbers and summer days at the beach... "Down here, Mr. Streetsmart." I snapped out of my nostalgia and reminded myself that chumps who didn't pay attention by the river ended up in a snug pair of concrete shoes at the bottom of it. I looked down. That's when I saw her. The mermaid. Now, here's the part in the story where you say you don't believe me, take away my gin, and call me a cab--but if you've been in this city as long as I have, you've seen more improbable things than a lady with a tail, am I right? Well, turns out this lady had a tail and a tale, if you know what I mean. She explained that she'd been living there, in the river, almost all her life, but now she was afraid she'd have to leave. She wanted my help. She looked innocent enough, and as close as I was, her scent was making me a little delirious. Sweet nectar and fresh grasses seemed to waft from her golden tresses down to her silvery blue fin. It was like summer at the Shore, only it was alive and shining at my feet. She was quite a dish and she smelled like sugar on the sea. "What could you want from me, doll?" I asked. "Somebody get dumped in the Hudson? Illegal fishing?" How do I know what gets a mermaid up in arms? So to speak. She shook her head. "It's the tabloids. I think a tourist snapped a picture of me and sold it to one of those horrible magazines! I don't want people to come looking for me, to hunt me!" She shuddered, her pale hair throwing out droplets and wafting the blue-green tang of fresher waters than this river had seen in a lifetime. "Or worse, they'll start asking questions, just awful questions!" "About what? What've you got to be afraid of, sweetheart?" "They'll ask...where I came from." "What? Are you from Jersey or something? Aw, doll, that ain't nothin' to be ashamed of!" "No," she bit her lip. "No, it's just that, well...my parents were...well, they were..." she took a deep breath. "They were FISH!" I was confused, for sure. But maybe that was her musk and the rising moon—it'd obfuscate any man's senses. "Fish? Now look, two fish can't--" "They were two sturgeon who fell madly in love under a full moon. It must have been some kind of magic or spell or something that made me!" "More like the chemicals in the East River," I muttered. I had my doubts about her story. Sturgeon? In love?? If she didn't have a flipper in place of getaway pins I'd say she was on the giggle juice. But she looked so down in the gills I just couldn't say it. I made a decision--maybe I'd regret it, but once I made it I knew I'd stick to it. "I'll help you," I told her. She grinned wide, her smile glowing whiter than the moonlight reflecting on the water. "Oh, I just knew you would!" We shook on it and sealed the deal. As she swam off, leaving me in the olfactory daze of her lingering musk (and cucumbers), I realized I'd forgotten to ask the most important question of all. How on earth had she called me?

*cough* Ugh--I was getting hay up my nose again. You know, when he said to meet him in the hay loft for a tumble I thought it would be really romantic. I had visions of myself as a frisky farm lass with little tell-tale naughty bits of hay wisps sticking out of my braids. He would be the strapping young farmboy in the untucked flannel shirt and ancient yet form-fitting dungarees. The sleek, fat cats living in the hayloft would watch our amorous attentions bemusedly. Romantic, right? Too bad my hair is not made to be braided (or my hands are not made to braid, I don't know which) and my "dewy" makeup turned to "gooey" and then "running down my face" when I climbed into the hayloft, which is at least 20 degrees hotter than it is outside. Talk about stuffy. The sleek, fat cats living in the hayloft watched bemusedly as I tried to open the loft doors, nearly stumbling through them to my death 20 feet below. I regained my balance but lost what was left of my braids. And did I mention how those cats got to be sleek and fat? Yup, mice. Creepy, crawling, bubonic-plague-carrying little furballs squeaking in laughter as my allergies finally kicked in. So here I am, dander up my nose, makeup somewhere south of my chin, and hair sticking up wildly out of my quaint farmgirl hairstyle. And I think I just got hay down my bra. And the smell! Well, okay. The smell isn't so bad. Very hay-like. Not surprising, right? It's got a kind of astringent, woody smell, and, even though I'm sweating like a beast in this sweltering sweatbox...dry. As I relax (or am I just losing consciousness from the heat?) it mellows out a little, this dry, grassy smell. It's kind of relaxing. But considering the current "hay-in-my-bra" situation, I think I'll forego it and make reservations at a nice restaurant instead. One with air-conditioning.

Alas, I don't think Ohio qualifies as cool enough to get BPAL at a retailer. We get passed over for everything (unless it's an election year). But I am going to LA in a couple of weeks and want to go to Le Pink. I can't find any good info on the web that gives any description of what they carry in regards to BPAL. What lines to they carry? Are imps available? What are their hours? Anybody know??

"Oi!" Robert called to me through the murky gloom of the fog. "Light it up!" I fumbled through my bag, trying not to gag. My hand closed around the cold, greasy mass and I came up with the object in question, recoiling. It was a silly reaction for two reasons. First, unless I dropped it (an action that would encourage a sound beating from Robert), I couldn't get any further from it than the reach of my own arm. Second, I encountered worse filth on almost a daily basis at the tannery where I slaved for my meagre wages. This was no worse than the pure used to soak the lime from the skins, surely. The object in question shone dimly in the darkness. Even now, unlit, it had an unearthly glow about it. A Hand of Glory, Robert had told me proudly. He had procured it with some trouble, spending every last bit of his money--and mine--to purchase it from a rather shady resurrection man. The hand of a hanged criminal--in this case a thief--transformed. There were actually two parts to it: the candle that was made from wax and the fat of that very same criminal, and the hand. The hand was twisted in a gruesome claw, stiff and waxy white, to hold the candle. Robert handed me the matches. I knew he was not simply offering me the honour of lighting it, he was superstitious to the point of paranoia. The Hand was not just any candle, it was said to be able to render anyone in its path motionless and to open any lock upon which it was shone. Finally, it was said to light the way for the person who lit it, and no one else, and to shield its bearer from view. As I was the smaller and fitter of us two, the terrible deed we were set to commit fell to me. I would light the Hand, and the Hand would light my nefarious path: into Sir Gregory Percy's home, and out with his wife's jewels. With luck, the corpulent Lord wouldn't even awaken. I hesitated. "I don't know," I said, not for the first time. "This doesn't feel right." "This is our ticket," he told me, his eyes black as coal in his sunken face. "Our ticket to something better. Think of Lucy." Think of her I did. Most hours of most days I thought of my sister and her small children, barely surviving. Mudlarks and scavengers, every week getting thinner and weaker, their clothing more threadbare and tattered. I lit the Hand. At first there didn't seem to be anything different, the flame caught the wick and crept down to the wax in which it was embedded. Then a thin ribbon of pale blue smoke curled up from hand and I smelled it. The smell of...evil. Not big evils, mind you. Not war or pestilence or famine. It was the smell of smaller, petty evils. The smell of theft, of deceit, of confidence games. Beeswax mixed with smoke mixed with...leather? Definitely leather. Something spicy floated through the mix, almost sharp in its bite. Like pickling spice, maybe. And something sweet underneath, like a woman's perfume. It was a pleasant smell, intoxicating. After a moment the beeswax and the leather came to the forefront, and I knew that scent would stay with me as long as I held the Hand. The sharpness stayed in the background, a perfect compliment to the strange sensation I was feeling. I liked the smell. I liked the Hand. I gazed up at Sir Gregory's house, just visible through a line of trees that hid it from the street. "It worked!" Robert was squealing beside me. "It worked! Where are you, mate? Where'd you go?" His voice had an edge of worry to it and he was craning his head to and fro, searching for a sign from me. It had worked, I had disappeared from his sight. I smiled slowly in the darkness, the leather and beeswax still deliciously tickling my nose, and started across the street.

I am quoting myself and bumping this in hopes that someone can help me solve this! *begging* Please? I don't have any first-hand advice, but I couldn't just leave you flapping in the breeze... Have you skin-tested your new imp? Still no scent? My first instinct is that you got an imp from the top of the batch, so to speak - the batch settled out a bit, leaving the heavier spice & resin oils at the bottom of the reservoir. Or, brand new Chimera may be very mild, only deepening after it's had a chance to age for a while. My only experience with it was a 4th or 5th-hand frimp in a swap, and it was definitely a thick, strong oil at that point. Anyone else want to chime in & debunk my half-baked theories? I agree with what you've written, or it's just plain ol' mis-labeled. Chimera is, to my memory, veeeeery strong and a dark orangey amber.

Okay, I just got a frimp of Defututa in my last order. I already have one but I like the scent so I was happy about this. Thing is, the new Defututa is a very dark, thick oil and the old one is a lightish caramel color. I can definitely smell the same elements in each...so is it just a standard variation or did is one of my imps not Defututa?

Appalling that they seem to watch me as I sketch, even through eyes sewn shut. Leather tanned with the pulp of Amazon ferns and rainforest herbs. Excerpt from Sir Mallory McTavit's expedition journals: March 11, 1903. Our travels into the Amazon basin have been quite a success thus far, despite a few setbacks. Linders was bitten by some sort of large beetle yesterday, whereupon he promptly turned purple and died. I feel certain, however, that he would be happy to know that we caught the beastly thing and, as its a completely new species, will name it after him. The other slight problem is that many of the guides are refusing to go deeper into the forests with us. They claim that if we continue we will lose our tsantsa. Well, I don't know what that is but I can't very well go back to the Linnean Society and say "sorry chaps, I would have explored more but I was scared I would misplace my tsantsa." I'd be laughed out of the club, I daresay. There are drums in the distance, though...not unpleasant, but the guides seem to be quite anxious. Oh well, off to bed. March 14, 1903 Well I say! The guides have gone missing! Damned buggers up and went in the middle of the night without so much as a by-your-leave! Most inconvenient. I think the drumming in the distance has been bothering them a bit, and to be fair one or two of them may have somehow disappeared as we've been making our way further into the jungle. Still, it's a terrible bother. March 16, 1903 The Shuar Tribe--at least I think that's their name--have finally shown themselves. They're the blighters who've been percussioning for the past week. I must say, I don't see what all the fuss is about. They certainly don't look dangerous, although some of their jewelery and decoration is...interesting. I'm not sure but I think they're the skulls of some kind of little animals... There is a break in the handwriting here, then later on the page: My god! Gods in heaven! They're human! They're HUMAN SKULLS! We must escape, escape tonight. Damn their eyes, they'll not get my noggin! March 18, 1903 The drums...the drums...won't stop. They never stop. Night and day, they go on. We can't escape--they've drawn some kind of curse around this camp we cannot break through. The Shuar have presented us with tsantsa, so we have finally learned its meaning. The tsantsa are the grotesque shrunken heads of their enemies. I recognize some of them as our hapless forest guides. The scent...the scent of the shrunken heads follows me...haunts me...the camp is laden with it. Funnily enough, despite being something horrific in actuality, the scent is not unpleasant. When the process first begins, in the wet stages I smell the smoke of the campfire mixed with soft, tanned leather. Whatever herbs they use to preserve their monstrous creations smell ever-so-slightly medicinal and green, very fresh. One would expect it to be too strong to fathom, but the scent is actually quite light...light, green, and smoky. There's nothing sweet about it, just a genuine scent of the forest. As the heads begin to dry, the smoky scent of the leather takes over, though I still smell the herbs and greenery underneath. I try to focus on the lingering, sharp herbal scent to take my mind off of the horrors that surround me. Whatever shall become of me? Oh no--they're just outside my hut...and the drums, the drums have started again... ...Here the journal ends. You will be pleased to know, dear reader, that the very scent Sir Mallory described is now available to you from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab--and without all the ghastly muss, I might add. If you are a fan of The Bow and the Crown of Conquest or Allison Gross (the underlying herbal smell is reminiscent of this) or are looking for a leather/smoky scent that's not overpowering but not sweet either, then perhaps you will enjoy this lovely creation. The tropical forestry is certainly evident in it, as are the herbs and leathers. Delightful! And think of poor Sir Mallory when you wear it.

(sung to the tune of the Oompa Loompa song from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) (The original one) Upa Upa doopity-doo I've got a tiki perfume for you Upa Upa doopity-dink If you like creamy tropical drinks. What do you get when your oil smells sweet? Like buttered popcorn and tropical heat? What are you at wearing coconut rum? Spicy on drydown; pineapple's succumb. Upa Upa doopity-dah If you like spiced drinks then this will go far You'll wear it in happiness too, Throw for Upa Upa lasts a while too!

Notes taken during a session conducted by famed medium Divina Callinghome, February, 1899. *lights dim* *a match is struck, and a candle lit in the center of the table* Let us all join hands around this table and summon the spirits of BPAL...We must all be believers if we are to summon a scent that works with our skin chemistry. *all join hands* Ooooooh, great spirits of the masters, we call upon you. Guerlain, Penhaligon, Parfum Lubin, lead us to our destiny! Bring us to the scent, we are open to receive you. The alchemical wonders of the Black Phoenix await us! Let the Chanel-ing commence. We ask you to speak through us through this Seance! I smell...roses! Roses and dark woods! No, it's teak! It's very strong. Do you smell it? What does it mean?! Can you smell it?? [attendees assent, one gives way to fits of coughing] The scent is...mellowing now. Yes, it's on my skin, and it is getting softer. But still, there is the teak! The roses have calmed, they are fading a little. This Seance is much like the session with Ouija, Though the scent of the woods of the Oujia board was fainter and the roses drier and weathered, yes, it is similar. Wait! What is that?! Have we made contact with...are you...hazel? Wait! Don't go! Sweet edge to the teak notes, hazel, is that you? [Ms. Callinghome rises from the table, breaking the circle and reaching out a hand] Alas. Hazel has fled. I smell the roses and the teak now. They are very happy together...yes, yes I see now. The scent is deeper than that of Ouija, but they are sisters of the perfume medium, to be sure. I feel the stength of the BPAL leaving me now, leaving the roses and teak behind... Ms. Callinghome was later accused of throwing the scent in order to create the illusion of its appearance in this session, but this could never be confirmed. Seance was found to have a medium throw and average wearlength, and many believe that Ms. Callinghome did indeed summon forth the scent that day.

From the files of Dick Streetsmart, Private Investigator I knew the minute I saw her she was trouble. Dark red and thick in the imp, with a label that went all the way up, if you know what I...you get the picture. "Mr. Streetsmart, I need your help." She oozed out of the imp, toward me. I could smell the heady scent of civet and enough musk to give an ox a long-lasting amorous attachment to the lady. There was something else, something underneath, just trying to get out... "What could you need my help with, sweetheart?" I asked, trying not the let the musk go to my head. This scent was not the kind your average choir girl would wear, or the girl you took home to mother. No, despite her obvious sophistication, this girl knew how to roll her own cigarettes and would burn down your house just to light it. I shook my head to clear it a little. She got up and walked around the desk, looking out the window. "I'm worried about my reputation." She tossed a look over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes. I wasn't fooled. She might order wine, but this girl was all whiskey. "You see, people think that because I've got some musk in me, I'm...well, I'm bad." "I still don't see how I come into the picture, doll." Something smoky was coming out now, and something slightly sweet. "Don't get all smoky in here--say, there ain't tobacco in you, is there?" Her eyes opened wide. "No, of course not!" There it was again, that...something...underneath all the civet and musk. She might not be tobacco, but there was definitely a sweetness to her that was not sugar, spice, or anything nice. I stood up, throwing back my chair. She jumped back from me, eyes still wide, but wary. "The game is up, honey--I know your angle. I can smell it from here!" "I...I don't know what you're talking about!" She kept backing away, but I was on the scent now. "Opium!" I strode across the room, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Tell me that underneath that musk there's not opium!" "Let me go," she snarled. She sure could turn quickly. The sweetness and the smoke were clear now, in the drydown. "You're just like all the rest of them! You think that because I'm Egyptian musk and opium, I'm all about sex! I'm not, I tell you, I'm not!" "Lady, from what I see, you're just too much for an average joe like me. I'm sorry, but..." "Don't say it!" she wailed. I felt bad, but I had to. "Swaps, sweetheart. Don't cry, kid. Somebody out there, somewhere, they'll love you the way you're meant to be loved. Someone with the right skin chemistry, who can look past your notes and will wear you any time of day." "Do you...do you really think so?" she sniffled. I wasn't sure, but I can't stand to see a dame cry. Call it a weakness. "Sure, I think so. Say, I didn't catch your name, anyway." She shook herself free, and walked over the the door. Before walking out she turned her tearstained face to me. "Debauchery."