Invidiana
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Jolly is every treat at the autumn fair swirled together, something from the old mill shops from my childhood that have all but vanished. There is the creamy filling of pumpkin pies, the chewy burnt-sugar satisfaction of fresh caramels wrapped in wax paper, the fragrant, but not overwhelming, sweetness of local honey, and handfuls of candy corn and lemon drops. Maybe you will walk away grinning like a pumpkin and not notice the jack-o-lantern glow you think surrounds you is actually coming from your own face.
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This is the smell of a shadowed room. Even the curtains are dark shades of amber and cacao and chestnut, with hardly a glimpse of light making it through. In the corner is an old mahogany piano that mysteriously plays itself, or maybe not so mysteriously, as a ghostly silhouette of ylang ylang and vanilla appears and disappears for fleeting moments. Enter this room and your daydreams will darken into the nightmares to come.
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From an unseen kitchen comes the irresistible aroma of buttery baked pumpkin with a delicious nuttiness, like walnuts roasted in the oven, and all of this is swirled with spices that welcome the colder months. This is not an overwhelmingly spicy pumpkin bread. It is deliciously realistic, with the comfort of the pumpkin and roasted nut notes, along with warming hints of spice, that wrap you up in a your favorite wool socks and blanket on a chilly morning.
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If there was a smell to the waning light of summer before the autumnal equinox, it would be roses drying in the sun, next to the bright yellow petals of sunflowers. Whispers of carnation and hydrangea are exchanged before their last breaths. There are hints of clove and pumpkin on the changing winds, brushing against what can only be described as antique velvet that has finally come down from the attic to have its turn dancing in the sunset.
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This begins with a blood rush of something that is almost cherry but is really the almond. The initial pulse of living blood quickly settles down under the velvety petals of dark, night-blooming orchid that casts shadows of black musk and a cacao that is not chocolate, and is just slightly bitter but sensual. It is a night among the orchids surrounding an Anne Rice-esque mansion where vampires lurk.
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There is a strange coolness to this scent, not so much actual cold as the absence of warmth in a vampire. The apparition starts off in a haze of white musk fluttering with pale petals, and if the rose isn't white, then it has just barely begun to flush pink. What appears to be a vaguely human shape is fleshed out by vanillic tonka and soft woods that may have the feel of a cashmere sweater, and cling as close, but this being can never feel warmth again because it is not human.
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These sheets are so clean all the sins you committed as Motel Ghost last night are immediately forgiven. This ghost is shrouded in freshly aired, lavender-scented sheets and what I think is clean, unsoiled white musk. This is a sleepy, gentle lavender that could easily float you to the otherworld. It seems there is no one under the sheets, but it casts a shadow of labdanum, all that is left of an earthbound spirit.
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This is the dirtiest Halloween costume in a bottle, like taking a jack-o-lantern carved with a very suggestive expression and dressing it up in red lace lingerie. Pumpkin entwines with clouds of shameless red musk in a forbidden liaison, with a backdrop of deep and sexy resins with an enticing whisper of patchouli. This pumpkin is not actually raw pumpkin guts. Rather, it turns out to be smooth and voluptuous with just enough spice to do unspeakable things. As if this isn't already heady enough, the ylang ylang opens its petals wide on the drydown and makes the whole bedroom scene on Halloween night that much more erotic.
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This is like standing in the shadows of an abandoned church, breathing what remains of your vanilla perfume and the residue of incense smoke long gone. It is as if the oud and unholy resins (which aren't bitter on me) are scorched at the edges but not completely blackened, though a shadow of black musk is cast over them. Metal gives this the shivers, and it doesn't have a metallic tang to it like some metal notes do, buth a cold feeling that has nothing to do with snow and ice but the total lack of warmth in the edge of a blade or the veins of the undead. The sins of the past are shrouded in vanilla, vampire-pale but still a sweet memory.
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Convertible Hearse somehow manages to be fresh and macabre at once. It reminds me a little bit of a gothic cologne a friend of mine wore in high school, a throwback those days when I was fifteen and thought it was rebellious to hang with my friends at the mall without any of our parents around. There's something of a new car smell about this. It's not the typical eau du new car, but if there ever was an air freshener was made for a hearse, this is it. The exhaust isn't anything like the overwhelming fumes of a gas station. It's a jolt of gas swept up by a cool autumn breeze that kicks up dry leaves as the hearse, not burdened by a casket yet, speeds down the freeway.
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This is a breakfast to die for. It reminds of me of those times when I've stayed at a hotel and used it as an excuse to grab everything semi-forbidden for breakfast, especially a fluffy stack of syrup-drenched, butter-slathered pancakes, except the syrup here isn't the imitation stuff but that elusive dark maple syrup you can really only find at farmers' markets a way off. The steaming mug of black coffee next to that plate is definitely not decaf. As if this isn't enough, a donut fresh out of the fryer has been sneaked in there as well, and it makes itself known. Hearse of Pancakes almost makes me want to be a morning person. Almost.
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Whether the leather here is the upholstery on the inside of a hearse or the tattered leather jacket of a maniacal ghoul on a horse, it is definitely black, the impenetrable moonless-night black he rides out of. The leather is scuffed by fallen branches which dead leaves swirl around as he tears through the forest (on his horse or in his hearse). I know it isn't listed, but I swear I can pick up that signature Dead Leaves note rustling among the wood. The pumpkin head he holds in one hand blazes with a sweet, slightly burnt smell, definitely not pumpkin pie but pumpkin flesh. Beth has managed to bottle the Headless Horseman.
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This is the kind of hearse I'd rent for a party. Think champagne poured over a lurid pink concoction of guava, strawberry and grapefruit, with a shadow of blackberry syrup, rimmed with sugar. There is also the feel of a clean car scent underneath all this macabre glamour. That might be the bergamot, like a gust of air from a window briefly rolled down, even the chrome note, thought it doesn't flash in your face as chrome over all the pink on pink on pink. If there was actually such a thing as a Barbie hearse, this is exactly what it would smell like.
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This is a throwback to my aunt's lipstick from the '90s (though it was nude and not black), whose waxiness is infused with a subtle rose scent. I don't know where I'm getting rose from. Maybe it's just my skin, but something about it is vintage and familiar, while also being slightly more shadowy and mysterious than the smell of what my aunt wore back then. It's a realistic lipstick scent made slightly darker, suggesting dark lips exhaling a curl of clove cigarette smoke right outside the goth club. Does it smell like The Cure? Bauhaus? Siouxsie? The Sisters of Mercy? London After Midnight? I can't decide, but it suits all of them.
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Throw all your candy corn and toffee into the bonfire, then stand back and revel in the smell of burnt sugar rising from the flames. The melting mass of candy corn has an undertone of sweet almond, and there is also a something of a caramel undertone from the toffee. There is something both recognizable and unrecognizable about the candies that has been sacrificed. They are, and they are not. When the fire goes out, the edges of this monstrous lump of sugar have been completely burnt, while the rest has been caramelized, a ghost of what it used to be and also a monster.
