doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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Yuzu & Warm Honey Drizzle.
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Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide? And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech? The aggrieved and the injured say, “Beauty is kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.” And the passionate say, “Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.” The tired and the weary say, “Beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.” But the restless say, “We have heard her shouting among the mountains, And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.” At night the watchmen of the city say, “Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.” And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, “We have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.” In winter say the snow-bound, “She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.” And in the summer heat the reapers say, “We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.” All these things have you said of beauty, Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied, And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth, But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted. It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears. It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw, But rather a garden for ever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight. People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror. You are life and you are the veil; a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted: saffron-threaded sandalwood, white ambrette, wild narcissus, smoky yellow tobacco flower, and gilded vanilla.
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A scandalous affair between silk-furred conspirators: tails entwined beneath tables, furrrrtive glances stolen and held too long, stolen hours, arched backs, and the scent of unfamiliar catnip rubbed on jeweled collars. An indolent purr of cream-soaked shortbread biscuits, cracked cardamom, pink pepper, smoked vanilla bean, and cocoa powder.
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A song of surrender: rose syrup and honeyed pomegranate bound in amber resin, vanilla silk, and leather.
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Calla lilies stained blood red by Snake Oil and daemonorops draco, flecked with poison-touched lily of the valley.
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Gliding through the velvet hush of midnight, she moves — barefoot on cool stone, wrapped in a whisper of clove-scented silk. A flicker of candlelight catches the curve of her throat, the glint in her half-lidded eyes. Dark florals, bruised and beckoning — black orchid, scarlet poppy, and moonlit tuberose — whisper their secrets against the heat of her skin. A breath of smoked vanilla curls like an incantation, weaving through ribbons of amber resin and spiced honey. Beneath it all, the slow, insistent pull of patchouli and oud, ancient and aching. This is the art of longing, the alchemy of desire.
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According to some authors, myrrh is the produce of a tree that grows in the same forests as the incense-tree, though most say that they grow in different places: but the fact is that myrrh grows in many parts of Arabia, as will be seen when we come to speak of the several varieties of it. A sort that is highly esteemed is brought from the islands also, and the Sabæi even cross the sea to procure it in the country of the Troglodytæ. It is grown also by being transplanted, and when thus cultivated is greatly preferred to that which is grown in the forests. The plant is greatly improved by raking and baring the roots; indeed, the cooler the roots are kept, the better it is. – Pliny the Elder Kataf myrrh, smoked sandalwood, and vanilla bean.
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Ink-dark skies ripple with stardust and prophecy, and the air hums with the scent of revolution: smoked myrrh and velvet incense glittering with ti leaf and Italian bergamot.
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Stone-faced charm, stone-cold sophistication. A mossy beard oil blend with a hint of beeswax, cathedral incense, blackened cedar, and aged oak.
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If you sign his black book, he’ll give you a free stick-and-poke with his pitchfork! Tattoo ink steeped in infernal musk, with a splash of brimstone cologne.
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Voluptuous Bulgarian rose unfurls like crimson silk, met by the dark, resinous warmth of freshly cracked coffee beans.
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“I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.” Under an ambivalent sun that knows neither grief nor passion, the moor exhales over slate and stone. Heather and moss whisper against cold earth, entwined in creeping ivy; a soft lament, an uneasy stirring of agonized longing.
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A scent both bright and subdued: bergamot shuddering through lime leaves, ruby-tinged amber sunlight, violet leaf, oak bark, and sandalwood smoke. We sat down on a rude bench, under a group of magnificent lime trees. The sun was setting with all its melancholy splendor behind the sylvan horizon, and the stream that flows beside our home, and passes under the steep old bridge I have mentioned, wound through many a group of noble trees, almost at our feet, reflecting in its current the fading crimson of the sky.
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Cardamom and Black Amber.
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Green Tea & Cookie Dough.
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Each purchase of Gloomily, Gloomily comes with a 1/32 oz imp of the Donkey’s Tail. The Donkey’s Tail is not available for sale on its own, and make sure you keep it safe as you never know where it might end up. “That Accounts for a Good Deal,” said Eeyore gloomily. “It Explains Everything. No Wonder.” Doubles as a bell-pull: a beribboned strip of French lavender, bourbon vanilla, silver thistle, grey musk, pink silk, and well-loved grey cotton.
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The Rev. Joseph Glanvil, chaplain in ordinary to Charles II., was a writer of great erudition and ability. In his “Sadducismus Triumphatus,” written to show that the phenomena of witchcraft were genuine occurrences, he gives an account of Mr. Mompesson’s haunted house at Tedworth, where it was observed that, on beating or calling for any tune, it would be exactly answered by drumming. When asked by some one to give three knocks, if it were a certain spirit, it gave three knocks and no more. Other questions were put, and answered by knocks exactly. Glanvil himself says, that, being told it would imitate noises, he scratched, on the sheet of the bed, five, then seven, then ten times ; and it returned exactly the number of scratches each time. Melanethon relates that at Oppenheim, in Germany, in 1620, the same experiment of rapping, and having the raps exactly answered by the spirit which haunted a house, was successfully tried ; and he tells us that Luther was visited by a spirit who announced his coming by “a rapping at his door.” In the famous Wesley case, the haunting of the house of John Wesley’s father, the Parsonage at Epworth, Lincolnshire, in 1716, for a period of two months, the supposed spirit used to imitate Mr. Wesley’s knock at the gate. It responded to the Amen at prayers. Emily, one of the daughters, knocked ; and it answered her. Mr. Wesley knocked a stick on the joists of the kitchen ; and it knocked again, in number of strokes and in loudness exactly replying. When Mrs. Wesley stamped, it knocked in reply. It is not surprising that John Wesley was a Spiritualist. “With my last breath,” he writes, “will I bear my testimony against giving up to infidels one great proof of the invisible world ; I mean that of witchcraft, confirmed by the testimony of all ages.” Planchette, or The Despair of Science : being a full account of modern spiritualism, its phenomena, and the various theories regarding it : with a survey of French Spiritism, Epes Sargent Green balsam, bay leaf, fossilized amber, blackened vetiver, and clove bud cloaked in oud.
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Shattered amber tears, smoked saffron, burnt sugar, myrrh, brown leather, peru balsam, vetiver, and ash. Joseph Mallord William Turner
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Honey, Raspberry Jam, and Buttercream.
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Who wants to go Dutch with us on a warm slice of buttered pumpkin bread covered in chocolate candy sprinkles?
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In the shadows of a neon hive-city, insectoid forms glide between thick curtains of bright green vines and crackling circuit boards. Blooming under sheets of acid rain and electric moons, this scent opens with the dark crackle of leather: slick, sunless, and alive with static. A surge of petrichor follows, like rainfall striking alien soil, soaking into a garden grown from strange seeds and synthetic spores. Peculiar blooms unfurl, humming with iridescent electricity. Moss clings to chrome roots, cybernetic orchids burst from humid soil.
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Winding through the Tree of Knowledge, the serpent offers transformative awareness, wisdom, and the awakened potential that elevates the soul or brings its downfall. Far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to revisit my beloved Snake Oil (especially with a Biblical twist) so I’ve crafted a Serpent in the Garden take on the original formula, suffused with fig, pomegranate, apple, green sandalwood, olibanum, blackcurrant, and iridescent serpent scale accord.
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In the First Book of Samuel it is written: “And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul,” (1 Samuel 18:1) and in that binding the axis of a kingdom trembles. Robe, armor, sword, and girdle are given freely, a voluntary unmaking of inheritance in favor of devotion. This is love as sacred oath, not fever but fidelity, a bond forged in the shadow of Saul’s rising wrath and the uncertainty of exile. When David laments, “thy love to me was wonderful beyond the love of women” (2 Samuel 1:26) grief becomes testimony and loyalty becomes scripture. Jonathan’s renunciation is ego relinquished so that another may ascend, sulfur tempered by mercy, ambition dissolved into covenantal gold. Here the Lovers stand not in garden innocence but beneath the weight of throne and spear, choosing allegiance over advantage, devotion over dynasty. Love does not seize power but surrenders it, and in that surrender is transfigured into something that outlives both battle and crown. Shepherd’s wool and wild honey, cedarwood and olive leaf, sun-warmed leather, plumes of frankincense rising from a quiet altar, and a thread of red pomegranate seed crushed between steady hands.
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Courtly love that becomes cosmology, a spiritual ascent, a ladder to heaven. In The Divine Comedy, Beatrice is not simply muse or lover, but a guide. She is radiant Sophia, living wisdom, the luminous intelligence that draws the soul upward through ever-widening spheres of divine light. Beatrice’s eyes are mirrors that reflect the radiance of Heaven itself, “with eyes of light more bright than any star.” Her gaze does not return to the pilgrim but lifts him upward, directing his sight beyond her to the splendor of the Eternal. “Then to the eyes of beauty my eyes turned,” Dante says, and the beauty he sees there is “far more beautiful than the vast universe beneath his feet.” The beloved is not held but beheld, and in that gaze the soul is altered. Though she is one of the Lovers, she also rises above them, not to inflame desire but to purify it. Through her presence, longing is refined from appetite into ascent. The earthly self, heavy with burdens, is gradually transmuted. L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle. In these Lovers exists adoration that moves the sun and stars. Longing clarifies, burns, and rises, and the anima lifts the earthly self toward its red perfection, where desire is no longer hunger but illumination. Love that is hope, love that is divine, love that reflects the radiance of the highest heavens. White rose and scarlet iris, beeswax smoke and frankincense tears, vellum and sacred myrrh, and a thread of red saffron steeped in luminous amber.
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In the song attributed to Homer, their devotion turns the tide of war. Patroclus is the hidden heart of the warrior, the tender pulse beneath iron and oath. When he falls, the world blackens, grief becomes wildfire, and pride is burned away in the furnace of loss and sorrow. This is love as ordeal and the beloved as mirror of the soul. Nigredo in the shadow of the pyre, calcination in the roar of battle. From mourning rises terrible clarity, bright and merciless as a drawn blade. Love does not soften fate; it forges it. Bronze-bright armor warmed by the sun, salt-wind off the Aegean, crushed amarantos beneath restless feet, and the metallic sting of blood on sand.