kebechet Report post Posted November 22, 2013 THE THIRTEENTH LABOR OF HERCULES IS COMPLETE! At long last, the new Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab site is live! Before I delve into the new bells, whistles, and gewgaws, I want to thank the woman responsible for the Lab overhaul: Kaitlin Reeves of Form and Function. Kaitlin, you are amazing. Thank you for all of your hard work. Thank you for all the blood, sweat, and tears that you invested in the construction of the new site. You are an amazing person – talented, dedicated, smart as hell, and beautiful inside and out – and we are so, so grateful for you. So, what’s new? Well, the search function is back for starters... + User accounts: You can create an account when you place your first order or by clicking here. You are welcome to order as a guest and not create an account, but having one gives you access to special features, such as… + Account Dashboard: You can access your dashboard by clicking on the "Login/ Account Dashboard" link on the top black navigation bar. From this page, you can view your order status, review your order history, change your shipping or billing address and view your Wishlists. + Wishlists: Wishlists allow you to keep track of the stuff you want. They can be private or serve as a public gift registry for friends, family or random admirers. You can have as many as you want. You can access your Wishlist control center by clicking on the "Wishlists" link on the top black navigation bar. You can add things to your Wishlist by going to a product page and clicking the link beneath the "Add to Cart" button that says "Add to my Wishlist". + Fancy Search: There are two places you can search the new site, on the top black navigation bar or on the top of the sidebar (on pages that have one). The search looks at scent names, tags, categories, Shiny & New posts, and pages. Once you type a few letters a drop down will appear revealing the best matches. You can click directly on what you want to go to that page. You can also click the magnifying glass image to go to a full search results page. + Gift Certificates: You can purchase gift certificates in any amount you choose by clicking here, or the link on the sidebar. They can be automatically emailed as gifts to the recipient of your choice or sent to you (to use for yourself or to gift at a later time). Gift certificates are redeemable through entering the code in the coupon box on the cart or during checkout. For security, the gift certificate code is matched against the email it was sent to during checkout, so make sure to use the same email when you use it! + Reviews: You can leave a review and a rating on any product page by looking beneath the share bar and looking on the left hand tabs for "Reviews". You can also read other people's reviews of products in the same place. + Waitlists: If a product goes out of stock or gets discontinued, there will be a notice and an option to sign up for the Waitlist. If that product comes back in stock, you will be notified of its availability. We can also see how much demand there is for different products, so this will help us re-stock what you want faster and maybe even get some posthumously popular products resurrected. + Directory: We have compiled a directory that has every scent, tag, category, and page on the site. All of those items are also available through the search bar, so don't feel like you need to wade through that if you don't want to! + Social Media: Fancy share buttons are available! + Payment Gateways: So long, CCNow! When you check out, you can choose to pay through Paypal or Authorize.net. + Shipping Calculation: The system will be able to calculate shipping for you automatically based on what you have in your cart and where in the world you want it sent. Free shipping will be automatically applied on orders over $175 shipped to the US or $300 shipped internationally. + I'm sure there are some things that we've forgotten to cover, so get thee forth and wander! The site is going to be an ever-evolving work-in-progress, and there’s quite a bit that still needs spiffin’ up. Please keep your eyes peeled for little functional and aesthetic changes and improvements in the upcoming months. And onto the smells! -- On that day, the Harmony of the World shattered. The Skeksis woke from the shock of division, and they woke full of violence and anger. They stormed into the Crystal Chamber, staggering with the strain of their new bodies, grasping each other to stand yet hating each other’s touch. There was loud argument, they struck blows, one hit the Crystal. A shard broke from the Crystal and flew up the shaft, out onto the mountainside. And the light left the crystal. For the span of a single breath, there was no sound heard... My dear friends, skekNa, skekTek, skekUng, and skekZok, have come for a visit! ++ THE DARK CRYSTAL SKEKNA THE SLAVE MASTER SkekNa the Slave Master remains silent most of the time, except for occasional sneers and hisses. His action is dominated by kicking, whipping, and herding little Podling slaves. Between meals, the Skeksis sought out skekNa the Slave Master for scraps to appease the raging hunger they always felt. SkekNa was purely and openly evil from the beginning, and without him the work of the Castle would never have been done. The essence of vile gluttony: an abundance of spices, sweet cakes, thick creams, and opulent liqueurs mixed with the scent of whip leather and rusted padlocks. SKEKTEK THE SCIENTIST SkekTek the Scientist kept some real power of thought, but in truth he had become only a juggler of ideas, of memories from his previous life. He had studied the light of the Crystal and used it for the division. And he studied the wounded Crystal, and by that light he saw his ways to acts of darkness. First, he learned the art to make beams of light from the Dark Crystal, which he burned into the eyes of the Pod People and Gelfling to make them his slaves. After the light had struck them, no light lived in their eyes, but they obeyed. And the second evil was to use dark light to draw the essence of life, to drain it from the living to make a drink for the Skeksis, above all for the Emperor. This essence gave them back their youth and vigor for a while, only for a little while; but many Gelflings were victims forever. Metal and stone and beams of dark light: hyssop, black currant, black viola, passionflower, and myrrh. SKEKUNG THE GARTHIM MASTER Strongest of all for brute force – after the Emperor – was skekUng the Garthim Master. Torment was his pleasure, though his urSkeks originally had been a healer and continued so in his urRu form. Hidden in that tall, shining urSkek was one who, ages later, could find pleasure in tearing apart the gentle Gelfling. The urSkeks knew this evil was in them and tried hard to burn it out. Brute force and destruction: vetiver, smoke, steel, and dragon’s blood resin. SKEKZOK THE RITUAL MASTER SkekZok the Ritual Master was thought to hold control of the court entirely in his own hands. He had the ear of skekSo the Emperor, whose wishes were absolute; no one could hope for success except through skekZok. He sought to rule the other Skeksis through prophecies he invented and false apparitions he conjured. SkekZok found that the Emperor raised favorites only to enjoy the pleasure of their fall, while other distrustful Skeksis practiced their own secret divinations. An incense of deception: frankincense, opoponax, hyssop, champaca, and opium poppy accord. A million thanks to our good friends at Jim Henson Studios! You are wonderful people, and it is an honor to work with you! It’s that time of year again! The nip of winter wind is in the air, Krampus is dusting off his switches, Befana is polishing her broom, and Miskatonic Valley villagers are preparing for their winter solstice feasts. ++ MISKATONIC VALLEY YULETIDE: THE FESTIVAL The nethermost caverns are not for the fathoming of eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific. Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil the mind that is held by no head. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes. For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws; till out of corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth’s pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl. Buried in the echoes of time immemorial is the Miskatonic Valley rite of the Festival. While the origins are lost in space and time, our holiday customs have been memorialized through oral tradition and the eons-long observation of our rituals, year after year. So, don your holiday ritual robes, grab your discordant flutes, hop on your limply-flopping demon mounts, take a swig of goat milk cocoa, and head down to the Stygian grotto to join the villagers of Kingsport as they observe the time-worn traditions of the Festival. Celebrate the season the Miskatonic Valley way! Refreshments provided by Arkham’s own Mother Shub and Zadok Allen Vineyard. Happy Yule, Kingsport! THE SPELL OF THE EASTERN SEA I was far from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me. In the twilight I heard it pounding on the rocks, and I knew it lay just over the hill where the twisting willows writhed against the clearing sky and the first stars of evening. And because my fathers had called me to the old town beyond, I pushed on through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the road that soared lonely up to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very ancient town I had never seen but often dreamed of. Sea salt, kelp, and twisting willows. THE MEMORY OF PRIMAL SECRETS It was the Yuletide, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis and mankind. It was the Yuletide, and I had come at last to the ancient sea town where my people had dwelt and kept festival in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. Corrupt incense twinging through the huddled roofs of Kingsport on winter solstice night. OPIATE SOUTHERN GARDENS OF ORCHIDS Mine were an old people, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. And they were strange, because they had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens of orchids, and spoken another tongue before they learnt the tongue of the blue-eyed fishers. And now they were scattered, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. I was the only one who came back that night to the old fishing town as legend bade, for only the poor and the lonely remember. Memories of alien gardens that crawl with wide swaths of vivid, soporific blossoms: gargantuan orchids, blood-purple poppies, and monstrous black peonies. THE BURYING-GROUND Beside the road at its crest a still higher summit rose, bleak and windswept, and I saw that it was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the snow like the decayed fingernails of a gigantic corpse. The printless road was very lonely, and sometimes I thought I heard a distant horrible creaking as of a gibbet in the wind. They had hanged four kinsmen of mine for witchcraft in 1692, but I did not know just where. Despair and desolation in a potter’s field: black soil and memories of screams on the pyre. VILLAGE LEGEND LIVES LONG I had seen maps of the town, and knew where to find the home of my people. It was told that I should be known and welcomed, for village legend lives long; so I hastened through Back Street to Circle Court, and across the fresh snow on the one full flagstone pavement in the town, to where Green Lane leads off behind the Market house. The old maps still held good, and I had no trouble; though at Arkham they must have lied when they said the trolleys ran to this place, since I saw not a wire overhead. Snow would have hid the rails in any case. I was glad I had chosen to walk, for the white village had seemed very beautiful from the hill; and now I was eager to knock at the door of my people, the seventh house on the left in Green Lane, with an ancient peaked roof and jutting second story, all built before 1650. The scent of ancient families harboring ancient secrets: thin dribbles of frankincense, bitter cistus, hollow myrrh, pale chamomile, and dark, furtive opoponax. A LOW CANDLE-LIT ROOM He beckoned me into a low, candle-lit room with massive exposed rafters and dark, stiff, sparse furniture of the seventeenth century. The past was vivid there, for not an attribute was missing. There was a cavernous fireplace and a spinning-wheel at which a bent old woman in loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, silently spinning despite the festive season. An indefinite dampness seemed upon the place, and I marvelled that no fire should be blazing. The high-backed settle faced the row of curtained windows at the left, and seemed to be occupied, though I was not sure. I did not like everything about what I saw, and felt again the fear I had had. This fear grew stronger from what had before lessened it, for the more I looked at the old man’s bland face the more its very blandness terrified me. The eyes never moved, and the skin was too like wax. Finally I was sure it was not a face at all, but a fiendishly cunning mask. But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote genially on the tablet and told me I must wait a while before I could be led to the place of festival. Candle wax and waxen “skin”, rotting leather and reeking damp wood, and the ashes of a yawning, cold fireplace. WHISPERS OF MONSTROUS THINGS Pointing to a chair, table, and pile of books, the old man now left the room; and when I sat down to read I saw that the books were hoary and mouldy, and that they included old Morryster’s wild Marvells of Science, the terrible Saducismus Triumphatus of Joseph Glanvill, published in 1681, the shocking Daemonolatreia of Remigius, printed in 1595 at Lyons, and worst of all, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, in Olaus Wormius’ forbidden Latin translation; a book which I had never seen, but of which I had heard monstrous things whispered. Yellowed fragments of vellum and parchment scrawled with unnamable horrors invoking ghastly abominations: decaying papers and moldering leather with sickly-sweet tonka, inky musk, black sandalwood, black fig, sugandh kokila, and pimento leaf. A THOUGHT AND A LEGEND TOO HIDEOUS FOR SANITY OR CONSCIOUSNESS No one spoke to me, but I could hear the creaking of signs in the wind outside, and the whir of the wheel as the bonneted old woman continued her silent spinning, spinning. I thought the room and the books and the people very morbid and disquieting, but because an old tradition of my fathers had summoned me to strange feastings, I resolved to expect queer things. So I tried to read, and soon became tremblingly absorbed by something I found in that accursed Necronomicon; a thought and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness. But I disliked it when I fancied I heard the closing of one of the windows that the settle faced, as if it had been stealthily opened. It had seemed to follow a whirring that was not of the old woman’s spinning-wheel. This was not much, though, for the old woman was spinning very hard, and the aged clock had been striking. After that I lost the feeling that there were persons on the settle, and was reading intently and shudderingly when the old man came back booted and dressed in a loose antique costume, and sat down on that very bench, so that I could not see him. It was certainly nervous waiting, and the blasphemous book in my hands made it doubly so. When eleven struck, however, the old man stood up, glided to a massive carved chest in a corner, and got two hooded cloaks; one of which he donned, and the other of which he draped round the old woman, who was ceasing her monotonous spinning. Then they both started for the outer door; the woman lamely creeping, and the old man, after picking up the very book I had been reading, beckoning me as he drew his hood over that unmoving face or mask. The clock strikes eleven: black rose, oudh, rosewood, and sea-kissed patchouli, and the smoke of a snuffed tallow candle. ELDRITCH DRUNKEN CONSTELLATIONS We went out into the moonless and tortuous network of that incredibly ancient town; went out as the lights in the curtained windows disappeared one by one, and the Dog Star leered at the throng of cowled, cloaked figures that poured silently from every doorway and formed monstrous processions up this street and that, past the creaking signs and antediluvian gables, the thatched roofs and diamond-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together, gliding across open courts and churchyards where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations. Dizzying, swirling, starry madness: eucalyptus sap, white tea leaf, and ambergris foam. DEATH-FIRES DANCING OVER THE TOMBS There was an open space around the church; partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and partly a half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow by the wind, and lined with unwholesomely archaic houses having peaked roofs and overhanging gables. Death-fires danced over the tombs, revealing gruesome vistas, though queerly failing to cast any shadows. Past the churchyard, where there were no houses, I could see over the hill’s summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the harbour, though the town was invisible in the dark. Only once in a while a lanthorn bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng that was now slipping speechlessly into the church. I waited till the crowd had oozed into the black doorway, and till all the stragglers had followed. The old man was pulling at my sleeve, but I was determined to be the last. Then I finally went, the sinister man and the old spinning woman before me. Crossing the threshold into that swarming temple of unknown darkness, I turned once to look at the outside world as the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the hill-top pavement. And as I did so I shuddered. For though the wind had not left much snow, a few patches did remain on the path near the door; and in that fleeting backward look it seemed to my troubled eyes that they bore no mark of passing feet, not even mine. Icicles and stone illuminated by unholy fire. THE BOUNDLESS VISTA OF AN INNER WORLD Then I saw the lurid shimmering of pale light, and heard the insidious lapping of sunless waters. Again I shivered, for I did not like the things that the night had brought, and wished bitterly that no forefather had summoned me to this primal rite. As the steps and the passage grew broader, I heard another sound, the thin, whining mockery of a feeble flute; and suddenly there spread out before me the boundless vista of an inner world—a vast fungous shore litten by a belching column of sick greenish flame and washed by a wide oily river that flowed from abysses frightful and unsuspected to join the blackest gulfs of immemorial ocean. Salted citron, black coconut, wormwood, and oily labdanum oozing through fungal mosses and sick, greenish subterranean flora. TITAN TOADSTOOLS AND LEPROUS FIRE Fainting and gasping, I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire, and slimy water, and saw the cloaked throngs forming a semicircle around the blazing pillar. It was the Yule-rite, older than man and fated to survive him; the primal rite of the solstice and of spring’s promise beyond the snows; the rite of fire and evergreen, light and music. And in the Stygian grotto I saw them do the rite, and adore the sick pillar of flame, and throw into the water handfuls gouged out of the viscous vegetation which glittered green in the chlorotic glare. I saw this, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the light, piping noisomely on a flute; and as the thing piped I thought I heard noxious muffled flutterings in the foetid darkness where I could not see. But what frightened me most was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and coating the nitrous stone above with a nasty, venomous verdigris. For in all that seething combustion no warmth lay, but only the clamminess of death and corruption. Viscous vegetation, slimy water, suffocating incense: death cap and false morel with green frankincense, black copal, Spanish moss, celery seed, and lime rind over stagnant black liquid and decaying kelp. HORROR UNTHINKABLE AND UNEXPECTED The man who had brought me now squirmed to a point directly beside the hideous flame, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the semicircle he faced. At certain stages of the ritual they did grovelling obeisance, especially when he held above his head that abhorrent Necronomicon he had taken with him; and I shared all the obeisances because I had been summoned to this festival by the writings of my forefathers. Then the old man made a signal to the half-seen flute-player in the darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a scarce louder drone in another key; precipitating as it did so a horror unthinkable and unexpected. At this horror I sank nearly to the lichened earth, transfixed with a dread not of this nor any world, but only of the mad spaces between the stars. The mad spaces between the stars: oakmoss, myrrh, vetiver, rectified cade, ravinsara, wild verbena, and neroli. PITS AND GALLERIES OF PANIC Out of the unimaginable blackness beyond the gangrenous glare of that cold flame, out of the Tartarean leagues through which that oily river rolled uncanny, unheard, and unsuspected, there flopped rhythmically a horde of tame, trained, hybrid winged things that no sound eye could ever wholly grasp, or sound brain ever wholly remember. They were not altogether crows, nor moles, nor buzzards, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings; but something I cannot and must not recall. They flopped limply along, half with their webbed feet and half with their membraneous wings; and as they reached the throng of celebrants the cowled figures seized and mounted them, and rode off one by one along the reaches of that unlighted river, into pits and galleries of panic where poison springs feed frightful and undiscoverable cataracts. Membranous green mandarin with dread-choked black sandalwood, opoponax, pine tar, mimosa, mugwort, and acrid tagetes. THE PUTRESCENT JUICE OF EARTH’S INNER HORRORS Presently the old man drew back his hood and pointed to the family resemblance in his face, but I only shuddered, because I was sure that the face was merely a devilish waxen mask. The flopping animals were now scratching restlessly at the lichens, and I saw that the old man was nearly as restless himself. When one of the things began to waddle and edge away, he turned quickly to stop it; so that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what should have been his head. And then, because that nightmare’s position barred me from the stone staircase down which we had come, I flung myself into the oily underground river that bubbled somewhere to the caves of the sea; flung myself into that putrescent juice of earth’s inner horrors before the madness of my screams could bring down upon me all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal. Perfect and absolute mental collapse: black pomegranate and vetiver with rose otto, rue, red patchouli, petitgrain, myrrh, and cacao absolute. MOTHER SHUB’S UNMENTIONABLE PEPPERMINT CREAMS Diabolically decadent! Bone-chilling mint swirled in thick globules of marzipan cream. MOTHER SHUB’S SQUAMOUS SEA SALT CARAMEL COOKIES Dusted with mineral-rich salts dredged from the foetid depths of the Nameless Sea! MOTHER SHUB’S PUMPKIN PECAN TREACLE TARTS Popularized by the reality TV show “Real Cultists of Arkham Hills”! OLD KETURAH ZADOK’S CRANBERRY CIDER From a 13th century recipe plundered from the vaults of the Zadok family’s cellars! ++ YULE 2013 ALMOND BLOSSOM Even iron can put forth, Even iron. This is the iron age, But let us take heart Seeing iron break and bud, Seeing rusty iron puff with clouds of blossom. The almond-tree, December's bare iron hooks sticking out of earth. The almond-tree, That knows the deadliest poison, like a snake In supreme bitterness. Upon the iron, and upon the steel, Odd flakes as if of snow, odd bits of snow, Odd crumbs of melting snow. But you mistake, it is not from the sky; From out the iron, and from out the steel, Flying not down from heaven, but storming up, Strange storming up from the dense under-earth Along the iron, to the living steel In rose-hot tips, and flakes of rose-pale snow Setting supreme annunciation to the world. Nay, what a heart of delicate super-faith, Iron-breaking, The rusty swords of almond-trees. Trees suffer, like races, down the long ages. They wander and are exiled, they live in exile through long ages Like drawn blades never sheathed, hacked and gone black, The alien trees in alien lands: and yet The heart of blossom, The unquenchable heart of blossom! Look at the many-cicatrised frail vine, none more scarred and frail, Yet see him fling himself abroad in fresh abandon From the small wound-stump. Even the wilful, obstinate, gummy fig-tree Can be kept down, but he'll burst like a polyp into prolixity. And the almond-tree, in exile, in the iron age! This is the ancient southern earth whence the vases were baked, amphoras, craters, cantharus, oenochoe, and open-hearted cylix, Bristling now with the iron of almond-trees Iron, but unforgotten, Iron, dawn-hearted, Ever-beating dawn-heart, enveloped in iron against the exile, against the ages. See it come forth in blossom From the snow-remembering heart In long-nighted January, In the long dark nights of the evening star, and Sirius, and the Etna snow-wind through the long night. Sweating his drops of blood through the long-nighted Gethsemane Into blossom, into pride, into honey-triumph, into most exquisite splendour. Oh, give me the tree of life in blossom And the Cross sprouting its superb and fearless flowers! Something must be reassuring to the almond, in the evening star, and the snow-wind, and the long, long, nights, Some memory of far, sun-gentler lands, So that the faith in his heart smiles again And his blood ripples with that untenable delight of once-more-vindicated faith, And the Gethsemane blood at the iron pores unfolds, unfolds, Pearls itself into tenderness of bud And in a great and sacred forthcoming steps forth, steps out in one stride A naked tree of blossom, like a bridegroom bathing in dew, divested of cover, Frail-naked, utterly uncovered To the green night-baying of the dog-star, Etna's snow-edged wind And January's loud-seeming sun. Think of it, from the iron fastness Suddenly to dare to come out naked, in perfection of blossom, beyond the sword-rust. Think, to stand there in full-unfolded nudity, smiling, With all the snow-wind, and the sun-glare, and the dog-star baying epithalamion. Oh, honey-bodied beautiful one, Come forth from iron, Red your heart is. Fragile-tender, fragile-tender life-body, More fearless than iron all the time, And so much prouder, so disdainful of reluctances. In the distance like hoar-frost, like silvery ghosts communing on a green hill, Hoar-frost-like and mysterious. In the garden raying out With a body like spray, dawn-tender, and looking about With such insuperable, subtly-smiling assurance, Sword-blade-born. Unpromised, No bounds being set. Flaked out and come unpromised, The tree being life-divine, Fearing nothing, life-blissful at the core Within iron and earth. Knots of pink, fish-silvery In heaven, in blue, blue heaven, Soundless, bliss-full, wide-rayed, honey-bodied, Red at the core, Red at the core, Knotted in heaven upon the fine light. Open, Open, Five times wide open, Six times wide open, And given, and perfect; And red at the core with the last sore-heartedness, Sore-hearted-looking. - DH Lawrence Something must be reassuring to the almond, in the evening star, and the snow-wind, and the long, long, nights: almond blossom, hoar-frost, and snow-wind. BLACK ICE 2013 Lovely, dangerous, slick, and bitterly cold: chilly white sleet-like notes with a hint of vetiver, a breath of smoky asphalt, and winter wind. BUTTER RUM COOKIE 2013 A boozy addition to the devil's bake sale! Rum-soaked butter cookies, crusted with sugar, soaked in almond and garnished with orange rind. CHANUKKIYAH 2013 Baruch ata Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech ha'olam, Asher kid'shanu b'mitzvosav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Chanukah. Baruch ata Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech ha'olam, She'asah nisim la'avoseinu, bayamim ha'hem baz'man hazeh. Baruch ata Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech ha'olam, She'hecheyanu, vekiyemanu vehigi'anu laz'man hazeh. Olive oil, beeswax, glowing amber, sweet sufganiyot, pomegranate, and fig. Ha'Neiros halalu anachnu madlikin al hanisim ve'al hanifla'os, ve'al hat'shu'os ve'al hamilchamos, sh'asisa la'avoseinu bayamim hahem baz'man hazeh, al yedei kohaneicha hakedoshim. Vechol sh'monas yemei Chanukah, haneiros halalu kodesh hem. Ve'ein lanu reshus le'hishtamesh ba'hem, eh'la lir'osam bilvad, ke'dei le'hodos u'lehalel leshimcha hagadol al nisecha ve'al nifle'osecha ve'al yeshu'oshecha. Ma'oz tzur yeshu'asi Lecha na'eh leshabe'ach Tikone bais tefilasi Ve'sham todah nezabe'ach Le'es Tachin Mabe'ach Mitzar ham'nabe'ach Az egmor beshir mizmor Chanukas hamizbe'ach. DAYS OF WINTER SUNSHINE “Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to crumble into ruins.” ― Gustave Flaubert Rain falling through the heart: carrot seed, frankincense, white jasmine, sea buckthorn berry, and iris. DEATH’S SECOND SELF That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. - Sonnet 73, William Shakespeare Yellowed leaves, pale frankincense, solemn amber, and ashes. EGG NOG 2013 Sweet brandy, dark rum, heavy cream, sugar, and a dash of nutmeg. El DIA DE LOS REYES 2013 The Day of Kings, the Celebration of the Magi. In Mexico, on January 6th, children place their shoes by their windows. If they have been good during the previous year, the Wise Men tuck gifts into their shoes during the night. Hot cocoa with cinnamon, coffee, and brown sugar. FAUNALIA 2013 Held on December 5th, this is the festival of the Horned God of the Forest, one of the di indigetes of Rome, god of cattle, fertility, wild, untamed nature, and prophecy through dreams. The scent of a thick, starlit, unspoiled forest, with a burst of wild musk, opobalsamum, black bryony, mandragora, and hemlock. THE FIRST SOFT SNOW 2013 The first soft snow! Enough to bend the leaves Of the jonquil low. Heavy drifts of snow blanketing winter's narcissus. THE FRUIT OF PARADISE 2013 While Persephone visited the realm of Hades, she tasted one single pomegranate seed, an act which compelled her to remain connected to the Land of the Dead for all eternity. Demeter's grief over her beloved daughter's absence that brings on the bleakness and barrenness of the winter months. The Fruit of Paradise, the Nectar of Death: bittersweet pomegranate. THE GARDEN IN WINTER Frosty-white and cold it lies Underneath the fretful skies; Snowflakes flutter where the red Banners of the poppies spread, And the drifts are wide and deep Where the lilies fell asleep. But the sunsets o'er it throw Flame-like splendor, lucent glow, And the moonshine makes it gleam Like a wonderland of dream, And the sharp winds all the day Pipe and whistle shrilly gay. Safe beneath the snowdrifts lie Rainbow buds of by-and-by; In the long, sweet days of spring Music of bluebells shall ring, And its faintly golden cup Many a primrose will hold up. Though the winds are keen and chill Roses' hearts are beating still, And the garden tranquilly Dreams of happy hours to be¬ In the summer days of blue All its dreamings will come true. - Lucy Maud Montgomery Swaths of red poppies, white roses, graceful winter lilies, and sun-bright primroses beaming from beneath a flutter of snowflakes. GO TO SLEEP, DARLINGS “I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.” ― Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass Kiss-soft clouds of spun-sugar snow. KRAMPUS 2013 Anything BUT jolly! Draped with chains and bells, wielding both whip and rod, this rag-clad, horned, red-skinned, soot-covered leering creature is both the companion and the antithesis of rosy-cheeked and ebullient Kris Kringle. He is called by many names, and, in a myriad of cultures, he is seen with different robes and faces, but he is nevertheless always a sinister and fearsome instrument of Santa's wrath: he wields a switch on all irredeemably naughty children before tossing them into his large black sack and whisking them away. Be good, or Krampus will toss you in a river! Sinister red musk, black leather, dusty rags, and wooden switches. KRAMPUSLAUFEN On December 5th, the eve of St. Nicholas day, a veritable storm of Krampi swarm the streets of Bavaria. Wielding sticks and chains, they inspire the hearts of naughty children with terror. Smoke, fur, and rusty chains with apple schnapps, malted chocolate bonbons, and Bavarian mints. LA BEFANA 2013 On the night of the Epiphany, a joyful, broomstick-riding hag clad in a tattered shawl drops into chimneys all over Italy, bestowing gifts to good children, and dropping coal into the stockings of naughty kiddies. La Befana vien di notte Con le scarpe tutte rotte Col vestito alla Romana Viva, Viva La Befana! As the Three Wise Men searched for the house of the Christ child, they found themselves lost. Eventually, they stopped at a small house and knocked on the door. A small, wizened woman opened the door, holding a broom in her hand. The Astrologers asked the woman if she knew the location of the child, but, unfortunately, she did not know who these men were looking for, and could not aid them in their search. It was deep into the night, and the air was chilly, so the kindly woman offered the three men her hospitality. They spent the night in her warm, comfortable home, and shared bread and stories with one another. The Astrologers explained to the woman why they were looking for this blessed infant, and invited her to join them in their search come morning. Though she was touched by their tale, she declined, as she had a great deal of housework to do. At daybreak, the Astrologers awoke. They thanked the woman for her generosity, gathered their things, and prepared to leave. Before they departed, they, again, asked the old woman if she would like to join them on their journey. Again, she declined, and sent them on their way. After they had left, she regretted her decision, and she set off to find the Three Wise Men. After many long and frustrating hours of searching, she still could not find them. Saddened, yet still filled with hope, she stopped to give a gift to every good child she passed. La Befana comes by night With her shoes old and broken She comes dressed in the Roman way Long life to the Befana! Candy charcoal, winter lilies, parma violet, a sprig of cypress, a poof of chimney dust, and holiday sweets. LE PÈRE FOUETTARD 2013 Once upon a time, there lived a stone-hearted, evil butcher and his grasping, covetous wife. Their shop was located near a parochial boarding school in a small village in eastern France. One day, three little boys passed the butcher's shop. Their clothes were neat and starched, and the wicked couple fancied that they could see gold stitching on the little boys' shirtcuffs. The butcher's eyes gleamed with avarice, and he hatched an evil plan to rob the children. His wife enticed the little boys into the shop and fed them poisoned sweets. Her husband then slit their throats, chopped their little bodies into pieces, and put the pieces into barrels. Good Saint Nicholas discovered the monstrous crime, and, through God's grace, resurrected the little boys. He confronted the vile butcher and forced him to atone for his crime. The butcher became Le Père Fouettard, Saint Nicholas' partner on his Christmas travels. Dressed in a soot-covered black suit that mirrors Father Christmas' suit of red and white, he travels with Saint Nick and dispenses coal and floggings to naughty children. Whip leather, coal dust, gaufrette, and black licorice. LICK IT NOW Every holiday season should be full of lewd suggestions and filthy double entendres, right? This is a new take on past Lick Its -- a peppermint candy cane with an extra jolt of sugar, coated in more sugar, with sugar on that sugar. (As always, we have to state: don't lick perfume. Don't eat it, drink it, cook with it, or use it in any strange and unforeseen way. Black Phoenix is not responsible for that sort of irresponsible funnybusiness.) LIKE BROOMS OF STEEL Like brooms of steel The Snow and Wind Had swept the Winter Street, The House was hooked, The Sun sent out Faint Deputies of heat— The Apple in the cellar snug Where rode the Bird The Silence tied His ample, plodding Steed, Was all the one that played. - Emily Dickinson Sharp, metallic slices of snow and freezing wind with a faint hint of cellar dust, burlap, and apple. THE MAHOGANY TREE Christmas is here; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we; Little we fear Weather without, Shelter'd about The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night birds are we; Here we carouse, Singing, like them, Perch'd round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit— Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short— When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree. Evenings we knew, Happy as this; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust! We sing round the tree. Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate: Let the dog wait; Happy we 'll be! Drink every one; Pile up the coals, Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree. Drain we the cup.— Friend, art afraid? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree. Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee. Come with the dawn, Blue-devil sprite, Leave us to-night, Round the old tree. - William Makepeace Thackeray Sorrows, begone! Sweet wine, sparkling laughter, warm companionship, and the song of night-birds under a canopy of rustling mahogany: robin-red currants, soft nightingale-brown tonka, glossy starling-black labdanum, hearth-warm amber, mahogany sap, winter woods, a splash of Muscat, and gentle Christmas snow. MIDNIGHT MASS 2013 I will wash my hands among the innocent; and will compass thy altar, O Lord: That I may hear the voice of thy praise: and tell of all thy wondrous works. I have loved, O Lord, the beauty of thy house; and the place where thy glory dwelleth. Take not away my soul, O God, with the wicked: nor my life with bloody men: In whose hands are iniquities: their right hand is filled with gifts. But as for me, I have walked in my innocence: redeem me, and have mercy on me. My foot hath stood in the direct way: in the churches I will bless thee, O Lord. In Roman Catholic tradition, the Christmas season begins liturgically on Christmas Eve, though it is forbidden to celebrate the Christmas Mass before midnight. The most devout attend Midnight Mass, celebrating both the Eucharist and the drama of the Nativity. This perfume is a traditional Roman Catholic sacramental incense, most often used during a Solemn Mass. Traditionally, five tears of this incense, each encased individually in wax that has been fashioned into the shape of a nail, are inserted into the paschal candle. This is, of course, represents the Five Wounds of Our Risen Savior. Symbolically, the burning of the incense signifies spiritual fervor, the fragrance itself inspires virtue, and the rising smoke carries our prayers to God. Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium. Et in unum Dominum Iesum Christum, Filium Dei unigenitum, et ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula. Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero, genitum non factum, consubstantialem Patri; per quem omnia facta sunt. Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de caelis. Et incarnatus est de Spiritu Sancto ex Maria Virgine, et homo factus est. Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato, passus et sepultus est, et resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas, et ascendit in caelum, sedet ad dexteram Patris. Et iterum venturus est cum gloria, iudicare vivos et mortuos, cuius regni non erit finis. Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex Patre procedit. Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur: qui locutus est per prophetas. Et unam, sanctam, catholicam et apostolicam Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum. Et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum, et vitam venturi saeculi. Amen. NUCLEAR WINTER 2013 Annihilation. The ice, desolation and barrenness of nuclear devastation shot through by a beam of radioactive mints. PEACOCK QUEEN 2013 In dramatic contrast to the soft innocence of Snow White and the dew-kissed freshness of her sister, Rose Red, this is a blood red, voluptuous rose, velvet-petaled, at the height of bloom. Haughty and imperious, vain, yet incomparably lovely to the eye, but thick with thorns of jealousy, pride and hatred. PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER Summer fading, winter comes Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, Window robins, winter rooks, And the picture story-books. Water now is turned to stone Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the flowing brooks In the picture story-books. All the pretty things put by, Wait upon the children's eye, Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, In the picture story-books. We may see how all things are Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies' looks, In the picture story-books. How am I to sing your praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books? - Robert Louis Stevenson The wild joy of story time on a frosty winter morning: the well-loved, well-worn leather of old fairy tale books, the sweet mustiness of antique paper, fae glimmers of twinkling crystalline flowers, and a chunk of Scottish Tablet. PINK SNOWBALLS 2013 A lighthearted winter scent: chilly vanilla rose snowballs! Dainty, soft, and certainly unfit for flinging! PURPLE SNOWBALLS Sugar plum snowballs with a touch of currant and cardamom! ROSE RED 2013 The perfected winter rose, dew covered and freshly cut. SKADI 2013 The Snow-Shoe Goddess, Giantess, the Norse embodiment of winter. Frost-rimed winter berries, crisp pine needle, and a slush of bright snowy notes. SNOW WHITE 2013 A chilly, bright perfume: flurries of virgin snow, crisp winter wind and the faintest breath of night-blooming flowers. STARDUST 2013 When the holidays roll around, not everyone has mistletoe, caroling and cookies on their minds. This scent is a paean to celebrating hard: nights covered in glitter and dusted with cocaine, flutes of Cristal clutched in shaky hands, leather and lace, the Spiders From Mars in the background, and twisting, sweaty limbs entangled in dark corners. Hairspray and cigarette smoke is the incense in this temple to decadence, strobe and mirrors replace the devotional candles, and Bolan sings the hymns. This scent is for everyone that has every drifted off into Quaalude-induced reverie to the beat of a tribal 4-on-the-floor: the sound of Mott the Hoople, Sweet, Slade or the Dolls. This scent reflects the futurism, self-indulgence and excess of the Glitter 70's: champagne, white mandarin, tuberose, ylang ylang and flashing white musk with jonquil, tobacco flower, Queen of the Night blossom, white sandalwood and a pale poppy. TO JUAN AT THE WINTER SOLSTICE There is one story and one story only That will prove worth your telling, Whether are learned bard or gifted child; To it all lines or lesser gauds belong That startle with their shining Such common stories as they stray into. Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues, Or strange beasts that beset you, Of birds that croak at you the Triple will? Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turns Below the Boreal Crown, Prison of all true kings that ever reigned? Water to water, ark again to ark, From woman back to woman: So each new victim treads unfalteringly The never altered circuit of his fate, Bringing twelve peers as witness Both to his starry rise and starry fall. Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty, All fish below the thighs? She in her left hand bears a leafy quince; When, with her right she crooks a finger smiling, How may the King hold back? Royally then he barters life for love. Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched, Whose coils contain the ocean, Into whose chops with naked sword he springs, Then in black water, tangled by the reeds, Battles three days and nights, To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore? Much snow is falling, winds roar hollowly, The owl hoots from the elder, Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup: Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward. The log groans and confesses There is one story and one story only. Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling, Do not forget what flowers The great boar trampled down in ivy time. Her brow was creamy as the crested wave, Her sea-blue eyes were wild But nothing promised that is not performed. - Robert Graves A prayer to the White Goddess: Pale rose, sweet clover, and bergamot for the Maiden. Hazelnut, honey, and myrtle and for the Mother. Black cypress, myrrh, and white sandalwood for the Crone. THE VISIONARY Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep, Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees. Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star. Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame! Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame: But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know, What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow. What I love shall come like visitant of air, Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray, Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay. Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear— Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy. - Emily Brontë What I love shall come like a visitant of air. The wild freedom of the snow-gleaming heath thrusting through the dull safety of the hearth and the doldrums of the bleak, rolling moors. Lush, honeyed red musk twined with heart-thrilling white musk on passion-warmed skin against a backdrop of raw, iced peat, common heather, and hearth wood. A WINTER DAWN Above the marge of night a star still shines, And on the frosty hills the somber pines Harbor an eerie wind that crooneth low Over the glimmering wastes of virgin snow. Through the pale arch of orient the morn Comes in a milk-white splendor newly-born, A sword of crimson cuts in twain the gray Banners of shadow hosts, and lo, the day! - Lucy Maud Montgomery The soft splendor of dawn in winter: pearlescent pink grapefruit, neroli, helichrysum, freesia, white mandarin, and rockrose rising behind a dapple of snowflakes. WINTER STARS I went out at night alone; The young blood flowing beyond the sea Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings— I bore my sorrow heavily. But when I lifted up my head From shadows shaken on the snow, I saw Orion in the east Burn steadily as long ago. From windows in my father’s house, Dreaming my dreams on winter nights, I watched Orion as a girl Above another city’s lights. Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too, The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars, All things are changed, save in the east The faithful beauty of the stars. - Sara Teasdale Dreaming my dreams on winter nights: starry blue musk with mugwort, white mandarin, rockrose, and snow. YELLOW SNOWBALLS 2013 Because I am very, very crass. Slushy white mint, vanilla cream, lemon drops, grapefruit, and yuzu! ++ YULE: GINGERBREAD COTILLION NOW you shall hear a story that somebody's great-great-grandmother told a little girl ever so many years ago: There was once a little old man and a little old woman, who lived in a little old house in the edge of a wood. They would have been a very happy old couple but for one thing -- they had no little child, and they wished for one very much. One day, when the little old woman was baking gingerbread, she cut a cake in the shape of a little boy, and put it into the oven. Presently she went to the oven to see if it was baked. As soon as the oven door was opened, the little gingerbread boy jumped out, and began to run away as fast as he could go. The little old woman called her husband, and they both ran after him. But they could not catch him. And soon the gingerbread boy came to a barn full of threshers. He called out to them as he went by, saying: I've run away from a little old woman, A little old man, And I can run away from you, I can! Then the barn full of threshers set out to run after him. But, though they ran fast, they could not catch him. And he ran on till he came to a field full of mowers. He called out to them: I've run away from a little old woman, A little old man, A barn full of threshers, And I can run away from you, I can! Then the mowers began to run after him, but they couldn't catch him. And he ran on till he came to a cow. He called out to her: I've run away from a little old woman, A little old man, A barn full of threshers, A field full of mowers, And I can run away from you, I can! But, though the cow started at once, she couldn't catch him. And soon he came to a pig. He called out to the pig: I've run away from a little old woman, A little old man, A barn full of threshers, A field full of mowers, A cow, And I can run away from you, I can! But the pig ran, and couldn't catch him. And he ran till he came across a fox, and to him he called out: I've run away from a little old woman, A little old man, A barn full of threshers, A field full of mowers, A cow and a pig, And I can run away from you, I can! Then the fox set out to run. Now foxes can run very fast, and so the fox soon caught the gingerbread boy and began to eat him up. Presently the gingerbread boy said, "Oh dear! I'm quarter gone!" And then, "Oh, I'm half gone!" And soon, "I'm three-quarters gone!" And at last, "I'm all gone!" and never spoke again. GINGERBREAD SATYR I've run away from a little old woman, A little old man, A barn full of threshers, A field full of mowers, A cow and a pig, And I can run away from you, I can! Gingerbread with red musk, brown musk, civet and ambergris accord, Ceylon cinnamon, black cedar, black moss, and pine tar. GINGERBREAD SNAKE Oh dear! I’m a quarter gone! Gingerbread and exotic Indonesian oils sugared with vanilla. GINGERBREAD TROLL Oh, I’m half gone! Gingerbread with vetiver, pine pitch, troll musk, black basil, clove smoke, and scorched cumin. GINGERBREAD VILLAIN I’m three-quarters gone! Gingerbread fougere, with hints of lilac, lime, and citrus musk. GINGERBREAD ZOMBI I’m all gone! Gingerbread with dried roses, rose leaf, Spanish moss, oakmoss and deep brown earth. ++ YULE: BRIAN KESINGER’S OTTO AND VICTORIA Inspired by Brian Kesinger’s Otto and Victoria! We love Otto & Victoria! OTTO & VICTORIA: BRAVING THE ICE White mint cookies with a drizzle of pomegranate cream, dusted with confectioner’s sugar. OTTO & VICTORIA: YULE COOKIES Clouds of flour and spices with the scent of ginger tea, warm caraway cakes, snickerdoodle pinwheels, and sugar cookies with sweet orange frosting. Next up: table rapping, a ghostly photo shoot, some ectoplasm, and the BPTP Yules! Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
