Monthly Archives: March 2013

In her heart she knew that spring was the hopeful season, yet this year it felt, if not cruel, then hard.

It was hard too to let go of the rituals of winter, of early suppers and open fires, sleeping in until darkness ended and of hospital visits without, it seemed then, an end.

But all of that was over.

On a day between those set aside for St David and for other mothers she went to see them open the earth with sharp shop window shiny spades.

She watched the men who serve the dead in their deliberate unhurried work and realised she hadn’t anticipated the smell. She hadn’t known that winter soil disturbed after months of slumber would so surely carry the scent of decay.

Last autumn’s leaves decomposed and mixed with wet grass, grey moss and the year’s first flowers smells simply and unkindly chemical.

In the astringency she sensed an echo of her anguish.

Anguish. She could never use the word at home where she was expected to partition off her pain and move promptly along.

Her mother, people remarked, had lived to a good age.

The wreaths that came contained premature blooms: geraniums, carnations and roses all brought out before their time.

Only she had chosen a spring flower. Her violets spelt out a circle and no name.

Walking from the church, the resins and spices and smoke still surrounding her, the priest’s platitudes still in her ears she was roused from her semi conscious state by the same chemical stench.

Stood by the grave someone handed her a handful of dust.

And in her head a soprano began to sing Purcell.

“When I am laid in earth
am laid in earth
may my wrongs create
no trouble no trouble in thy breast.

“Remember me!
remember me!
but ah!
Forget my fate!”

*************

TS Eliot was wrong you know, it’s not always April that is the cruellest month, it is whichever season that brings sorrow with it.

Dioressence is a terribly sad smell, the smell, in fact, of sorrow.

In the vintage formulation a vertical door of heavy as lead oakmoss serves as an opening.

Aldehydes, unspecified green notes and a slight citrus seek to sanitise and lighten this dark accord but do nothing to soothe its awesome presence.

The interior of the fragrance remains determined by this entrance too, and whilst there are floral elements within: geranium most noticeably, rose, carnation and some structural jasmine, the whole effect remains resolutely patchouli , grassy green and solemn.

The spices, resins and hint of musk that seem to come to the fore for a moment in dry down fade to pianissimo much sooner than the principal notes are done with their song.

The overall effect is magisterial and silencingly beautiful.

Others of course will hear the spring chorus singing nature’s melody in the meadows by the way and perceive the call of procreation and are in their way are quite right too.

Dioressence is substantial enough a piece of work to allow for many readings.

*************

Sorrow does not discriminate between men and women and nor does the springtime, then why should this scent?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vG8wdzghnSQ

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy

Reflecting, she finds it easy enough to see how it all became so habit forming.

It seemed such fun at first: diving into deep resinous pools of laughter, smoking reefers with new friends in rooftop courtyards, potted geraniums lining up on tiled walls.

It seemed natural that after a while someone should introduce mystic philosophy and suggest it wasn’t necessary to wash absolutely every day, healthier in fact not to hose down each dawn.

Though, she recalls, it was thought best to at least try and mask the more animal aromas…

A spritz of an antique great uncle’s vetiver here some patchouli oil behind an ear there.

Then the musky smell really wasn’t that bad, quite, well, sexual, really.

Once you got used to it.

Soon, she says distantly, they were floating from room to room quoting Gurdjieff dressed in floor length embroidered kaftans and debating Jung in killim strewn salons.

Someone said, she forgets who now, someone said they should take a six month trip to Tangiers, live on nutmeg flavoured creme brulee and trust funds.

How they laughed and laughed until someone cried out in pain.

Then someone else, oh, she really can’t remember her name: a feminist, always reading de Beauvoir aloud to the group.

“She got very upset about everything, accused someone of wearing leather, which was banned, so we abandoned our plans and made up bouquets of roses we stole from the botanical gardens.”

Happy times.

Where are they now?

A blank distant look, just a hint of something moving behind the eyes…

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you. No idea.”

*************

Habinita Eau de Parfum is the pre existential smell of 1920s bohemian Paris re-imagined by a well meaning West Coast new age commune.

All the rough edges and intellectual rigour knocked off and replaced with a dose of sugared sentimentality and only slightly knowing sexuality.

It’s sophisticated in a long line skirt and short bob cut sort of a way, somewhat marred by a little too much tie dye.

After a quick burst of petitgrain to clear the way at the opening it’s a mainly balmy sweetness in the shape of mastic, vanilla and unsalted amber; spicy nutmeg and assorted woods, especially cedar and sandal, that takes centre stage.

Sure enough there’s a feral element, but the musk doesn’t quite cut the mustard and frankly there’s a bit of a gap where the oakmoss ought to be.

As for the flowers, they prove to be really not that powerful after all, save for a brisk geranium at the beginning that persists a little way into the heart.

Overall it is very long lasting semi-oddity, sure to draw knowing glances, especially from the fully self-actualised.

But one can’t help wishing it was… well, more self confident, brutal and, frankly, odd.

*************

Gender wise?

This is the endless Summer of Love, there’s nothing here that a man in a smock (metaphorically or otherwise) couldn’t get away with.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy