27
Top Review
of Already Gone and Still to Come
I know it well, I know - we are in spring.
At least according to the calendar and the meteorologists.
We are in spring after a winter that wasn’t really a winter - it was warm and wet and only rarely white, here and there and everywhere.
And the spring that is supposed to be here doesn’t feel like spring, not really, not yet.
It is wet and gray and cold and even white for some moments.
It doesn’t make me rejoice, celebrate, throw off my heavy clothes and wear colorful flags that flutter in the gentle wind and shimmer in the early spring sunlight.
Not yet, no.
My skin and soul still long for warmth, for cuddly softness and something to hold me tight, for powerful-gentle sweetness and wood and resin and smoke.
For autumn, at least in the bottle.
So then for "Tsukimi"?
"Tsukimi" tells us of autumn in Japan, a country I have never been to.
I know images of Japan, know people from this distant land who are quiet and polite, reserved and subtly turned away from all that is loud and garish.
They wear simple clothing, gentle fragrances, they do not impose in any way, even though they have been living with us year after year and our today was also their yesterday.
I thought: "Would they wear 'Tsukimi' as a fragrance in a foreign land like at home?"
"Tsukimi" envelops me in a fine mist of gentle spice and dry-dark wood, stitching delicate patterns of cloves, blossoms, branches onto light coarse linen, the thread cinnamon-brown.
I smell plums, still small and firm on trees, from whose foliage a cool rain drips, and I think again and again, always again of Serge Lutens' "Féminité du Bois."
Related in spirit, "Tsukimi" feels softer, a little shallower and not sweet and heavy at all.
A hint of autumn, surely, and also of nostalgia, of Already Gone and Still to Come.
Days are already fading, light and warmth are already dwindling, mist is already clinging bright cool-gray to the skin.
Still here and there, resin seeps from some bark, luring candlelight into some warm house.
A hint of gold, a dark shine, very close to me, a languid dance.
I see before me Naoko's dark eyes, her quiet smile, her motherly warmth - and I know she would also wear "Tsukimi" if she were still with us today.
At least according to the calendar and the meteorologists.
We are in spring after a winter that wasn’t really a winter - it was warm and wet and only rarely white, here and there and everywhere.
And the spring that is supposed to be here doesn’t feel like spring, not really, not yet.
It is wet and gray and cold and even white for some moments.
It doesn’t make me rejoice, celebrate, throw off my heavy clothes and wear colorful flags that flutter in the gentle wind and shimmer in the early spring sunlight.
Not yet, no.
My skin and soul still long for warmth, for cuddly softness and something to hold me tight, for powerful-gentle sweetness and wood and resin and smoke.
For autumn, at least in the bottle.
So then for "Tsukimi"?
"Tsukimi" tells us of autumn in Japan, a country I have never been to.
I know images of Japan, know people from this distant land who are quiet and polite, reserved and subtly turned away from all that is loud and garish.
They wear simple clothing, gentle fragrances, they do not impose in any way, even though they have been living with us year after year and our today was also their yesterday.
I thought: "Would they wear 'Tsukimi' as a fragrance in a foreign land like at home?"
"Tsukimi" envelops me in a fine mist of gentle spice and dry-dark wood, stitching delicate patterns of cloves, blossoms, branches onto light coarse linen, the thread cinnamon-brown.
I smell plums, still small and firm on trees, from whose foliage a cool rain drips, and I think again and again, always again of Serge Lutens' "Féminité du Bois."
Related in spirit, "Tsukimi" feels softer, a little shallower and not sweet and heavy at all.
A hint of autumn, surely, and also of nostalgia, of Already Gone and Still to Come.
Days are already fading, light and warmth are already dwindling, mist is already clinging bright cool-gray to the skin.
Still here and there, resin seeps from some bark, luring candlelight into some warm house.
A hint of gold, a dark shine, very close to me, a languid dance.
I see before me Naoko's dark eyes, her quiet smile, her motherly warmth - and I know she would also wear "Tsukimi" if she were still with us today.
Translated · Show original
16 Comments
And it doesn't smell like papaya... :)