AtTheScenter

dark roasted coffee beans, some beans are burnt,
heavy oily damp ebony, when trying to dry it, it was coked in places,
in the potpourri, the tobacco dries the other ingredients that can't do it on their own,
it absorbs moisture, making it a little oily itself, but has a balancing effect,
vanilla also tries to balance, but remains in the background for the time being,
oud offers itself as a base to keep its colleagues together,
but gives them the freedom to play,
kaffe is clearly the eccentric of the group, everyone dances around him

you have to like coffee, and here especially not the creamy soft milk coffee,
but dark roasted beans,
at first, due to the stubborn coffee, it seems somewhat disharmonious and slightly musty,
almost as if the beans had been delivered in a damp, fox-stained jute sack,
but since the coffee is what gives it its name, you should know what you're getting into
and give it the space
after the beans are out of the bag and everything has aired out a little,
it becomes more conciliatory, but remains dark, slightly smoky, roasted to burnt,
between moist and dry, most likely tropical warmth
later it becomes more conciliatory and lets the others play along
in the drydown, it first becomes a cup of cold, stale coffee
which is then immediately warmed up again by the vanilla and tobacco,
the oud connects and smoothes them, but always keeps everything dark

a beautiful, really niche coffee fragrance that i will certainly wear more often,
even if it's not quite as harmoniously balanced as my previous holy grail,
as far as coffee fragrances go, i found it in origins of the collector by memoirs of a perfume collector. but if you like it a little wilder, go for javanese coffee, cheers!

this weekend i had tested three fragrances, all of which happened to be quite close to three other fragrances in my collection. the two juxtaposed here were the most similar.

one of the three tested was mon nom est rouge. as soon as i sprayed it on, i thought of the unforgettable sideris by maria candida gentile, a fragrance that has recently become one of my favorites and actually has the potential to become a signature.
both fragrances are really very similar, and it's even more surprising how similar they are when you consider the richer pyramid of m.n.e.r.
a direct comparison reveals marginal differences, but in my opinion these are really only nuances.
both have the wonderful, unsacral, caressing incense and the subtle dry rose as their basic theme.
m.n.e.r. is slightly spicier due to cardamom, cinnamon and ginger, while sideris is somewhat brighter. in sideris, the rose seems to be slightly fruitier and slightly more present. and although sideris, unlike m.n.e.r., does not contain vanilla, sideris gives me the impression that it is slightly creamier and a touch sweeter due to a delicate vanilla note. i think i perceive a little more dry woodiness in m.n.e.r. but both have the same inviting warm smoothness and they share the same seductive charm.
mon nom est rouge seems darker due to the somewhat more superficial spiciness, with a brief patchouli shadow, and therefore has a more mystical feel, while the cuddly light-heartedness of sideris is more light-footed and invites you to dance.
i think m.n.e.r. will have slightly better longevity, but on the whole they are really very similar, almost as if they were brother and sister, a pair of twins, with sideris being the more feminine and mon nom est rouge the slightly more masculine part.
i had only recently fallen in love with sideris, and after the small 15ml bottle was used up very quickly, i immediately ordered the 100ml. but at the latest when this one runs out, i will probably add mon nom est rouge to my collection (if it can even wait that long).

the test also included:
rania j. ambre loup which reminded me of franck boclet amber
rania j. oud assam reminiscent of rasei fort the oud caravan
...short reviews/comparisons will follow

the warm, smoky building had to be aired out.
from the workshop next door, the smell of fuel permeated through the tilted window.
now it smelled of smoked petrol.
fresh air didn't want to come through the window,
it remained cozy and spicy, some would say a little divey-sticky.
today no sun wants to rise, the sky is gray, it remains dark.
he nodded off sitting down, the embers of his hand-rolled cigarette coking the leather sofa.
he dreamed briefly of hashish and poppies, but when he woke up again,
he had forgotten it again.
he looked for the fruits but couldn't find them, they must have rolled under the sofa.
didn't he still have a pomegranate lying around?
ah no, it was its thickened juice, not fruity at all, rather tart and a little sour.
there was a small puddle of some kind of spilled alcohol on the table,
perhaps whiskey, somehow dried up like syrup,
so that the ethereal volatility was missing, resinous, dry and herbaceous it was.
he was still thinking about whether he should incense a piece of creamy sandalwood,
to cover up the petrol charcoal, but he had none left,
so it remained gray-ashy and burnt leathery in the room, somehow stony, mineral-like.
he also thought of black decayed rotten wood, how it still lay damp in the forest
and the deer had rubbed against it.
yes, there really shouldn't be any sunshine today,
but even such a lazy day, he knew
contemplating the exhalations of various shades of gray and black,
to enjoy.

in the mid-nineties, as a 16-year-old in the orientshop,
a small hidden store in my hometown.
sprinkled with ethereal sounds in the esoteric-looking interior.
between batiked flared pants, fisherman's shirts made of indian linen,
hand-carved wooden caskets decorated with oriental arabesques,
clay ocarinas and darbukas covered with natural skin,
hand-knotted hippi necklaces, consisting of colorful stones, strung on a leather band
and over everything was the scent of nag champa incense sticks,
in the blue and white box with the red inscription.
nag champa, the epitome of spiritual aura and meditative ambience
and at the same time an alibi scent to hide the other resinous fragrances in my children's room
to hide from my parents.
oh how i lived, immortal in my youth, when the days were still mighty
and the endless hours lay before you,
when every minute was still full of life and opened its arms to plunge
to plunge into their embrace.
i remember
of psychedelic sounds under a crystalline sky,
the nights subjected to an insatiable search,
the drive to want to go to every end,
a hunger for knowledge and poetry that was never satisfied,
but only grew more eager with every newly discovered morsel.
sleepwalking between books, poetry, philosophy,
between intoxication and meditation, ecstatic shaman drumming, guitar and piano.
nights spent awake, lurking for the moments of insight,
in the fight against sleep, because it robbed conscious life time.
and what is it today?
little more than a fragrance to those who forget time and are forgotten by time,
but to those still searching, the spirit of a memory
of an all-consuming hunger
and the question of what satisfied it over the years -
or did you just forget your appetite over the years?
accustomed to the passing of the days, accustomed to hunger
and understood emaciation as satiety?

but then every now and then, beneath the trickling sands of time,
a piece of ember from old times, which the sand covered and guarded,
one reaches for the embers of the past
and with the breath of memory you rekindle it into a new flame.

for me, delhi is an emotional reminiscence of the times of my early youth, which i
don't like to dissect olfactorily too much.
the focus is on the nag champa of the incense sticks of the time, the impression of which
i don't want to interpret it any other way for the sake of nostalgia.
all the other notes from the pyramid are perceptible, they ensnare
and support the main note.
but floyd has already described this perfectly in his wonderful review
and i have nothing more to add :)

the dawn lay like a warming veil on nature,
when i awoke in the open field
and even before i opened my eyes, fragrant essences
like a silken scarf over my face and body
ripe blood oranges hang golden in the late summer sun
warming saffron atomizes and envelops the fruit,
on whose skin honey-sweet drops glisten like morning dew
but the early freshness of the blood orange drifts with the course of the sun after awakening
of the sun
hazelnuts fall from the tree
bees buzz between dry hay
non-sticky natural honey sweetness drips down from the tree
on tart dry tobacco
no damp, dark, fermented tobacco leaves are steaming out here
these leaves have been dried in the sun, whose warmth they still carry
in the wooden hut at the other end of the meadow, a mother is baking sweet desserts
a little incense burns in her kitchen
in front of the hut is a basket of dried spices and precious woods,
the smell of which is carried on the wind
i daydreamed that i had a handful of dried hay and shavings of precious woods
sprinkled with spices and wrapped in a tobacco leaf,
which I sealed with honey and wax,
but i did not light this bundle, i only held it in the light veil
of the smell of baking and incense drifting from the hut,
to give him just a hint of smoke
like a potpourri of everything that means nature and embodies rural summer,
i carried this bundle before me and, as it were, its scent carried me through the day,
from dawn to dusk
indulging, daydreaming, wandering in pleasure

everything is bright and warm, the sun of this late summer casts no shadows
yet the light is never too glaring, nothing is overdrawn to the point of dazzling
where you would expect shadows, you would have to look for them, because it never gets cold
everything is imbued with a warm golden red
it is the pleasant sun of late summer afternoons,
into which you like to hold your face with a satisfied smile
the mediable moment between nature and spirit,
in which you let everything be thought
and you are only sensual perception, enjoying without wanting to

everything is warm, but nothing sweats
it is dry and yet it flows, like a sweet and resinous liqueur
that drips from the sun over the woods and oranges and falls to the ground,
where it settles on tobacco leaves and hay
the drops sparkle in the sunset, but it seems as if the sun stands there forever,
it does not want to sink to the end
the air shimmers between the sounds of nature,
the chirping of the birds, the buzzing of the bees,
the ripple of the wind in the dry hay,
the cracking of the warmed wood,
the tobacco leaves drying in the sun

everything is united, nothing envies each other

i remember angelos' inspiration
and yes, there is a coherent picture
i see his ancestors doing their daily work in the tobacco fields,
nestled in untouched nature, leading a simple life,
sometimes hard but content, far from the hustle and bustle of the estates,
more devoted than self-sacrificing
i see a rural idyll that carries a sense of security,
which the scent also triggers in me
this is a summer as I like it and as it is allowed to live in me

an ode to the lived pure moment of times past
and in the attempt to preserve it, also a nostalgic reminder
of its transience
and it is only by remembering that we can conjure it up again and again,
and may the incantation sometimes be an elixir in a glass bottle
precious because of its exquisite ingredients,
but even more precious for its almost alchemical abilities

fabulously realized concept, i am happy to have discovered this craft and soul art, it will certainly not be the only fragrance of the house
the sample of tabac libre sent along is already on my list of the next purchases to be made