Flioline

that ouds smell like wood.
They all claim that, all the time. Especially with 1001 mainstream "oud" fragrances (which usually also have "oud" in the name) (and never smell like oud).

No, they generally do not.
They smell fruity (especially those from Ensar Oud very often and a lot), mostly darker.
And, let’s not beat around the bush, they smell like a stable and mountain meadow, in other words: like cow dung.
And strong, and like a sheikh.
Sometimes they smell cheesy.
They are rough and smoky.
Sometimes they carry a little flower.
And they make all sorts of delightful yet challenging capers.

However, this one does indeed smell like wood.
Very basic, very straight, without any fuss, wood.
It spreads like melting honey, from the almost resinous dark oil.
And I am delighted. For years I have been searching for the perfect forest scent; God, what have I tried.
No, no, this one is not it either. No.
It lacks the ethereal, the water droplet, the finest green, the little splash of bright red, the dry lichen, the mystery, the forest, the forest. (Even more: mountain forest*!)
[*Whoever finds me the scent shall be praised for all eternity!]
But: The wood. That’s what it is. The Extrapordinaire. Silly name actually. Because that’s exactly what it is not, the Ex…, the wooden one. It’s woody. The simple guy. Organic. Unadulterated. Thai oud. Rayong.

Injured tree, resinous wound. Created by mold to drive away pests. And to attract heart- and hormone-driven beings.

Then, at some point in the thicket, a sequence floats by. which I actually cannot describe at all. For a short while, believe me or not, it smells like: planet. Yes. Planet. No, not earth, not metal, not not, just … like planet.
You will understand, I am in love.

whoosh. A little flower… A tiny mint leaf… A tea… whoosh
The mystery is followed by what must follow with Ensar Oud: fruit.
Meh.
Yawn.
Yayaya.
And slowly my current darling is sliding into insignificance.

But then, oh my love, it sends out once more a little wonder from afar (where a properly adored lover belongs).
It makes itself unforgettable with a nameless scent that rises deep deep deep into the nose, no, into the brain. Maybe. A little. Weihr… No. Mystery. Deep shit.

Love you with the brain but my heart

I wanted to wrap myself in silence regarding Bowmakers. No word should escape my lips, no sound from any of my strings, and no letter from the ribbon of my iPad should slip away.
My Bowmakers.

But the winds blow as they do, and today the moment blew in.
So I washed all three hands, and here they stand ready:
The current impressive cylinder with hip NYish understatement label: BOWMAKERS,
the relatively new light-oily variant for the modern pre-Corona traveler (or Travelline)
(The name would have pleased me too. Back then.),
and the myth-enshrouded "Old," which thus remains the eternally better one beyond any discussion, the much lamented perfume, in the elegant flat flask with the truly beautiful white flower illustration,
So, on my left arm now comes from the block of clear glass,
on my middle left arm from a felt-covered tube oil,
and on the least left arm wafts the more delicate retro version.

The left-radical olfactory impression is the strictest. Yes, it can even become sharp at times. It is woodier. More resinous too; and from both: more sacred.
Here, in darkness, my very personal central Bowmakers image shines and sparkles: Darkness, dark darkness. Wood. Dark brown-black furniture. Benches... Prayer benches. A deep Italian crypt beneath the (yes) string ship with some ancient prayer benches. The walls are also partly dark wood, almost black, centuries soaked through with holy polish and permeated by incense and faith. Worked lacquer, "prayed through," "prayed over," "be be te te ta ta taaaa"... Here resides fervor. And a few slender candles of hope and longing that emphasize the darkness.
And even if he is centuries old, this left-radical, he can certainly stay longer: He clearly has the strongest longevity of the Three Graces.

Now a leap!
The retro Left - il Grande Originale* - is smoother. And yet hefty. Softly hefty. Linoleum. Floor. For a moment at the beginning, I even thought I detected an earthy patch.
The smoother one makes more instrument associations, is less overwhelming and awe-inspiring, less dark in scent, indeed rather reddish-brown, like the powerful cedar here, and like splendid old string instruments. La Musica sta guarendo. It is healing. Yes, and there is also something medicinal in the scent, also gentle.
Is it really gentler, mossy-bearish? Or is it just that the head is a bit tousled and unkempt due to its life traces, and the edges smoothed, like some body part of a much venerated saint statue? No one lives forever.
My crypt is already here too, but later, a more distant hint, gentler. The music is already brushing.

To the riddle... il grande mistero: The difference between these two is delicato, subtle.
No reason for theatrics.
Anyway not.
Silence!
Silence in sound, silence after sound...

Now to my middle left hand (which also has its own Parfumo page * *, rightly so). Weaker. Is this the sorcerer's apprentice, the junior? Or the? Something here is almost lemony fresh, after a while a bit more woody... It's the cypress!
Interestingly, I find here the much-praised colophony nuance most readily. Brava, apprendista!
It is brighter, not only in appearance but also in scent. Flatter too. But, uh, high-flat. Something is flying. A bright Botticelli UFO?
Not particleboard-flat. But also not a black church bench. Not a double bass either. A summer travel violin! Great, also lovely. I’m already looking forward to it. But, when despite climate change it’s just not summer, and a flask fits in the backpack, then this one here is probably the most dispensable for me... * * * ...the middle left arm. Which also makes some sense.

(* * * Which is more than relative, as I would never part with any of my Three Graces!)
Besides: "There is no middle," says the Left ;)

Grazie oscura Durga per le dimensioni di queste fragranze, e viva la musica!

"Okay, let's gather a few buckets of nature and make something to smell out of it!" "Great, let's do it."
The next morning, early into the mountain shoes and off we go. This kind of morning sun over the valley, which is later followed by a fog before it gets really warm. It's super clear, from the 3000-meter peaks at the end of the valley you can see every notch, you can almost recognize the exact entry points from below. Snowfields shine, damp rock walls glisten. The almost flat ground here is still moist. At first, the gravel crunches, then it goes over herbaceous meadows, a short-flowered carpet, dark green tiny leaves, pink even tinier flowers. Silver thistles now and then, then again moss, some brave little flowers in between, scattered. And cow pats, of course.
We cross the mountain stream, simply through with the well-greased boots, which dry quickly while walking. We leave the red-and-white dots of the excellent path to the left, we know our direction, we have walked this way so many times in the Indian summer to where the mushrooms grow, wow, so many. There aren't any yet. Also otherwise... beloved slope, entry into the sky. But also slope of torment, when we have often come out too late again, and wanted to go up quickly because there is still so much ahead. Often gone too fast, puffing and cursing. Today we don't want to go so high. Everything is chill.
Yes, the path is getting steep now. Every now and then, there are trampled trails that then disappear again. The forest becomes dark. Water runs here and there, everywhere, dripping from moldy fallen branches with slimy green on them, onto little stones, jewels. Hundreds of green-humped mounds are here, in whose fluff all sorts of grasses, tiny mushrooms, and herbs peek out. On the trees, lichens, some lush. The spruce branches hang low here, occasionally a branch lands in the face. Also spider webs, the very fine ones, sometimes hang over the nose and tickle.
Now the air is getting very, very fresh, a bluish darkness prevails now and makes it quiet; the waterfall is close here. The bark is dark and wet. I don't know a word for this smell, and I don't want to know one. Then, amidst the misty glory, radiant sun stars begin to flash through the steeply standing trunks, initially one by one, then more and more. It is a fresh sun here, yes, somehow fruity, one that pricks in the heart and nose, awake, awake. Rays that hit us, in the eyes and heart.
Soon now, after one of the next bends in the path, slipping through two rocks, over a rooty path that feels wonderfully through the solid Vibram soles, we go out of the forest for the first time. Stop. Breathe deeply. Sun. Sun. Here it seems to stand quite close, the three-thousander that gave the side valley its name. But that's misleading, there are still endless larches to trudge through, then the 27 serpentines, and... Well, we won't go that far. We already have what we wanted.
"Do you have everything?" "Don't know, but it's fine." "True, it smells good." "Great." Now just sit here and look and be happy. The sun warms our unnamed treasures and turns them into that most beautiful scent in the world.
But watch out, it quickly fades away; the weather changes quickly here.
No matter, we'll come back. For sure.

How does one describe such a musk?
Sex is undoubtedly more than just an association here. At the same time, our ideas barely scratch the surface of what is happening. The mind cannot grasp this fascination. Perhaps not even the sense of smell. Archaisms are at play. So strong that even we, a distant and alien species, catch a glimpse of it through the bottle.

The musk female has a supple back line and a light bottom. And her nose seems to be an erogenous zone. Rose is probably of little concern to her. It does us good here, especially in such heavenly subtle elegance as this sheikh brings.
If I were her - whoops, the human ego has once again intruded, just as ignorant and self-righteous - I would be all over those teeth of the musk male. They seem a bit equivalent to the protruding jaw of a human man sometimes. Hmmm.
Furthermore, I fancy that I smell a few pine needles. They might help with the erotic identification with the musk creature, even if it actually lives more in the bushes. It flits about. Flitting seems to be an element of this sexual mystery. She flits. He flits. It rustles and smells. It freshens and stinks.
Also a bit of oud. But surely even the real musk lady - one of the few still living in true natural habitat - cannot be indifferent to this??? Who could remain untouched by the elysian oud of Hind al Oud?!!

Now that the musk lady has grown dear to my heart and bottom, I must unfortunately tell you: No, you should not buy this. If it is true that real musk is still used here. Because that is: crap. And in my eyes, that is the only dirty thing here.
Not even a rose can help. (Just like in human courtship, if the guy doesn't have it.)
And so I waver in my rating between 10 and 0, without any middle ground. Flit.

… with Prin at the symphony concert

I have laid out soap and wilderness,
lit a small floral herb, and brought along an incredibly diverse biotope.
Wild, niche, special, it breathes, and yet it smells of elegance, yes, femininity.

Mriga invites me to go in evening dress, yet I cannot hide the wild man within me.

I perceive it as light green, with dark shadows, woody, and glowing reflections of shimmering foliage. Here and there a small flower sparkles, and animals scurry. Everything is one.
Wonderful is the lime-fresh opening! This lime emphasizes the forest, although it is indeed a stranger. Just like the wormwood.

Then... nostalgia.
Not long after, solid gentle smoke. Nagarmotha wafts softly in...
It becomes very intimate now.

Quickly, too quickly, its wilderness turns into a memory.