Mlleghoul

Haruka Tenou energy, chilly sporty musk. Willowy sapphic athletics. Crisp androgynous elegance in fluttering white tennis shorts. Ginger brightness competing against vetiver earthiness, canceling each other out, whittling down to dank earthworm glow. A weakened Sailor Uranus attack - Minor Phosphorescent Subterranean Flicker! or Weakened Subsoil Incandescence Rustle! or something like that! Muted radiance, cool, composed, understated power...or not even power exactly. Powered up, but on a dimmer switch.

Helena Blavatsky on a wilderness retreat, divining the eternal mysteries through campfire ash with a spindly stalk of celery. Occult celery, theosophical vegetable. Investigating unexplained laws of Nature, the truth within the bitter ribs. Humble soup stock vegetation as messenger between worlds. Smoky pinewood/cedary outdoor incense curling around paradoxical aqueous/empyreumatic heart, enrobed in sweet, camphorous honey, cinched with crisp herbaceous green strings. Smoked offerings minus the charred flesh, channeling divine wisdom through fibrous green wands. Finding eternal essence in a produce bin bonfire, whether we call it God or Nature or High Priestess of Camp Celery. An extremely peculiar and exceedingly perfect conduit of otherworldly revelations and one of the most unique things I have ever added to my perfume collection.

The opening spray released something akin to a decrepit lightning bolt locked in a dusty crypt. Sharp, electric decay, musty current, moth-eaten voltage. Then...a bit of shadowy aromatic lycanthropy...a phantasmagoric zoetrope, a being resembling a Maria Germanova-type, shapeshifting through theatrical roles, a noble lady draped in jewels, a swaggering pirate, a beggar woman cloaked in rags, an avant-garde fairy in Stanislavski’s embodiment of The Blue Bird" by Maurice Maeterlinck. Ghostly photographs, the specters haunting antique cartes de visite. At turns, powdery, leathery, metallic, vegetal, austere, sophisticated. Moscow Art Theatre witch-queen caught mid-transformation, glamorous and gloomy, enigmatic and a bit unsettling.

The potpourri of a keepsakes box, dried flowers, brittle bouquets and boutonnieres, precious posies pressed between the pages of diaries and photo albums, sachets tucked among stored remnants and relics, and tokens of remembrance and reverence. Decaying roses in a dusty vanitas painting, blooms dried to powder, musky and musty, ghostly and haunting, sweet and acrid, baby-soft musk, rendered in pressed petals. The grief equal to the love, the tokens never equal to the weight they carry, entirely evidenced upon opening the box and releasing what's tucked within.

The sleazy, dangerous-divine charm of an Anne Rice mummy. Bandages steeped in sullen honey, infused with bitter, bracing cardamom and burnished amber incense, the aromatic pique of peppercorns tucked in various orifices and cavities for an afterlife eternity. Smoky, intimate burial, earthly fortune pressed to pulse points, swaddling of intimate opulence for eventual resurrection, rapture, and ruin. The transcendent high of choosing violence, (inviting carnage / welcoming chaos / accepting inevitable devastation / choose your own adventure here) and yet... you would not kick it out of bed for eating crackers. Which is a phrase I thought of because this smells a little biscuity, too.