Vinyldates

Cotton in my head. Thoughts lounge in the chaos. They circle, float, do not settle and brush against each other like a storm of emotions and images. Blurred, intertwined: a symbiosis of illusion. What is memory, what is delusion?
There are images of
Grasses; tarred and feathered, the stems disappear in bright green under the black brew that seems to swallow everything. Smoking, smoldering, all-consuming.
There are images of
Gentle chamomiles, careful hands and soft pillows that accompany me into sleep, kindly humming soothing songs: a sensitive way of farewell.
Images of old oaks, cracking bark, rustling branches, boggy moors and lilac leaves. Falling. Like a song of spring in the abandoned, in the sunken.
Images of juicy flowers, screaming, demanding and infinitely dense, glowing in all colors and consuming you.
Again and again.
What remains later is a whisper. Sweetness that tenderly melts on the tongue before it guides you into gentle nothingness; a kiss, like a goodbye.

I lay my soul on tarry asphalt-
the whispers of days gone by penetrate clattering forests,
the wood has been felled- the old coffee crushed in mills; brewed again, black, cold, dark; the light streams in from outside and gets caught in the whispering wind, while our hands futilely try to warm themselves on the smoke, our bodies pressed together as tightly as if glued with pitch, pushing against each other, fleeing decay, as if we were one, a heartbeat, a spirit, a scent, the forests crumble, the ethereal brew seeping from the needles mingles with the aura of the changing season, a veil of mist settles and darkens the dreary landscape that stretches before our eyes, as we together, alone, try to escape the ghosts of time.

Chasing Autumn- a fragrance by Neil Morris, inspired by autumn, aims to reflect the dark facet of this season, begins with a stern and smoky opening of birch tar, which seems to take over the entire olfactory perception, before dry wood, ethereal needle sap, and gently warming coffee notes occasionally push to the forefront, creating a soft warmth in the scent. Chasing Autumn is meant to evoke the dark nights, falling temperatures, misty veils that move like dark spirits, and rotting leaves that fall to the ground, heralding the coming cold winter.
A very unique and also strong scent with a good sillage and a longevity that accompanies the wearer throughout the day, wrapping them in a cozy cocoon of smoke.

Warm resin of sweet suns warms the crumbly earth crusts that form on the ground. They lie there like small breadcrumbs between the individual grasses, stretching in ambered paths somewhere between the dried lush fields.
The leaves of the trees shine in red-golden colors, while bees still buzz here and there, flying around and busily completing their work in the last blooms of the past summer days, before the rich yellow nectar bursts from the hives and gradually the tranquility of the quiet season sets in.
Pollen winds flow around, leaving a spicy hint of coziness in the air before they disappear into the waxed shells of falling acacias.
The aura of this place is radiant, just like the Osmanthus that blooms in rich sweetness, reinforcing the shimmer of days gone by before the last autumn light will extinguish.

Path (of the Pollinator) is a limited project by Ananda Wilson, who produces her perfumes from 100% natural ingredients in small seasonal batches.
Path begins with dry spicy resin, amber, and an intense waxy density of honey, which together with Osmanthus is responsible for a light animalic note. This initially seems somewhat disharmonious, but over time the fragrance opens up to a very radiant and beautiful autumn companion that provides calm and warmth. Acacia and Opoponax contribute to a mild and quite pleasant sweetness.
Path has a pleasant, albeit rather delicate sillage and surrounds the wearer with a spicy warm aura for a good half day.

Your grimaces are yellowed, brittle and bland from daily use. Crusty clothing, as if played in the earth and only shaken off. Greasy streaks frame your face, soaked in bee honey, tallow, and dust. Like a frame around a picture. Only, this picture does not correspond to reality. You are tired. Tired of smiling, tired of playing. You are a fool if you think you can please everyone without losing yourself. Your soul has long been trapped in this small bizarre world and you cannot break free. You are decaying. Your shell only represents your inner self and your inner self stands for nothing. You do not deceive others, you deceive yourself.
A card in the tarot.
Your thoughts wander as you stoke the embers, delicate clouds of smoke rise quietly, only sparse. More ash, more soot than fire. You are not cold, the sun dances on your face and makes your amber eyes sparkle. Only briefly. For even they have a dull veil. Decayed, empty, meaningless. You have not been yourself for too long. For this world. When will you do something for yourself?
The golden sugar crackles in the cauldron, almost blackening, it exudes a burnt sweet aroma.
__________________
Fool by Wild Veil is a creation from Abby's tarot series, who handcrafts her batches from natural ingredients. In Fool, she attempts to highlight the enchanting aroma of amber and labdanum, which is meant to create a dark universe together with woods, smoke, and balsam. She succeeds, at least in the solid version, in my opinion, less so.
Fool starts with a sweet, slightly greasy resin note, followed by mild hints of smoke that increase slightly over time, but soon get lost in honey and sugar. The scent feels somewhat yellowed, desolate, crumbled, which definitely arises from the strong tallow note that devours the other aromas and ends in a skewed base.
Fool thus creates a pronounced skin association, which is quite intriguing, but becomes overwhelming over time. Very much human, very much fat, skin with sugar and amber without gold.
The solid has hardly any projection and disappears after about four hours. Throughout, it remains very close to the skin.

(With special thanks to Seejungfrau)

your fears preserved in grape must wax,
diffuse goblins wandering through the silent poplar forest.
heavy legs like clumsy stones on the path
silence. nothing but silence.
screaming are the voices in your head.
further
brushing through blackberry branches,
yellow-green heavy
you have been searching for so long
unknowing what for
sulfide clouds over gnarled treetops
meander in the own SELF
following traces of olibanum,
seeing warming wooden huts
or illusions
never arriving
soul loss feeding
*

Feeding Hansel tells stories. Stories of being, of searching, of finding, of losing oneself.
Hansel on his schizoid journey through the forest. It is bright. Only he seems to lose himself in the darkness. Soulless, he wanders, eating blackberries from bushes, picking grapes from dreams and searching for safety and understanding - a place to linger, a hut, a shell, himself?
The scent starts fermenting, with the grape unmistakably present and becomes denser over time, almost waxy. The accompanying wood notes create the impression of a dry forest, bathed in light. Very delicate wisps of incense are visible above the treetops, providing a hint of warmth and security, which is continuously interrupted and disturbed by the grape. Blackberry notes can also be faintly perceived throughout the scent, creating a complex fruit profile that steals the calm from the fragrance and prevents a harmonious ending.
It seems as if one would never arrive, as if the path Hansel treads leads into "nothing," and yet one does not even know until the end whether he has ever walked this path.
Has he even gotten lost in the forest? Or just in his head?
The longevity and sillage of the solid are low, and yet the scent transcends the time of perception, incredibly exciting.
Hansel tells his journey; one just has to close their eyes and listen.


(With many thanks to Seejungfrau)