tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-828470418060263472024-02-19T09:19:37.767-06:00Notes From the LedgePerfume, fresh water, and other indulgencesScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.comBlogger275125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-51917089308516703362012-10-10T12:42:00.001-05:002012-10-10T12:42:29.511-05:00<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I heard remarkably sad news on the radio this morning: Alex Karras has died.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Even if you don’t know who Alex Karras is, it is worth pausing a moment to note that I heard breaking news on the radio. Not via a Tweet, not thanks to a friend’s post on Facebook. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The radio jock handled it just right, talking between songs about a book his father had let him read (which I happened to know was Paper Lion just by the description), an account of George Plimpton’s saga as a poseur quarterback to get the inside scoop on trying out in the NFL, the Detroit Lions one got to know as a result, the standout “character” who was a lauded defensive tackle. A guy who went on to a legitimate career as an actor (remember differentiating acting careers on “legitimacy”?), and who -- now pay close attention here, this was huge to a pre-adolescent girl paying attention to such things -- married Susan Clark after starring with her in a movie about Babe Didrickson.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The guy had brains and character enough to marry a woman who could carry off Babe. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">You might not even know him as a football player. You might know him for adopting Webster. Or for punching a horse in <i>Blazing Saddles</i>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">To me, he was a scary Lion who wasn’t so scary after all. Well, who COULD be scary, but who had brains, too. And a sense of humor.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">These are very important character traits for a) an impressionable youth, b) an impressionable young woman trying to figure out if guys were no particularly different, as things had seemed until quite recently, or incredibly so, as culture and occasional circumstance were starting to suggest, and c) somebody from Detroit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">So there I am, driving. I have been riding in cars all of my life. I acknowledge this is true of a lot of people these days, but not all. There are still some New Yorkians, for example, for whom a driver’s license is not a certificate validating your 16th birthday that happens to be issued by the Secretary of State. But there was once a time when most of us knew either in our own family, or a friend's family, a Grown Up Who Did Not Drive. And even in Detroit, I remember my friend's mother telling me about how she got places in a streetcar. A STREETCAR, for the love of Mike. And she lived in Detroit! Wrapping one's head around the novelty of riding in cars is perhaps a lost phenomenon, but there it is, and there it was ghosting in my head as I thought about riding in and then driving cars. Riding and driving in cars, gerund form, present tense, life hapenning; gerund form, passive voice, object of the action.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">So there I am, driving. The radio is on. A throwback station, with a strong local identify, running a “freeform rock experiment” for longer than I've lived here, purchased by a conglomerate nearly ten years ago and in jeopardy ever since. And a guy -- a real guy, talking only on this station, not over a satellite -- is weaving a story I’m thinking is going to head somewhere else. And then WHAM. Alex Karras is dead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">And the guy catches me up on a few things I didn’t know about Alex’ life in the past few years. He’s had dementia. He’s part of the NFL players lawsuit on head injuries. My favorite Lion of all time. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Mongo, whose character name which then showed up on a player for the football team in my adopted home town. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Babe’s husband.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">He slugged the horse, but now he is the one down. One defensive back in a field of NFL players, going down with traumatic brain injuries, one by one. One influence on my periphery, stepping forward from a field of semi-forgottens who re-emerge in my direct line of sight via obituary.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Karras is down. The radio jock stops talking. I keep my hands at 10 and 2 o’clock, as I have during so many flummoxing pieces of news in this past year, and keep the nose of the car between the lines, and continue on to donate the books my sons do not want to keep to an organization who tells me they will find children who do want them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The news has been delivered, and I have most of an hour there and back to process how a guy who was done playing by the time I was aware of Lions football ended up meaning so much to me. How a personality that I never directly paid attention to, except for that movie--by which I mean the one about Babe Zaharias and not the one with the guys farting around the campfire--ended up throwing me a sucker punch when he died puzzles me. Perhaps because...</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">It’s being grateful for someone showing that you can be physical and brainy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">It’s the time I saw him interviewed and it was clear he took each of his endeavors seriously, but never so seriously as to be puffed beyond reality.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">It’s knowing he ended up with a $#@!*L%! brain injury, blast it all to pieces, which should be no surprise to me, as I’ve been on the concussion trail for over five years now, but oh the thought of his funny self compromised by controllable, avoidable circumstances slays me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">It’s realizing I don’t know if word of mouth, as in word from mouth, will ever be the way I hear an important piece of news again. Chirp chirp. Tweet tweet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Many moons ago, I was a potentially aspiring musician in training camp, erm, master class, at the very university where the Lions held their training camps. I was there for prospect week. I helped move a couple of players in, in fact; a gaggle of giggling teen flute players showing incredibly large young men how to find their rooms and where the vending machines were and how to get to the cafeteria. Because I had legitimate Lions fans in my family, I knew that one of the guys I was helping out was their number one draft pick that year. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I kind of forget his name. Keith someone. I forget the names of the four guys in the elevator who launched into an a cappella version of “After The Gold Rush,” too. And this even though I never collided with other human beings on a gridiron (or a soccer pitch, or an ice rink, or a rugby field). I forget, but I remember.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The horse wobbles.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">My scent of the day, for those who of you who happen to find me and remember that when I was here before I wore perfume goggles as I thought and wrote things, is Arpege. It is neither a current nor a vintage version, and edp from one of the iconic round black bottles with a ribbed gold cap and the image of Mme. Lanvin and her daughter on the side.</span></span></div>
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The fairly close to skin waft is all quiet creamy sandalwood now, a few hours after spritzing and then driving and listening to the radio. But Arpege has always been a non-glitzy scent, adapting to its conditions, beautiful enough to stand up to formal occasions, yielding enough to give me space to let go of treasured books while I wear my jeans and ponder what a former NFL player and actor who loved to cook and garden and made friends with his teammates and George Plimpton and had a film/television production company and wrote three books, one called “Even Big Guys Cry” meant to me. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">AS I SHIFT FOCUS to perfume, I remember more about Karras; Karras was the James Garner buddy in <i>Victor/Victoria</i>. And I have the thought that Arpege, as one of those scents that is not brash but consistently attractive, could have been worn by a number of the characters, in whichever guise they happen to be assuming.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I remember more; there is a punch you don’t see coming in <i>Victor/Victoria</i>: Victoria decks the hustler and kicks him out of her friend’s place. Another whallomp out of the blue. In <i>Blazing Saddles</i>, the recipient is the surprise; in <i>Victor/Victoria</i>, the deliverer. I guess Karras kept on showing up in places where life shows there are fresh angles.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I’m glad Arpege has remained largely the same, with its adaptability underscoring the idea that sometimes you need to re-check your vision and/or your assumptions.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">And comforting me as I let some things go.</span></span></div>
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I am back. What I’ll be writing about, and how, or to what extent perfume and photos will enter, remain to be seen. I'm sure I will be hiccupy. I'm glad you are stopping by nonetheless.</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
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</span>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-16762630416857699762011-10-06T16:03:00.000-05:002011-10-06T16:03:57.567-05:00Pandora draw winner(s)The time has come.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioPYkg3_VsnVOTB1t0PrNTXIEx-nsYO3L0iqLaFvGX5xnl9PEKrmgtxz6bhEDw5KG4yqt6FFmnXgMePOQrMDENrAGUGocwxHgMboPz0ubVt5JRowuavU861fEEDdz0nl3WHGGq-XbOa7nK/s1600/pandora+name+strips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioPYkg3_VsnVOTB1t0PrNTXIEx-nsYO3L0iqLaFvGX5xnl9PEKrmgtxz6bhEDw5KG4yqt6FFmnXgMePOQrMDENrAGUGocwxHgMboPz0ubVt5JRowuavU861fEEDdz0nl3WHGGq-XbOa7nK/s320/pandora+name+strips.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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As is my wont, I avoided the electronic choosing system. This time, instead of putting paper into a vessel and using the magic toaster tongs, I went for a message in a bottle kind of thing.<br />
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Note that the names were printed and cut into strips all of the same dimension.<br />
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Then each strip was folded in half three times, and placed into the jar.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIl3FtWDyU40l05tjPIoyrrSdsBVvjBfcoX6j_BoEHHsghsoCV2t9wIf_A4xK5PME9ake5_e61ZZfbtyReagnu5l3wO3bnKm-CiRKFzaobKr6s5VoHOPXUatDfIu9nmpfLTFqaXw7LqfK/s1600/pndora+names+in+jar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIl3FtWDyU40l05tjPIoyrrSdsBVvjBfcoX6j_BoEHHsghsoCV2t9wIf_A4xK5PME9ake5_e61ZZfbtyReagnu5l3wO3bnKm-CiRKFzaobKr6s5VoHOPXUatDfIu9nmpfLTFqaXw7LqfK/s320/pndora+names+in+jar.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Much shaking commenced.<br />
Of the jar, as in a martini, not self, as in a tizzy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistiuoMGrflZEu8SsCoH7_yNZIWvEugC_Knmea_CyDj0mKT1jtg5CYNS9X7v4RVaxg6LDc2lV2dD34AkHU9KTjyosJSUXBo763Ohy-notTi7wtC-c6UVRGalN47er2J99i7lko41StxQVb/s1600/pandora+names+retouched.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistiuoMGrflZEu8SsCoH7_yNZIWvEugC_Knmea_CyDj0mKT1jtg5CYNS9X7v4RVaxg6LDc2lV2dD34AkHU9KTjyosJSUXBo763Ohy-notTi7wtC-c6UVRGalN47er2J99i7lko41StxQVb/s200/pandora+names+retouched.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
One tri-folded piece exited the mouth first, with another chasing close behind.<br />
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The first out was called the winner.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5lLy4U-OGxv3aRqi12RrU8-U3TMcWbtymPylQKN0u8TFNgvKRSHCph1vPKWYSpUItM1q3DfXrTOf49BbNCoSXTOjRuX-9cuVypprH_T4th-TihfIsK8O7n7kGicVQJ8lYgR6WAa01X1R8/s1600/pandora+name+winner+retouched.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5lLy4U-OGxv3aRqi12RrU8-U3TMcWbtymPylQKN0u8TFNgvKRSHCph1vPKWYSpUItM1q3DfXrTOf49BbNCoSXTOjRuX-9cuVypprH_T4th-TihfIsK8O7n7kGicVQJ8lYgR6WAa01X1R8/s320/pandora+name+winner+retouched.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Congratulations, <b>Olfacta</b>!!!!<br />
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But wait. This seems so...so random. And I was so late in shaking. So, I opened up the second out of the gate. Because I'll send what remains of my sample to that person.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXIj_TY2xxAJL2cL89_LYcEz0jBER4XuNOn3qFOIo_EvjoJ1g6GvVGFLWStl7ZTV8ziKpczOxDCzC8IM_fjhFNdkAYlloCzSfgB1T5oeBCeqHR7P7MnYZNWIulwueEctqdULDK5WcSqLl/s1600/pandora+runner+up+ret.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXIj_TY2xxAJL2cL89_LYcEz0jBER4XuNOn3qFOIo_EvjoJ1g6GvVGFLWStl7ZTV8ziKpczOxDCzC8IM_fjhFNdkAYlloCzSfgB1T5oeBCeqHR7P7MnYZNWIulwueEctqdULDK5WcSqLl/s200/pandora+runner+up+ret.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Womo</b>, if you want half a hit, contact me via the link! (ScentScelf@aol.com) Olfacta, contact me with your mailing info, and I will pass it along to Dawn, who will be sending you a fresh sample directly.</div>
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Congratulations both of you. </div>
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The rest of you, if it's any consolation, now I need a hit, too. :) </div>
<br />ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-13040811038889162422011-09-26T12:14:00.000-05:002011-09-26T12:14:22.102-05:00Pretty Reminder....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz1vmsGn-tjwKl68XSXVd-tw7z_48PkkY5sKvY9BBYut8v1oXB5Kz7-eOdXK48E3iOLgO3N8tqGtJt5i9p-MWPLyxC5jkgJWmnwMz_-Q6IccrBhxv9zX9Dfu10RcDzgOh_Uy1ull0TmIHl/s1600/dahlia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz1vmsGn-tjwKl68XSXVd-tw7z_48PkkY5sKvY9BBYut8v1oXB5Kz7-eOdXK48E3iOLgO3N8tqGtJt5i9p-MWPLyxC5jkgJWmnwMz_-Q6IccrBhxv9zX9Dfu10RcDzgOh_Uy1ull0TmIHl/s640/dahlia.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Good news! The japanese beetles seem to have withdrawn after the aggressive and insistent counter-strikes of a few weeks ago. Look at that healthy dahlia. ::smile::<br />
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More good news!! There are still 24 hours to go to the DSH Pandora review and register a comment for a chance to win a sample. <br />
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<i>photo, author's own</i></div>
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<i>Pandora review and sample draw <a href="http://scelfleah.blogspot.com/2011/09/when-memory-is-seeing-eye-dsh-pandora_14.html">here</a></i></div>
ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-52738040072625409712011-09-23T10:57:00.000-05:002011-09-23T10:57:10.183-05:00Assembled / Disassembled, or, Another EquinoxNot a post about IKEA or RTA furniture.<br />
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A post half about perfume, half about perspective.<br />
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All on a day of balance. Happy Equinox.<br />
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<b>*|* *|* *|* *|* *|* </b><br />
I purchased this bottle of Liz Zorn's "My Promise" a few years ago. As I recall, the purchase was "P.S.", which is to say "Pre-SOIVOHLE." <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">* </span>Don't go looking for it. It was a one-off, created as a tribute/benefit to/for a young person with a form of cancer, again, if I recall correctly. Liz offered the perfume for sale at a benefit, then continued to offer bottles through her website (with profits going to the cause) until they were gone.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1dy12nlicFDJB1XfAKhimC6-AQi1uxe35u98z5LjTO6Nv1s19ebUT5FjtkHiKVoXJa3sg_C6CphKahIJ2iGOZSaeXRGa9QQdC-KZ8Xi-k0IFheN-5z3p-gkLECiWSdZV7_c0q3GGFWui/s1600/IMG_5832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1dy12nlicFDJB1XfAKhimC6-AQi1uxe35u98z5LjTO6Nv1s19ebUT5FjtkHiKVoXJa3sg_C6CphKahIJ2iGOZSaeXRGa9QQdC-KZ8Xi-k0IFheN-5z3p-gkLECiWSdZV7_c0q3GGFWui/s320/IMG_5832.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Yes, I fell prey to a cause. I didn't even know what the notes were, and if I based my decision to purchase on how it would fit me according to the copy offered at the time -- something about light, fresh, young? -- I would have passed.</div>
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But I was all new to perfume, had "discovered" Liz and was all about exploring her creations, and thought a flyer for a good cause was nothing I would regret. I could always gift it to someone.</div>
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So, for three, four, however many years, this bottle has lived in a cool, dry, dark closet, inside its packaging. Two to three times a year, I would take it out, spritz once, and ponder. The ruminations always led to the same conclusion.</div>
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I don't not like it. I don't do like it. </div>
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There is something in there that should bother me that doesn't.</div>
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There is some kind of odd pairing in there.</div>
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This is pretty but not.</div>
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Gee, this is a peculiar something.</div>
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And then I would carefully wrap it back up, and put it away, never able to answer the question of "should it stay or should it go?," because I never knew if just around the corner laid the answer. The answers, actually.</div>
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Decisions in the balance.</div>
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It could be this, it could be that. At the moment, it is both and all of it all at once.</div>
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Equipoise.</div>
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<b>*|* *|* *|* *|* *|* </b></div>
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This week, apropos of nothing, I took the purple box out of the closet. Time for another dance.</div>
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And I had one of those sensory equivalents of having the right word, the answer, right on the tip of my tongue. "HEY, that's...that's...augh!" And I neither lost it, nor pulled it into full light where it could be recognized and named. I caved. I tried an internet search.</div>
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And lo and behold, that one night, not repeatable as I compose this entry, a hit. A website in German, either offering or having once offered this for sale. (I do not speak German, though I've a pretty good short list of the German names for exotic animals in my head thanks to an orange hardcover book I got at a garage sale as a kid, Dis Ist Der Zoo.) A notes pyramid. A very simple notes pyramid, maybe six or seven listed on all three levels. But two loomed into my eyes like the classic zoom in/blur out all other detail shot in a movie when the detective sees the name in the hotel register that puts all the pieces in place.</div>
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Mint.</div>
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Lily of the valley.</div>
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Tumble tumble tumble tumble tumble.</div>
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Lily of the valley was both the white flower that didn't overwhelm me that was slightly spikey, and the something that should be bothering me. </div>
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Mint answered spoke to both the something peculiar and the odd pairing, being up against LOTV and all.</div>
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Hunh.</div>
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And now I saw it from the inside out. Like walking up to a Van Gogh or a Monet, and seeing those brush strokes, individually, with texture and hair paths in them. The pieces of them.</div>
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I thought about the pieces on and off the rest of the night. Intellectually, of course, in terms of "hey, forget that Geranium Pour Monsieur, that new Byredo, look at what Liz was doing a few years back," and "hey, do you think Erin/the folks at Now Smell This would notice if I went back and added a comment to that <a href="http://www.nstperfume.com/2011/01/20/5-perfumes-for-a-mint-refresher/">post about mint in perfume</a> a while back?" But especially just in terms of the elements themselves. What it felt like to smell it now with names, how it suddenly so easily fractured into individual pieces every time I sniffed it. Whether or not I would take it in whole cloth again.</div>
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<b>*|* *|* *|* *|* *|* </b></div>
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My mother used to complain about going to see movies with her father. My grandfather, you see, was a carpenter. When he looked at a house, where you would see "cottage" or "saltbox," or maybe "dormer" or "eyehole window," he would see coping and joinery and ash or maple. </div>
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Combine that with his healthy skepticism, and it was impossible to sit through a scene with a ship going down without him pointing out where they had used a model, or see King Kong crashing through the jungle without him indicating the stop motion. </div>
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My mother, of course, was indignant about somebody snapping her willful suspension of disbelief in two.</div>
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Suddenly, in retrospect, I felt sorry for my grandfather, caught in the fractures, in the details, unable to take his eye off the hair mark in the brush stroke and see the sunlight on the hay.</div>
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I'm still in the midst of figuring out if I'll again see this My Promise in gestalt, in full assembly, in big picture, in concept. With a little distance in time, perhaps, I'll regain distance in viewing length.</div>
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This is not something I worry about. I've of course stepped close and been able to step back again with other perfumes, other somethings. And I am fascinated by how clear, how instructive, how simple this particular walking through the steps was. I think it helps that this is a simple perfume. Citrus-y mint for a perky nearly bracing open, which makes an interesting framework for then receiving the LOTV. Something innocuous and gently cozy at the bottom to couch it on the other side. A gentle musk? I seem to remember "wood" being in that German pyramid, on the bottom.</div>
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Ah, well. Not all came into sharp focus.</div>
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<i>Alles gut</i>, of course. To be honest, in the end, I prefer seeing the sunlight on the hay. I dig having the brushstrokes revealed, but my pleasure comes from wrapping it back into my overall image. </div>
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I don't enjoy pointing out the model rods, as my grandfather did. I only want to see them, in fact, only want to look for them, in my own time.</div>
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<b>*|* *|* *|* *|* *|*</b></div>
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Happy day of equipoise. Whether your daylight is about to lengthen or darken, may this turn be smooth.</div>
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And maybe offer a few surprises.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*yes, I was inconsistent with the quotation mark enclosures there. I didn't like the way it looked on "P.S." I mean, check it out: "P.S.," -- kinda makes it look like the comma is part of the abbreviation, no? Which bothered me. So I am instituting the first vagary in the NFTL Stylebook: do not encase the comma within the quote when indicating specific names that end with a punctuation mark, for that confuses thine editor.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">photo by author</span></div>
ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-46761775393112731062011-09-19T13:04:00.002-05:002011-09-19T13:22:31.370-05:00Say what?Avast ye, mateys, and hoist yer scurvy selves to a benign bit o' bloggery.<br />
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'Tis International Talk Like a Pirate Day.<br />
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Arrrrrrrrrrrr.<br />
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(Thanks to pirate bits like that, th' tongue can be shared across th' Seven Seas...what ye lads and lassies yell te be "intarnashn'l.")<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tqb52_ksmjx9ckIPo9p3jyhz5HHtdVcixgj1vSj9nmYbKA59khWEV5o4vHKL5hAv_lEdXfWmJy_sMxc7fUYvF-O-FW8yhRKvUbfqGEok4BRU9_QVvPET1v8boAc2dRpdW4O-1IM1aXVW/s1600/anne_bonny_hcp_50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tqb52_ksmjx9ckIPo9p3jyhz5HHtdVcixgj1vSj9nmYbKA59khWEV5o4vHKL5hAv_lEdXfWmJy_sMxc7fUYvF-O-FW8yhRKvUbfqGEok4BRU9_QVvPET1v8boAc2dRpdW4O-1IM1aXVW/s1600/anne_bonny_hcp_50.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Shiver me timbers, 'tis Anne Bonny!</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>P-}</b><br />
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(That thar be a bucko emoticon, if yer fixin' to savvy.)<br />
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~~~^^^^~~~~^^^^~~~^^~~~~~~^^~~^^^^^~~~~~~<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">(chooppy seas)</span><br />
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Also today, perhaps and perhaps not, the anniversary of the creation of the emoticon. Wired is running a "This Day in Tech" <a href="http://www.wired.com/thisdayintech/2011/09/0919fahlman-proposes-emoticons/">bit</a> about the purported perpetrator of perplexing symbolage, Scott Fahlman. However, the story of the attempt to concoct symbolry to clarify text communications gets immediately murky, for as Wired points out, typesetters have been pressing (HA!) type-based non-verbal communication upon us for many moons before that.<br />
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Oddly, I myself had a bit of an emotical dust-up with the OAITH (Other Adult in the House), when he perceived that a virtual missive I sent came with barbed tongue, rather than gentle greeting. Why? <br />
<br />
:)<br />
<br />
That's right, a smiley face.<br />
<br />
Apparently, geeks have used this archly, to convey, well, an edgyness, rather than the placid contentment I was trying to convey. <br />
<br />
The scallywag was ready to hop aboard the Man-O-War and make sharkbait o' me.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, all was cleared up before he blew the messenger down. But Blimey! who knew I had stepped into a bilge-sucking morass of hempen halter code.<br />
<br />
So, I've been thinking on these two things today, Local Talk Like a Pirate But Watch Yer Emoticons Day. <br />
<br />
And then of course, fixed it upon myself to link it all to perfume.<br />
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~~^^^^^^^~~~^^~~~^^~~~~~^^^~~^^^^~~~~^^^~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
What perfumes have the potential to flub the message between perfume-lubbers? Or even perfume lovers, for that matter?<br />
<br />
I for one hold Chanel No. 19 aloft. You know, Luca Turin's wire-hanger mother? The one folks refer to as "cold" and "distance keeping"? I mean, okay, the galbanum is bracing, but people, there is green flower in there. I don't wear it as a "buzz off" kind of fragrance; I wear it in the same manner I might pick a pair of Italian shoe boots for the day. They are both beautiful, have clean lines, and support me when I need to attend to business, but don't quite cross over into bee-yotch territory.<br />
<br />
Not to me, at least. <br />
<br />
Here, here's another one: Serge Lutens Musc Kublai Khan. You know what that says to me? It says "me and my men have just been out riding on horses and camels for a few days with no shower in sight and we might have rolled in something along the way and we're just going to plonk down next to you here and if you don't like it you better run FAST because we're already enveloping you and if you don't faint you might retch." You know what I've heard someone else say about it? "MMMMmmmm, cozy." <br />
<br />
Is what we have here a failure to communicate? In this case, I don't think so; I think here it is simply different languages. Like, say, German and Chinese. Phonemes and graphemes. You say potato, I say rubber stamp. Because I think we are not even experiencing the same thing, let alone deciding what that something means. So let me take this moment to clarify what I am trying to find in terms of examples of perfume mis-communication: We both agree it is a smiley face. I mean, say, a lily of the valley. But what does lily of the valley signify? <br />
<br />
Speaking of lily of the valley, let's hop to that gem of a note for the moment. Have you noticed folks waxing nostalgic about, say, Diorissimo? It is a lovely creation. I can acknowledge that a) it smells like lily of the valley, and b) it is pretty. But from there, you and I might diverge. Because, truth be told (here I go into a Very Quiet Voice, so as not to offend), it is this|close to being, well...simpering. Blow me down if one of my fiercest friends, she who dons Mitsouko like a cutlass and Femme like a come hither va-voom dress, says it makes her feel pretty. Me? I feel like...oh, I don't know, Nellie Olsen, stripped of sass, left with nothing but banana curls and a very clean pinafore.<br />
<br />
Hey, speaking of Femme...let's talk cumin for a moment. There's a note that I frequently find myself nodding along with the crowd when we determine whether or not it is present. But then...what does it mean, to have it there? To me, it's generally B.O. or panties, which trust me, in my world does not mean "come hither." It means hither was reached 3-5 hours ago. But wait, that's not how I *receive* a message, that's how I interpret what is sent. Hmmm. <br />
<br />
Here. How about Big Flower Bombs, and/or Big White Florals. Like...let's go classic here...Fracas. What does that say to you? Sexy bombshell coming through? Or Tennessee Williams character who is slightly unaware of being past prime? Undulating vixen? Or flat footed floozy with floy, floy?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh08tivyagO_3ou6vI-xAcn0ytwuMdhkFstJxL2xUmriJPzmYnyxLgxAXa1reY2mWxKHu2gmoMTyep4gsG8_hWIySraFpyVseCU9gBJZKfKBlgt8ZB_bjswR3vjtvz9SoZNBFDnMs9Ly2bR/s1600/message_in_a_bottle__oil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh08tivyagO_3ou6vI-xAcn0ytwuMdhkFstJxL2xUmriJPzmYnyxLgxAXa1reY2mWxKHu2gmoMTyep4gsG8_hWIySraFpyVseCU9gBJZKfKBlgt8ZB_bjswR3vjtvz9SoZNBFDnMs9Ly2bR/s320/message_in_a_bottle__oil.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's a problem that has been posed before: for whom is our message in the bottle? Sender, or receiver? Directly connected of course to the question "do you wear perfume for yourself, or for others"?</div>
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All I know is, there are times when folks have described what message a particular scent conveys, and my head tilts to the side. ("Are you talkin' to ME?") But I know that unless they ARE talking to me, there's room for different translations.</div>
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However, if we are trying to talk to each other, it would probably be best if we made sure our lingua franca was all simpatico.</div>
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:)</div>
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<i>image of Anne Bonny taken from <a href="http://www.winningoffthetrack.com/about.html">Hanging Cup Pictures</a>,</i></div>
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<i>also found at the delightful <a href="http://www.geographyalltheway.com/myp/myp-pirates/pirates-heroes-villains.htm">Geography All The Way</a></i></div>
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<i>engraving apparently by the peripatetic "anonymous"</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>oil painting of a message in a bottle by Nancy Poucher at <a href="http://dailypainters.com/">Daily Painting</a></i></div>
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ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-3687546507295594722011-09-14T09:40:00.001-05:002011-09-27T13:49:40.336-05:00When memory is a seeing eye: DSH PandoraThe first time I sprayed, I smelled dust. Book dust. No, something that had been pressed between the pages of a favorite volume that was older than me. <br />
<br />
As it evolved, it bloomed into something more alive, as the dust faded, and one of those just above skin auric clouds appeared, a blended floral, with a something that drew me in -- that something having the same allure as some of my vintage chypres, but not being just that.<br />
<br />
I was enchanted, and I didn't even know by what. Whatever it was, if this was Trouble, I had Hope for a long and happy future with it.<br />
<br />
<i>The tradition of pressing leaves into a book to preserve them is relatively familiar. The idea being that you can preserve at least a portion of that which is destined to become past, to be history. But are you familiar with "Bible leaf," a.k.a. costmary? Costmary used to be a basic kitchen garden plant, and its longish, somewhat wide leaves were pressed between the pages of bibles to help church goers stay awake during an all-day service. In other words, what was pressed between the pages, an intentionally gathered waft, was placed not for rememberance, but for bringing one into the moment. A moment which, of course, you were supposed to pay attention to so you could remember it later.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTt6u7tvhmZFGLCMGxd8GsdExNlWKIiTDOJElMXm7coNREJ9CroFrPpmKBRS8trkC6BnsOprtnt0ohKXP5Ycw4X99w3GDalhUOpeZBSO3YFljrr5XCh9X7p2fBJ_WWAWYfY2Un07hISDPc/s1600/leaves+in+greek+text.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTt6u7tvhmZFGLCMGxd8GsdExNlWKIiTDOJElMXm7coNREJ9CroFrPpmKBRS8trkC6BnsOprtnt0ohKXP5Ycw4X99w3GDalhUOpeZBSO3YFljrr5XCh9X7p2fBJ_WWAWYfY2Un07hISDPc/s320/leaves+in+greek+text.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>not costmary, from the project described at <a href="http://createjewelry.gr/blog/view/painting_tiny_watercolors_from_my_pressed_leaves_collection">Create</a> by Maria Apostolou</i></td></tr>
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<i></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<br />
***<br />
I, and others, have discussed the idea of scents that seem to hover just above your skin before. In my ruminations, I put their place in space somewhere between "sillage" and "skin scent." They appear not in someone's wake, and not by burying your nose in and snorfling. They are in some ways my favorite presence, one which does not announce itself in advance, but one which still manages to exist off of skin. <br />
<br />
Pandora pulls the nifty trick of maintaining that aura, and having a skin snorfle, too. I love this. This is my favorite way of thinking of people, with the immediately registered, the something you learn when you gain closer access, and the limited glimpses of something deep and private. Open the book, find the pressed leaf, catch a first whiff memory impression, scratch the surface and it comes to life.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;"><i>Costmary is a perennial that should be renewed by division every few years, since the old plant becomes bare at the center. Dig up small plants that pop up in the garden, or this plant could become a weedy pest.</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;"><i>- <a href="http://www.wtv-zone.com/LadyMaggie/herbs/costmary.html">deZine by Maggie</a></i></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;">Gardeners know that most perennials need division in order to be rejuvenated. A classic sign of a perennial that is in need of attention is that the clump dies out in the middle, the newer shoots/roots taking on life even as the original section lets go of it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;">In a way, I feel that what Dawn Spencer Hurwitz has managed to do with Pandora is to take a division from an existing plant and bring it back to life in a new setting, and that in doing so, the the plant takes on a new character.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;">When I go in for the snorfle, as I pass the opening whiff of dry opening the book, enter the floral cloud above my skin, and extract a hit of the depths beneath, I do NOT smell my beloved vintage chypres. Not Coty, not Millot, not any particular one. Not even that something, exactly. But, I *do* find that the style of attraction that pulls me in is just the same -- the happiness of the Coty, the greenness of the Millot. Pandora is, however, its own something.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;">And it is lovely.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;">***</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f; font-size: 16px;">What is this Pandora? Plucked from the past, plonked into the present, for me it is a journey that starts with memory and puts me very much in this moment, with all the palimpsest layers of reading backward through a written and virtual herbal, and then again being woken up and finding yourself here, now, not in the midst of a sermon, but a moderately rich floral bouquet that needs to not be too loud so that you can appreciate the background -- plant based, leafywoodyslightlyhumusy, not exactly chypre not exactly amber.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f321f;">
</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">If you haven't guessed, I like it. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="webkit-fake-url://7306A118-BE0A-4A3E-86CC-7727A12A7D60/pastedGraphic.pdf" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="pastedGraphic.pdf" border="0" src="webkit-fake-url://7306A118-BE0A-4A3E-86CC-7727A12A7D60/pastedGraphic.pdf" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #0728a7;"><i>costmary, image from </i><a href="http://linniew.wordpress.com/2011/08/06/good-old-summertime/"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><i>Women Who Run With Delphiniums</i></span></a></span></td></tr>
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***<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
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<b>Do you want to play with Pandora? DSH Perfumes has offered to share a 3ml sample to a reader. Comment here to register your interest. Drawing will held on Tuesday, September 27, at noon U.S. central time. </b></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Because how often do you see THAT as the time and or time zone??? Plus, it's a new moon.</b></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">DRAWING IS CLOSED.</span></b></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">WINNERS WILL BE ANNOUNCED...BY MOONSET. </span></b></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> <i>(moonset over the westernmost Great Lakes region, that is)</i></span></b></span></div>
</span>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-73582052555792135562011-09-13T12:49:00.000-05:002011-09-13T12:49:10.171-05:00Things seen (and an apology for that)The kind of post that usually gets titled "under construction."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6ZcxN76BMieT5QRKPvPp91NANe5ii6D_6SB-mxf-JfVFfLWcakGKEiB3q10GdZ0FnIBRU9tCRqBKvmjr3oTZzdtu4e_aqj9MtVK1b_euD4Ccogb4qvNeBVQWFdG3zNSsbAENEzQwW-zI/s1600/IMG_0850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6ZcxN76BMieT5QRKPvPp91NANe5ii6D_6SB-mxf-JfVFfLWcakGKEiB3q10GdZ0FnIBRU9tCRqBKvmjr3oTZzdtu4e_aqj9MtVK1b_euD4Ccogb4qvNeBVQWFdG3zNSsbAENEzQwW-zI/s320/IMG_0850.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>sometimes i think the real reason for the soap is that the layers of bubbles form a veil over the results of what is essentially a murder spree<br />regardless, if one is to save the flowers, the japanese beetles must be attended to<br />(not in the spirit of a lady-in-waiting)</i><br /></td></tr>
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<br />
I am going through a learning curve with Blogger's new interface, and you will see some layout changes here over the next week or two. Have not yet entirely figured out how to land at "done" without you seeing some of the interim. <br />
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If only I could shake and stir some bubbles over it all...<br />
<br />
My apologies.<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>image author's own</i></div>
ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-29051105119034741072011-09-11T13:38:00.000-05:002011-09-12T08:15:13.786-05:00Things come down<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ten years ago, sometime around 7:30 in the morning in the U.S. central time zone, I was standing in front of three cubic yards of smoldering, smelly, beautiful mulch. Partially decomposed compost. I was crumbling it between my fingers, admiring its texture, taking in the aroma, looking inside my gate and making plans.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">About ten minutes before the hour, a figure emerged from my house, interrupting my reverie. A plane had crashed into the tallest building in Manhattan's skyline. Being trained in the realms of context, skepticism, and history, I deflated the messenger. "It's happened before," I said. "Empire State building. A plane crashed into it. It's still there. Let's see what we learn as the day goes on."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I took a not entirely pleasant but entirely pleasing sniff of the semi-rotted matter, and resumed making plans. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Once again, just after the hour, a figure appeared coming from the house. Another plane, another tower. Skeptical head gave way to a two headed hydra of "oh, this is a story" and "oh, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">sh#t</span>."</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Plans gave way to planes. Which kept coming. The Pentagon. A Pennsylvania field. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Late in the afternoon, it seemed that perhaps it was the end of the planes. I walked back to my compost. An eerie silence. For I lived under an O'Hare flight path. The sound of airplanes, though distant, was constantly woven into the ambient noise of our yard. Suddenly, nothing but birds.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For days, nothing but birds, and the heart thumping occasional sound of a fighter jet.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eventually, planes came back to the air. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And plans came back to my conscious.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ten years later</span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I went walking through the park last night. The moon was almost full, so there was some light. That odd creeping light, that somehow combines the effect of turning on a focused highlight beam with the diffused light of a gentle flood, a peculiar light that is generally visible but most evident when it lands upon vertical objects.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So while you know where expanses of nothing are in a way you can't during a new moon, what really stands out are the edges of things that are there.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You do it, but differently, navigating in the dark. With even a minimal amount of light, you still try to lead with what your eyes discern, but other senses are heightened. When applied in familiar landscapes, internal blueprints get accessed. Whether it is your kitchen...a closet you organized...memories of your grandparents' house...a frequently traveled park...if you know it, both mental maps and tactile memories fill missing spaces in the visual data.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When you enter familiar terrain, you make assumptions.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When you round a familiar bend in the path, in the dark, you expect things. On a moonlit night in September of 2011, you expect the unmistakable silhouettes of two impossibly large willow trees. Your mind starts to put them into place, even as your eyes send the true but impossible message "One. Just one, on your right."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You are aware of the moments of cognitive processing as the brain adjusts, realigning expectations and current data inputs. You can almost anticipate the gasp you utter, the search to understand, the understanding. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A behemoth is gone.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I had made a plan to document these trees. Willows have been part of the fabric of my life for as long as I could remember. I swung both on and from a willow in my grandparents' yard. A willow is the first tree silhouette I learned to identify. Willows signified the presence water, always something I liked knowing I was near. These two willows, the most recent in my life, were preposterously large. Willow trees only lived this long in prehistory and Harry Potter. I grew to feel their presence on my walks and cross-country ski runs as nearly sentient. The one on the right had taken some severe blows over the years I've lived here, and it occurred to me last fall that it probably wasn't long for this world. I wanted to do something. In a way, these two trees were what prompted me to finally re-integrate photo habits into my life.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Coming out of the slight curve in the path, taking it all in during one of those time slows down moments, hearing course through my head the sound of chain saws that I had filtered out, away, because that always sounds like trauma and tragedy to me and I know I can overreact to things tree so I try to just look away, turn away...with those sounds, and knowing the outcome even as I had to watch my brain process the data, my first instinct was to pull out my camera. A fitting memoriam. But I didn't have it. I did have my camera phone. It registered this:</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlWBwuPgZy-drvQTyZOCgWpbQrZytxGdQGKMzQlSVzLF2cm1EQvFgtYA7_xPD_I7eSwKq29-_cGeLYNPeHufjMjwilAlfP0pwu4ECuOtADnCfBQApqApB6TzRrcGNFsAR_zKqG8x6jDmhe/s1600/IMG_5526.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlWBwuPgZy-drvQTyZOCgWpbQrZytxGdQGKMzQlSVzLF2cm1EQvFgtYA7_xPD_I7eSwKq29-_cGeLYNPeHufjMjwilAlfP0pwu4ECuOtADnCfBQApqApB6TzRrcGNFsAR_zKqG8x6jDmhe/s320/IMG_5526.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Which was apt.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I came back the next morning, with a camera. And set about attempting to document the aftermath, full of sorrow for not being there when the humans and the machines were in the process of taking it down.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-aJnFL8pVTdm5acZveaHA_s3_Pajf35yjbqtvRCtdWJwRxc3y63vneChNO9wQBD8xC7b-030pygHXsXPNb2R5dOLZ6iqnWlhmrEJh8ClpISIX1wOitzQdz3nwKi_ObR307zxpXV90B6z/s1600/IMG_0689.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-aJnFL8pVTdm5acZveaHA_s3_Pajf35yjbqtvRCtdWJwRxc3y63vneChNO9wQBD8xC7b-030pygHXsXPNb2R5dOLZ6iqnWlhmrEJh8ClpISIX1wOitzQdz3nwKi_ObR307zxpXV90B6z/s320/IMG_0689.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thus began a whole lot of "fail." But I kept at it, knowing that going through the motions was, just as were my repeated picture "takings" the night before, more a ritual for me, and a chance to murmur "sorry" over and over in my head.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This picture was one of the attempts to reflect the "missing mate." It failed. You can't see/feel the mass or girth of that trunk. I am between 5'6" and 5'7" -- prone, the height of that trunk is well up my chest, nearly to my shoulder.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here is that piece from the side. With my travel mug for scale. Better, and yet, when I go in that close, the enormity is somehow lost. Yet again, if I pull back...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">...it loses drama. And reverence.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I keep going at it. It doesn't matter so much that I know I will fail at my assignment. Though, to be sure, that stings. I keep going at it, because the ritual helps me, and because I think there is a chance, that I might get it. And even if not, maybe the attempt will make me better. Eventually.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The more I try, the more I fail. But I take the time to mark, nonetheless.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Surrounding the site of absence, other images, somehow easier to take.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">September 11, 2011</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>all images the author's own</i></span></span></div>
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ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-64080140462665326972011-08-19T10:48:00.001-05:002011-08-19T11:48:04.317-05:00I do, I do, I do Heart Les Carrottes!Love them.<br />
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Also it, the perfume Olivia Giacobetti created for Honore des Pres.<br />
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From the odd, bitter rooty vegetal opening, to the iris reveal, to the cozy drydown which sometimes reads as a fairly simply buttery iris, and occasional as a sort of mildly dense sweetened carrot souffle, the kind of thing you could serve either along with a meal or afterward for dessert.<br />
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In chatting with other folks about this one, I am noticing that a) a lot of people found it, well, odd, b) a few people looked askance at me when I called it an iris scent, especially a "buttery" iris one, and c) <i>Vamp a NY</i> is still getting a LOT of love. Followed in second by <i>I <3 Coco</i>.<br />
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Fine. Go hang with the big bombs, the dense chewy things. I'm going to hang back here, keeping a low profile, but totally enjoying snarfling every stage of <i>I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: sans-serif, arial, 'Arial Unicode MS', 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana; font-size: large; font-style: normal; line-height: 26px;"><b>❤</b></span> Les Carrottes</i>. <br />
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<i>photo, as usual, the result of the author's mischief</i><br />
<i>Signature on carry out sleeve presumably that of Ms. Giacobetti, and a welcome surprise</i>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-66351183350825428962011-07-04T10:20:00.000-05:002011-07-04T10:20:58.331-05:00Independence Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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One of my favorite ways to reflect upon the day a group of colonists declared their independence from a monarch who "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">has has sent swarms of officers, to harass our people and eat out our substance..." is by reading the letters between John and Abigail Adams.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I say that as if I spend a lot of time reading these letters, and, for that matter, reflecting upon our independence. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don't. But I should.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Happy Independence Day, America. Your myths and your truths, both the difficult and the wonderful, worthy of contemplation.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Philadelphia July 24th, 1775<br />
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My dear,<br />
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It is now almost three Months since I left you, in every Part of which my Anxiety about you and the Children, as well as my our Country, has been extreme.<br />
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The business I have had upon my Mind has been as great and important as can be intrusted to [One] Man, and the Difficulty and Intricacy of it is prodigious. When 50 or 60 Men have a Constitution to form for a great Empire, at the same Time that they have a Country of fifteen hundred Miles extent to fortify, Millions to arm and train, a Naval Power to begin, an extensive Commerce to regulate, numerous Tribes of Indians to negotiate with, a standing Army of Twenty seven Thousand Men to raise, pay, of victual and officer, I really shall pity those 50 or 60 Men.I must see you e'er long. -----Rice, has wrote me a very good Letter, and so has Thaxter, for which I thank them both. Love to the Children.<br />
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J.A..<br />
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P. S. I wish I had given you a compleat History from the Beginning to the End of the Journey, of the Behaviour of my Compatriots. No martial Mortal Tale could equal it. I will tell you in Future, but you must shall keep it secret. The Fidgets, the Whims, the Caprice, the Vanity, the Superstition, the Irritability of some of us, is enough to ------<br />
<br />
Yr. J. A.<br />
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To Mrs. Abigail Adams, Braintrie, to the Care of Col. Warren, favor'd by Mr. Hichborne</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>photo of a letter from John to Abigail, dated Philadelphia July 24th, 1775 found at <a href="http://www.revolutionary-war-and-beyond.com/john-adams-letter-to-abigail-adams-july-24-1775.html">Revolutionary War and Beyond</a> website</i></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>photo of a cherry branch, author's own</i></span></span>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-78104583030515848512011-06-28T10:17:00.000-05:002011-06-28T10:17:43.588-05:00And to think I saw it on my mulberry tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtpPF9nF4OtTuK9vx2If75qIwNvJ4xa999M0e8EWWqmbPg5sM-9B7KeAY4nWwX3ehv5JJUmM4B0t16GkU_JOlRC_5dV303CHWt6CInrIawQqA0XWCmc3odyjMSGBxjKjJe-73woeXXFxeb/s1600/mulberry+branch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtpPF9nF4OtTuK9vx2If75qIwNvJ4xa999M0e8EWWqmbPg5sM-9B7KeAY4nWwX3ehv5JJUmM4B0t16GkU_JOlRC_5dV303CHWt6CInrIawQqA0XWCmc3odyjMSGBxjKjJe-73woeXXFxeb/s320/mulberry+branch.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDBUv3oH_4f6hcMoS5Wx4PqVRZvx8No7cJ86Rvv36U0rOtuFiib4OB5AYyA1fEigP7e6XV2-gIAYAPoyqAkZRYziNlp5Fd51-ju9eOiM4S2MeGQva18GWyuqopK8AXjiq0fkaa43DBRv6g/s1600/mulberry+CU1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDBUv3oH_4f6hcMoS5Wx4PqVRZvx8No7cJ86Rvv36U0rOtuFiib4OB5AYyA1fEigP7e6XV2-gIAYAPoyqAkZRYziNlp5Fd51-ju9eOiM4S2MeGQva18GWyuqopK8AXjiq0fkaa43DBRv6g/s320/mulberry+CU1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzjAQ4l9Uy1oTmV7B0rHQhPjEo_8T8o6JBXwmoEh-niPyUwYvmrRadyuKG_a1wiKKl1eibazj-HLUWuyDESr3z0zEOrAJVUWOAHNSfdTnC3k7gem-PWVNXFBaJk8bHaILt3VCPH0un5HW/s1600/mulberry+branch+against+fence.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzjAQ4l9Uy1oTmV7B0rHQhPjEo_8T8o6JBXwmoEh-niPyUwYvmrRadyuKG_a1wiKKl1eibazj-HLUWuyDESr3z0zEOrAJVUWOAHNSfdTnC3k7gem-PWVNXFBaJk8bHaILt3VCPH0un5HW/s320/mulberry+branch+against+fence.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Aren't they gorgeous?<br />
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In a slightly ramshackle, rough around the edges, are sure sure it's okay to eat this way?<br />
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Mulberries are too often maligned. "They're messy," so many over the years have said. "Birds eat them and, well, you know..." trail off others. "They're not really that pretty."<br />
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Harumph.<br />
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In my former house, once my home, we shared mulberry trees along the property line. TREES. Not bushes. Over 40 feet tall. Probably over 50. I know I don't exaggerate, because at the time we lived in an old three story house whose two main floors, above grade, had 10' ceilings, and the attic flew even higher in the center. I estimate conservatively because people would visit, people who had even seen mulberry *trees,* and they would comment on the beautiful large trees and how special they were and what kind were they, anyway? And it was often hard to convince them that they were mulberries. Unless, of course, it was a certain time of year.<br />
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With a tree like that, one person's "messy" is another person's "thank goodness, because we would never reach those berries any other way."<br />
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In the current house, which is my home, the tree is not majestic. Nor is it a shrub. It is a something that probably was a shrubby tree a few years before we moved in, but now is a non-central trunk tree. Young, but tree. Some judicious pruning might make it more architecturally attractive, but it does not set roots from my property, so I cannot make that decision. Besides, in its tenacious shrubby somebody forgot about it even through the construction of the house on the land that was once a farm behind us means that maybe it carries the mojo of survival.<br />
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I thank it for that. For the shade it brings to that corner, for doing its part to break up a vista that would be, well...a nearly blank wall. For feeding the birds. Yes, the birds. Birds love mulberries, it is true. In fact, they are recommended as a companion crop for someone trying to raise fruit trees. I think it works.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMzRwoJwK-6Hb1LdW4hg67ZPAy2XUs-Bla4URhiq_Tu0B-Nk1qoybLy9D5Gpni-k-gC67J7i9LVZMWRKf0KqGsLuejNEggnZ4TNAJUbWRH5NyzbAR0DgDadLXIOTHfncjOq-sp1iiM5P6/s1600/mulberry+and+cherry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMzRwoJwK-6Hb1LdW4hg67ZPAy2XUs-Bla4URhiq_Tu0B-Nk1qoybLy9D5Gpni-k-gC67J7i9LVZMWRKf0KqGsLuejNEggnZ4TNAJUbWRH5NyzbAR0DgDadLXIOTHfncjOq-sp1iiM5P6/s320/mulberry+and+cherry.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Check it.<br />
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Mulberries and cherries living together.<br />
Hands reaching hands.<br />
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I tell you, we get plenty of cherries.<br />
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So, yeah, birds eat them. Thank goodness.<br />
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Yes. They are messy underfoot. Yes, there is an odd fermenting smell for a couple of weeks while they macerate on your path or in your lawn. Yes, that juice is INTENSE in color and will stain just about anything it touches.<br />
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(Those beautiful bearded iris, the purple grape smelling ones? They stain, too.)<br />
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Life is an exchange. I like this deal.<br />
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I've seen trees torn down because people didn't like the "mess"--cottonwood, mulberry, serviceberry, maple, what have you. It doesn't really matter; a lot of trees are "messy" at some point in the year. The ones that are bred not to be generally end up decidedly unhardy, and certainly not productive.<br />
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Okay, fine. I'll rephrase the question. Aren't these mulberries a gorgeous hot mess?<br />
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By the way, mulberries are the one natural food for a silkworm.<br />
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Let you think I am reaching too hard to make a silk purse out of a...well, a mulberry mess.<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Random things mulberry:</span></u><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I found a recipe for </span><a href="http://heartkeepercommonroom.blogspot.com/2005/06/mulberry-receipts.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">mulberry-rhubarb shortcake</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> that I'd like to try. Extended cool and rain (except when it has been extraordinarily muggy and hot) means I've still got harvestable rhubarb when the mulberries are ready. Hunh. </span><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Project Mulberry</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> is a book, for children, by Linda Sue Park. Target audience is younger than her book </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My Name is Keoko. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In it, a mulberry tree ends up being the means to draw a diverse group of characters together. Science fair, silkworms, stereotypes both external and internalized. And the use of the term "snot brain," which disturbs some. (See Amazon reader reviews.) ((Thought I'd go for Theodor Geisel, didn't you? Nah. But you should. ;) ))</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mulberry perfume? Couldn't think of one off the top of my head. Found a 2011 release of </span><i><a href="http://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Koto-Parfums/Lily-12772.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lily</span></a></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> by Koto Perfumes, but the "mulberry" in it is "mulberry leaf." Going to go back out and investigate...and I'm back. Leaf torn, crushed. It's...well, leafy green, actually much like a lettuce. But, unique? Like, say, tomato leaf? Not particularly. Hmm. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then there is this. Set your tea cup down. </span><a href="http://www.genkiwear.com/Ponfarr/index.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pon Farr</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Get your groove on with Uhura and Spock, and settle into base notes of sandalwood, peach and mulberry. I should have known. That's what I get for urging open-mindedness with trees. Karma, returned in perfume form.</span><br />
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<i>all images author's own, obtained without stainage...i think</i><br />
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</i>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-54898264260379944502011-06-26T11:57:00.003-05:002011-06-26T14:00:44.416-05:00Peace, Love, and Patchouli; or, How I Came to Love the Patch Without Really TryingWhere were you in the Summer of Love?<br />
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Where ARE you in the Summer of Patchouli Love?<br />
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Me: <br />
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Learning how to read. (My mother reports my first word was B-A-R. Which says more about the nightly route we took to pick up my father from work than my adult habits. I think.)<br />
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Right here being a Patch Test Bunny.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvOW6bTSODiRNzzRlzKpkVAFjydbM0tWsNYBeGB5gWCc9Fafh5QLBExz4mwGtIJDZ_HxvXouPSRB0l_KH4H39ZJBIcfSuZ_KN3TNmZ_Qi564cHU6OQWczWBOdc53hBBDiQR1jRy6Gx5H8/s1600/Summer+of+Patch+Love.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvOW6bTSODiRNzzRlzKpkVAFjydbM0tWsNYBeGB5gWCc9Fafh5QLBExz4mwGtIJDZ_HxvXouPSRB0l_KH4H39ZJBIcfSuZ_KN3TNmZ_Qi564cHU6OQWczWBOdc53hBBDiQR1jRy6Gx5H8/s1600/Summer+of+Patch+Love.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
Let the wild association ride begin.<br />
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First of all, you will recall that I have evolved in my relationship with bunnies in a manner not hospitable to things furry and occasionally named Harvey. (To wit, I "went McGregor," as detailed <a href="http://scelfleah.blogspot.com/2011/05/smell-of-fury-mr-mcgregors-revenge.html">here</a>.) So as cute and cuddly as that long eared creature in the lower right hand corner of the lovely logo is, I am perhaps better represented as a bunny with quills. Wait a minute...if *I* am the bunny...shoot! I need to go McGregor on myself!! <br />
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Which, as it so happens, is just the metaphor for what my greatest fear involving patchouli involves. I would not, you see, describe myself as a patchouli fan. It would be on my Do Not Go There list. Of course, vetiver used to be on the same list. Then I found <a href="http://scelfleah.blogspot.com/2008/09/vetiver.html">two perfumes</a> that opened the door for me (<i>Vetiver Dance</i> and <i>Vetiver Racinettes)</i>, and once the door was ajar, <a href="http://scelfleah.blogspot.com/2008/11/vetiver-round-two.html">other vetiver scents</a> found a way to happily enter my awareness.<br />
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So, when I was invited to join the bunnies in the patch(ouli), I accepted. Because I knew that evolution happens. Plus, despite the still strong memory of my first introduction to patchouli (a friend's older sibling saying it smelled really cool, PLUS it had the benefit of covering over other, non-parent sanctioned smells), I had already pushed the patchouli door open a bit thanks to Chanel's <i>Coromandel</i>. Difficult, prickly, fascinating, siren-calling, multiple-wearing inducing, full of facets, eventually and quite precipitously smooth as a multi-varnished and buffed piece of warm wood, <i>Coromandel</i> had already taught me I could enjoy patchouli, in the right setting.<br />
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Therefore, I said yes. And waited for thirteen interpretations, thirteen settings, thirteen couchings, thirteen portraits of patchouli.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGh6qe39u7dFrSLEIfyOZBUZmbnZSYxRdtO61qYW-FjSNsSjiI4zX8LTMDxVGF5YPdqQ4hWgTGsa-Y0HNT5cgwnUnCUiqiXfYQTTrc6io7DSczpsAbrkGsKYNdl0TleqRVEjPiwGEtYMo/s1600/IMG_2029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGh6qe39u7dFrSLEIfyOZBUZmbnZSYxRdtO61qYW-FjSNsSjiI4zX8LTMDxVGF5YPdqQ4hWgTGsa-Y0HNT5cgwnUnCUiqiXfYQTTrc6io7DSczpsAbrkGsKYNdl0TleqRVEjPiwGEtYMo/s200/IMG_2029.jpg" width="149" /></a></div><br />
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Thus began my personal patchouli dismantling.<br />
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Each of the lovely little roll on samples you see there came individually wrapped, labeled only by number. (The numbers, btw, skipped #9, so as to avoid 6 / 9 confusion, which I loved.) Rather than unwrapping them all, and then selecting by juice, I simply reached in blindly, and picked one at a time. Unwrap, roll apply, sniff, note, huff, note, wait, huff, note, repeat.<br />
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Day One. Numbers 2, 10, 5, 1, 6, and 11, in that order. Rare is the day when I will sample so many scents at once. But fate impelled me, and my sniffer cycle was on my side. I knew I was in a good place for multiple huffings, and with another eight scents to go, the combination of bare arm weather + not headache triggerable + deadline pressure pushed me to go forward. And so I did.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUYLJ499DF3QUWsYHUjjw6RuRMiHL4MO5Td3DcTInPTrN78QMFPANAwm7pwcH7VtfPz3j2JptF9KhlaaetimXKKOOOsjuF77F3wnAn7-RfRSMP6ISCNHdcw9vAJ5DL5qDaG3oG0kClCwx/s1600/IMG_5407.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUYLJ499DF3QUWsYHUjjw6RuRMiHL4MO5Td3DcTInPTrN78QMFPANAwm7pwcH7VtfPz3j2JptF9KhlaaetimXKKOOOsjuF77F3wnAn7-RfRSMP6ISCNHdcw9vAJ5DL5qDaG3oG0kClCwx/s320/IMG_5407.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I returned to former standards and practices, cracking open a blank journal and using the primitive self-drawn <a href="http://scelfleah.blogspot.com/2008/11/morning-notes-estee-lauder.html">diagram + notes</a> method that made an appearance here --gadzooks! time flies-- almost three years ago. Check it, dude. Participating in a project that evoked impressions of the free flowing summer of love forced me to get my [one of George Carlin's seven words] together again. Who knew? Wild, man.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thus I proceeded through Days Two and Three of Round One, with five new scents on the second day, two new on the third. Plus, I re-applied #13 (from day two) and #11 (from day one) later on in day two, because of a sub-category thing I was developing which I shall speak more of later.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Such was methodology. Now, some context. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>***<br />
<div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT4FZRuPtv7JIpilKqY8KwmVd3Mw25tayTNQYCG849Lan-5lMB6Rz-DFRO0p8WU7H7Hi8xjkoqe8cfTqf3mwtxdlz0grNqDeORzhVDeaZmQ-AHrW4hmHEn4YHlWlAim_lj_bDBPNNw23oO/s1600/dance.sm.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT4FZRuPtv7JIpilKqY8KwmVd3Mw25tayTNQYCG849Lan-5lMB6Rz-DFRO0p8WU7H7Hi8xjkoqe8cfTqf3mwtxdlz0grNqDeORzhVDeaZmQ-AHrW4hmHEn4YHlWlAim_lj_bDBPNNw23oO/s640/dance.sm.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">copyright Robert Altman (the photographer, not the director)</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div><br />
</div>This here is the summer of love in my mind.<br />
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</div><div>Well, that, and: Let The Sunshine. Detroit riots. People joining hands and liking the world to sing. Unbelievable pain. Nearly unfathomable joy. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The summer of love, 1967, is a soft-focus at the edges concept, a philosophy that carried through an era which most people suggest didn't stop until 1973. Which is when I got a pair of red white and blue bell bottomed hip hugger jeans which were SO cool and made me feel just like the groovy teenage girls who lived down the block. I wasn't, but it was how I felt.</div><div><br />
</div><div>As I have assembled that era and assimilated it into my life -- and I did, for though I wasn't fully cognizant when it happened, I was most essentially a child of it, in that I was raised in and through it. I can't fathom an attitude other than equality, I smile when I see long hair, I know what a certain waft across a concert crowd or over my backyard fence is, I know the difference between the implications of that waft coming from the Vietnam vet living next door and the teenager at a Phish concert and the well coiffed older woman suddenly letting it all hang out at a Nora Jones performance. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The Summer of Love can be forever immediate and young in my mind, and yet never attached to any particular something or someone, because it is not specifically attached to me, but it is in me.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So patchouli is/was the head shops, and kind of fun crazy but a little scary friends stopping by to chat with parents or friends of older siblings. Patchouli is/was the smell of a beautiful older sister, who was so smart, and so cool, and who left and was never heard from again. Patchouli is the smell of a nearly foul oil sold in the kiosk of a shopping mall on the decline. Patchouli is a plant. Patchouli is the smell inside two kinds of VW's, a wildly painted van and a love bug. Patchouli is the smell of a smooth luxury perfume. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Patchouli, you might think, is a hot mess in my mind. But no; patchouli is a patchwork of impressions and styles and eras. Which turns out is/was just the right background for approaching the thirteen liquids in the box, and being ready to meet their portraits of patch.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I opened my mind. I tuned in, but I didn't drop out. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I smellwatched patchouli that made an appearance after a sunny opening act. I smellsaw unapologetic patchouli that greeted me from the first whiff and never left until the whole performance was over. I smellglanced a dusty plant patchouli that was a somewhat rough but always interesting mistress. I met patches of various stripes and hues and personalities. I enjoyed making the acquaintance of every one.</div><div><br />
</div><div>If this were an unorchestrated summer of patchouli love, I'd hop on a bus with all of them, and document our travels along the way. I wouldn't pick one or three of the pack; I'd just coexist, finding myself waking up with one or the other as whimsy and circumstance made appropriate.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But this is free love with a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Telos_(philosophy)">telos</a>. I need to push myself through with purpose. </div><div><br />
</div><div>When I'm done, though, I might come back for a magical mystery tour.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">When I next emerge from the patch, I will introduce you to the three scents I selected as finalists, with all of the hows/whys/gyrations involved. You may find other bunnies as you travel the perfumed interwebz. Many of them have already made their selections. If you would like to keep track of the various nodes in the project -- "noses," celebrities, and perfumers -- Monica Miller is keeping it all straight for us over at the Perfume Pharmer. See </span><a href="http://perfumepharmer.com/organic-perfume-skincare-remedies/index.php/summer-of-patchouli-love-2011-perfume-pharmer-and-the-patch-test-bunnies-2/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">this post</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">which lists the perfumers, the perfumes, the sniffers, and various posts about the project.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">If you are just starting out, Donna's post on patchouli in perfume (</span><a href="http://perfumepharmer.com/organic-perfume-skincare-remedies/index.php/2011/04/the-story-of-the-green-monster-patchouli-in-perfumery-by-perfumista-donna-hathaway/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"The Story of the Green Monster"</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">) is a handy review of the plant, the note, and perfumes that use it.</span></span></div><div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Summer of Love logo created by <a href="http://elizabethwhelanillustrator.com/">Elizabeth Whelan</a></i></div><div><i>photos of vials and journal, author's own</i></div><div><i>Robert Altman's photography on his <a href="http://www.summeroflove.org/altman.html">Summer of Love</a> webpage; see also his lovely books</i><br />
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<br />
</div></div>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-26473838112595569682011-06-21T11:09:00.000-05:002011-06-21T11:09:36.083-05:00Happy Solstice!Up here, it's the longest day of the year. Whether you are over or under, having your shortest or longest of days, here's to a happy and fragrant extreme.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRFCqxo2mr57ciuqfUX7H7edERIJq0p8PxAVbykmVrK_P_O7Gmzq4w6qUtp-groL4XunySfDX8rypTSBOC0fJka1KMC4lZPW1G4hnd-0eQqilxlqBoz1CtSwqfVxG2UnTBh4rvkNvULmD/s1600/sun+trees+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRFCqxo2mr57ciuqfUX7H7edERIJq0p8PxAVbykmVrK_P_O7Gmzq4w6qUtp-groL4XunySfDX8rypTSBOC0fJka1KMC4lZPW1G4hnd-0eQqilxlqBoz1CtSwqfVxG2UnTBh4rvkNvULmD/s400/sun+trees+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>the <a href="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2011/06/100621-summer-solstice-2011-first-day-of-summer-longest-year-science-winter-google/">solstice explained</a> by National Geographic</i><br />
<i>Elizabeth Flock on Takashi Murakami's <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/blogpost/post/takashi-murakami-doodles-the-summer-solstice-photos/2011/06/21/AGLYFGeH_blog.html">summer solstice Google Doodle</a></i><br />
<i>things are <a href="http://www.space.com/12022-summer-solstice-solar-storm-sun-flare.html">flaring up</a> again on our sun on this solstice (time to check for Northern lights?)</i><br />
<i>I'd happily zip along in a <a href="http://gmc-vans.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/pontiac-solstice.jpg">Solstice</a> for the solstice</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>blame for the image rests solely upon the author's shoulders</i>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-1581571019544377832011-06-20T14:26:00.001-05:002011-06-20T14:27:54.039-05:00Leafy Perception and Sorting out DetailWhen I first started this blog, I alluded to, and then briefly wrote about my experience nearly losing my eyesight. <br />
<br />
At the time, I was aswirl with fears and recalculations of life and trying to come to terms with it all. As for many people, sight is my dominant sense. I am a teacher, a reader, a writer; a filmmaker; and a musician whose greatest strength might be sight reading. <br />
<br />
And I am a gardener. Who studied it seriously enough to make it an avocation, and who chose not to make it a vocation, but relies upon it as a form of meditation. So it was not the generic laments of "how will I read?" or "how can I create images on film?" or "will I be valuable, can I even function happily, as a musician who cannot read music?" Each of those had their own levels of solvability.<br />
<br />
It was when I looked across one of my garden beds out front, thinking I would scan for weeds, and realized I could not even differentiate the leaves of the wanted plants, that I was whalloped.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2E9kmWpHZEWeGYDI6RWBDyPU9plP3yMZHx7pB3nmCJOQ-eItXGTG5zFzJl1XIhcV9-ZArPrB3fNe2jqs8mNw9sQf7kGtaI_iTwK59ya-y1jp1yUVakJ0rwuErD0oLxlgDhsAmWZbXR5k/s1600/cutting+bed+path+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2E9kmWpHZEWeGYDI6RWBDyPU9plP3yMZHx7pB3nmCJOQ-eItXGTG5zFzJl1XIhcV9-ZArPrB3fNe2jqs8mNw9sQf7kGtaI_iTwK59ya-y1jp1yUVakJ0rwuErD0oLxlgDhsAmWZbXR5k/s320/cutting+bed+path+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
One of many amazing things about the human eye (and our brain) is how we can see this, this image as recorded by a camera, but then also instantly and seemingly simultaneously scan for up close detail. Standing from this point, I can look into and across the top of the foliage and identify where errant grasses and weeds are. Kind of hard here, even if you click on the picture and open it up bigger.<br />
<br />
So I have to approximate what our eyes can do. Kind of like I needed to that day I stood a few paces away from the bed out front, and had a rapid, blistering series of realizations. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidbiXQW0J48-we9wjzRU1xcn5wvgCYWLi-DoA9_-HTCjOl_wsXzW5pk17ADU7NYDXG509LS4Ns0PYKWFH7rjyu6hxvwIuFNJUgcTleLapyk8LPsTUuCksHzk9F-Wpy1t12eC3IxcFziwpF/s1600/cutting+bed+path+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidbiXQW0J48-we9wjzRU1xcn5wvgCYWLi-DoA9_-HTCjOl_wsXzW5pk17ADU7NYDXG509LS4Ns0PYKWFH7rjyu6hxvwIuFNJUgcTleLapyk8LPsTUuCksHzk9F-Wpy1t12eC3IxcFziwpF/s320/cutting+bed+path+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Like our amazing eye/brain communication, I was simultaneously realizing "Hey, I can't see the weeds!" and "Hey, I can't see...much of anything. Green. That's it." All the while moving in closer and closer...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBn7ei7-Gh9OeI3HbkfnW30AUi24O99qegQhJPy4PMrVrQvNwn6-xe9JA0jsElcR_YOiRRn7PhxZ_WV2Yt1u13zT-v9fAK5y9w2GB8JCi4_FAEvgZyJj4cAq315ZH24RXHEJS8ZugbTi4q/s1600/cutting+bed+path+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBn7ei7-Gh9OeI3HbkfnW30AUi24O99qegQhJPy4PMrVrQvNwn6-xe9JA0jsElcR_YOiRRn7PhxZ_WV2Yt1u13zT-v9fAK5y9w2GB8JCi4_FAEvgZyJj4cAq315ZH24RXHEJS8ZugbTi4q/s320/cutting+bed+path+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The killer was I got right in on top of the leaves. Which, in that case, were siberian iris, ornamental grasses, and regular lawn grass grown tall enough to flower and go to seed.<br />
<br />
Not that I'd know.<br />
<br />
I was done for.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77GxaeGo7D8gUfR4xxHVplKBBAxWAQbhjFnGm4WUxqSO44AzxIxH1fav3_6K445rqZU-95PDuaQB61Ob6NV761DElMMt9zgoWlZjLVi8lZVrWdD0TL5yo0-ZrmUaRtz1RoneLPtNPHHg0/s1600/honeysuckle+CU.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77GxaeGo7D8gUfR4xxHVplKBBAxWAQbhjFnGm4WUxqSO44AzxIxH1fav3_6K445rqZU-95PDuaQB61Ob6NV761DElMMt9zgoWlZjLVi8lZVrWdD0TL5yo0-ZrmUaRtz1RoneLPtNPHHg0/s320/honeysuckle+CU.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPRyniFsRBESGXyQe6haiEeeFcnbs5r5H4LnWF8o7FeY3jcpk3MuY4ziSnSDeqE6Q4L6yYNw0Kgdxnj9F8L2IXePqtnf4xZYP8YpTeUgyZgcy5AupetBvAQ-EL-LZ5V5wXSNoenZIDLHl/s1600/carrots+emerging+CU.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPRyniFsRBESGXyQe6haiEeeFcnbs5r5H4LnWF8o7FeY3jcpk3MuY4ziSnSDeqE6Q4L6yYNw0Kgdxnj9F8L2IXePqtnf4xZYP8YpTeUgyZgcy5AupetBvAQ-EL-LZ5V5wXSNoenZIDLHl/s320/carrots+emerging+CU.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I take a lot of close up and macro images. For all kinds of reasons: they rarely fail to interest me, it's a shortcut to helping make a picture "work," it's the only way to be sure certain details my eye-brain is registering are being communicated to the viewer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I lost my eyesight--when it went fuzzy, when I watched it glaze over and out--I didn't just lose a type of input. I lost an important physical metaphor for sorting and thinking. Learning and practicing are complex things, and putting learned practiced knowledge and ability to work creating is yet another complex something.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjld1COP0hgPw-8npAkqpadJLPgVhZL3rDhiJjnLfcEdOqsYWp9mMAErvqEqVoaYlZST2G4ggHHU_bk4Vsof8baJQCgw4DzwUXPg5FVxRK8V696OAGhLKCOdX_JjBwpn09lDy1hfZavjmKA/s1600/angelica%252C+long+lens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjld1COP0hgPw-8npAkqpadJLPgVhZL3rDhiJjnLfcEdOqsYWp9mMAErvqEqVoaYlZST2G4ggHHU_bk4Vsof8baJQCgw4DzwUXPg5FVxRK8V696OAGhLKCOdX_JjBwpn09lDy1hfZavjmKA/s400/angelica%252C+long+lens.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When it comes to camera images, you can sort manually that which your brain does intuitively. See that picture there, with the angelica and the purple iris in the foreground and the peach and purple iris in the left background? Pull it up large. Let your eye scan over it. Decide what it in sharpest focus. In photography parlance, you are identify just what plane in the depth of field was made to be the center of attention.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In overblown fiction parlance, a character hones their eagle eyed attention on the pointy sharp edges of a loosely fronded angelica stalk, and notes the sharp contrast between edge and the surrounding air.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Either way, you just sorted detail that was already sorted. Look again; that picture was not taken by having the camera a foot away from the angelica. The camera is at a distance, and zoomed in on the angelica stalks. The fence in the far background is over 10 feet away from the angelica, and not a soft wash of grey, but series of sharp edged planks with clearly visible graining and splinters. WHEN one's attention is upon it. This angle/lens choice removes the option of paying attention to that.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, you sorted a further level of detail from a collection of input that had already been pared. That's a lot of thinking. That's a lot of deciding where and when to pay attention. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All of the levels are important. When you stand back from the garden, there is a flow, a rhythm, both in the moment and over time. There are colors to mix/complement/contrast, smells to consider, heights to account for both in terms of visual pleasure and plant survival. Whose pleasure and whose survival, of course, being another set of variables.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqaIpvj4an-6SxvZsuYbI_EozrF3negX_b-ZM61gnhLUjUTnrChN2c_2QuuvuYYaCxydU71KiF4_D31uaShUokxatOJVnk8-h3Ay2snyBEdVmfc1x932BDFw1vl6xqA-zpGk0bU6IAlL-0/s1600/IMG_1900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqaIpvj4an-6SxvZsuYbI_EozrF3negX_b-ZM61gnhLUjUTnrChN2c_2QuuvuYYaCxydU71KiF4_D31uaShUokxatOJVnk8-h3Ay2snyBEdVmfc1x932BDFw1vl6xqA-zpGk0bU6IAlL-0/s320/IMG_1900.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So when I think about the ability to scan a planted area and pick out the wanted from the not wanted, feel the rhythm the planting establishes and determine if there are any breaks or hiccups, imagine what the textural and color palette will present in the future and if amendments should be made accordingly, I occasionally think of what I imagine a perfumer does. How they select their elements to play together in the moment and over time, in what proportion...and how they must reach in to "pluck" that which does not belong, whether instinctively (thanks to long experience) or by careful process of elimination. Or guesswork, which will lead to learning. In my imagination, it is instinctive--but as a gardener I know that sometimes it is long experience which leads to the non-thinking but correct gesture.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On the other hand, as a musician, I know that the "right" gesture can be the result of training, or instinct, or a combination of both.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I also know that my ability to garden was ominously threatened by the prospect of losing my sight. Which at the time reminded me of the dreams I would sometimes have in my youth about losing or seriously injuring a finger, as my instrument requires the use of all fingers on both hands. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Perfumers must hate having colds, right? Or the threat of brain trauma leading to anosmia? Or even the temporary anosmia that can result from certain illnesses or conditions?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>all photographs author's own</i></div>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-33738080102782325502011-06-06T13:07:00.000-05:002011-06-06T13:07:29.750-05:00In flagrante indelicato: Lilacs, a.k.a. the fallacy of sensitive toshLilacs. Some of you are already well past your season, others can still smell the peak in your nose, even if the actual peak was already days ago.<br />
<br />
Here, we're a couple of weeks past the peak of the old-fashioneds, and while Miss Kim is still pumping out a honking snootful of scent today, I have a feeling that this is like when a singer pushes out the last air from the bottom of the diaphragm. It's big, it's blowsy, but it is no longer fresh, and a little hollow at the heart.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaZ8fvev7DAmElVgby-LxsqosdDMjcQ1CjEnYRdhTOJY0P3Q9B7OnHuX5GDnTYEmOmGU1SpYOfFF8-6gyoUSQ2qBlmSaI9CvhNEzYRqDQJm47AHt5LVnvc4L8Qou5OF5WeGDTw8dBm56Bp/s1600/drama+lilac.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaZ8fvev7DAmElVgby-LxsqosdDMjcQ1CjEnYRdhTOJY0P3Q9B7OnHuX5GDnTYEmOmGU1SpYOfFF8-6gyoUSQ2qBlmSaI9CvhNEzYRqDQJm47AHt5LVnvc4L8Qou5OF5WeGDTw8dBm56Bp/s320/drama+lilac.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old fashioned lilac, pumping out the volume 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Since Miss Kim is pumping out her final glory, I found myself out gathering armfuls of blooms for the second time this season this morning. This is a big milestone for me; in the first place, I am conservative when it comes to harvesting blooms. Not just because I have a sensitive side that feels bad about cutting them, but because I love seeing them in their environment. I plant with an eye toward how the "composition" looks <i>in situ</i>; in movie terms, it's a botanical <i>mise en scene</i>. Heck, I'll even spend time deciding if I let a weed have a few days as part of the composition, if texture/color/height fill in the scene nicely and it won't go all Godzilla and take over the area.<br />
<br />
But there is a saying about lilacs, which is true: They like the lopping. Which is to say, trimming encourages fresh wood (and therefore fresh blooms), keeps the plant looking fully and less "leggy," and also helps manage height/width if that at all matters. It's not that "they're asking for it"--that saying has always bothered me for a number of reasons--but they do respond well to it. And, in fact, they thrive as a result.<br />
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Furthermore, lilacs stems headed for the vase need a little, well, abuse. Smashing. A simple end cut will not allow the woody stems to take up adequate water, and they'll wilt within 24 hours. Sometimes you can almost watch the depressing withering as if time lapse was accelerated in front of your real time eyes. I conveniently forgot that with the first round of trimmings. They were droopy by nightfall. This time I did not make that error.<br />
<br />
My tool of choice was a railroad stake. Plenty of heft, and the head end provides a pseudo-cutting edge, so that in one fell strike you can smash-slash. 2-3" of gashes up from the bottom of each, and you are good to go.<br />
<br />
It's not that they ask for it. But if you are going to do the trimming, and want them to hang out for a while in the vase, you do need to alter them. With violent measures. Because you need to expose cells, and soften tenacious structured material.<br />
<br />
This, my friends, is the "wan" lilac. <br />
<br />
It is a deceptive shrub. That fragrance that is so "pretty," that visits but once a year, can actually nearly strangle you. Our Miss Kim, for example, is right outside a lower floor bathroom window. Which in some ways was good planning by the previous owner. Because it offers a lovely screen 3 out of 4 seasons of the year, and is often snow covered enough for privacy effect in the fourth. Because it is visually attractive. And because in other areas of the house, and on the back patio, catching a waft can be a pleasant thing.<br />
<br />
But if you are in that front bathroom? On a hot day? This is a situation the word "cloying" serves well. Some might even say "suffocating."<br />
<br />
This is a clear example of when "fresh air" is not the same as "air heavy with the fragrance of {lilac/fill in your own big stonkin' flower}."<br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
So when the topic of <i>En Passant</i> comes up, I am always careful to thank Olivia Giacobetti. She knew that the best way to experience a lilac was in passing, not <i>in situ. </i>Certainly not <i>stuck in nostrilo</i>. And too much of a good thing is, well, too much, so there's that cucumber and that bread and that ghost of Apres L'Ondee.<br />
<br />
It's perfect. As if it were my neighbor growing the lilacs, baking the bread, me slicing the cucumber, me discovering I still had remnants of yesterday's <i>Apres L'Ondee</i> somewhere on me. (Alas, that that could actually happen in real life...)<br />
<br />
I can't wear <i>En Passant</i> when the lilacs are at peak, incidentally. Too much input. I am too busy processing and managing the heavy full-throated single relentless note of the lilacs. Which must be some kind of siren song, come to think of it; all of this noise, and still I gather it into bundles and bring it into my house.<br />
<br />
My favorite times to wear <i>En Passant</i> are early spring, when it seems (as it so often does) that it is having trouble revving up, and in the fall, for a kind of nostalgia. Plus the occasional nostalgic occasion or mood throughout the year.<br />
<br />
There are times when the hologram, the reproduction, is just the thing. <br />
<br />
*<br />
Hundreds of tiny trumpets on my countertops and carpeting my floor in the area I put the stems into a vase. Because, yes, despite the volume on the olfactory noise, these flowers have peaked, and every handling shakes loose some of the florets. But they needed to be gathered.<br />
<br />
You smash them, they last longer. <br />
<br />
They disintegrate, but shall return.<br />
<br />
They aren't delicate. And they aren't dead.<br />
<br />
You conveniently tend to forget how they are capable of choking you.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, it may be that longer term relationships with them are best conducted via stand-ins.<br />
<br />
So pretty, they are.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>image of old-fashioned lilac, author's own</i><br />
<i>V.S. Naipaul's opinions, his own</i><br />
<i>Olivia Giacobetti's genius, her own</i>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-28364201317678094342011-06-02T10:04:00.001-05:002011-06-02T15:37:21.404-05:00Stonkin' Big FlowersOh, dear.<br />
<br />
I approached writing this three times. Rather, I started three different days since late April with the intention to write about Summersent perfume.<br />
<br />
Three different openings, one beginning with a rumination on indigenous smells and subliminal comfort, one with an account of my time at the Chicago Botanic Garden with the person behind the perfume, and once with my big reveal announcing that I believed I had identified the "secret midwest flower" that was the inspiration for the scent.<br />
<br />
All of those having not materialized, I determined that Today Was The Day. I dabbed on some parfum. I spritzed on eau de parfum. <br />
<br />
And then I thought hey, maybe it would help to put on some Fracas. You know, benchmark against another Great Big Flower that like Glenn Close's character in Fatal Attraction, will not be ignored.<br />
<br />
And then I figured since the change in the weather meant I had more skin exposed, I'd put on some Carnal Flower. And a hit of Lys Mediterranee. Because, you know, I haz issues with these beasts. So I could do some thoughtful ruminations on just why it was that my early-in-evolution nose had a strange attraction to Summersent, but Just Said No to the trio on my right limb.<br />
<br />
Holy stonkin' flowers, Batman. I am in a cloud of confusion. It's like I have the vapors. I am IN the vapors. Dear heavens, as I type this, it occurs to me my desk space may be tainted for a week. And I spritzed two floors away.<br />
<br />
::catches balance::<br />
<br />
I'm going to have to start in the middle, rather than the beginning, or working backward from the end. Much like fighting my way out of this miasma.<br />
<br />
Because, the first thing I have to admit, is that when I applied the Fracas to the crook of my elbow (dabbed from a mini, one of those cute little Piguet black-cube capped square numbers), I thought "Hey. Nice. Why am I not recoiling?" And I smiled at was striking me as a blond zaftig beauty who I had been led to believe overapplied too loud makeup and actually, while made up, was quite presentable.<br />
<br />
Which was probably what led me to dare to spritz Carnal Flower on my wrist. Hey, Fracas used to make me run. Carnal Flower slayed me. Maybe this time I would just run. But hey, ho...what is this? Formerly dirty bits now just registering as a welcome (not dirty, just...rough) counterpoint to the stonk of the flower? C'mon, now. I mean, Carnal Flower, applied as a check and balance, was suddenly yelling "buy me! you need me! what in the world have you been doing with those reserved Malles???" Oy to the vey. Nobody told me there was a rabbit hole inside a rabbit hole.<br />
<br />
Sanity. Reason. I'd apply Lys Mediterranee, which had previously registered as an artistic attempt to be different. By which I mean artfully rendered, but interesting to me only as an exercise. Except no, now that sharp opening is the near side of bracing, and I am thinking "hey, ginger" instead of "whoa, ginger," and instead of it being one of those paintings I look at in the exhibit and register how talented the artist is, it becomes one of those paintings I simply enjoy looking at and falling into the contours of one line against the other, happily aware in the background of a pleasing harmony of arrangement but no longer intellectually processing it, but just being there with it, sort of in it. Except this was a perfume, and I *was* in it.<br />
<br />
Cr@p. What about the Summersent?<br />
<br />
Now that I've written all this, can I actually review that which sent me down the spiral in the spiral??<br />
<br />
<br />
I guess I'd better try.<br />
<br />
Since I started this inside out, how about I continue that way. The publicity for Summersent leans heavily on the story of the creator walking in the garden and catching a whiff of a beautiful flower, a midwest flower which became the inspiration for the perfume. When I met with Marjorie last fall, she told me the real story, which is essentially that story: She was walking with a friend, smelled the flower, and it resonated deeply with her. She was able to identify it, and bring it to a parfumer, who explained to her that that flower could not be distilled directly into an essence. It would have to be re-created.<br />
<br />
This was an opportunity for me to share with her the story of Edmond Roudnitska and lily of the valley and Diorissimo, and how it, too, is a flower that cannot be directly pressed/enfleuraged/distilled. We talked and talked, about the process of working with a perfumer to create a fragrance, how Marjorie put her extensive PR background in fashion and beauty into play in creating a product that was perfume, what inspired her as she told the perfumer what she wanted, etcetera etcetera.<br />
<br />
But never once did she reveal what the flower was.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, the annual blooming of a certain bush outside my window. And an A-ha! moment.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_7pA9NJvE3tZWYsWLg5Jyo6m-b6vLzPw1y1-2woZiIPxQQjzeG3TIm2_UCci-1W3H_q8su_ZNafJiepNY7i-DpfS9L9AILrcFqPuSjF-N1414biyLNMdQeYdfaysCYZTDduRH7vNNkjt/s1600/viburnum+carleesii.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_7pA9NJvE3tZWYsWLg5Jyo6m-b6vLzPw1y1-2woZiIPxQQjzeG3TIm2_UCci-1W3H_q8su_ZNafJiepNY7i-DpfS9L9AILrcFqPuSjF-N1414biyLNMdQeYdfaysCYZTDduRH7vNNkjt/s320/viburnum+carleesii.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Do you know this flower?<br />
<br />
Here, let me pull back a bit.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMDYd7vfUbU0imLlxa5p5sSFJWnjengNfNRcadb7MY6gIQswskUFGyj-XtoN6iZ2G9DnmhgdnStrzR-aPSXdITB2BWLJnQP1fjDVjaNekXWpNICg6Y28zmNPgFAV4CIwh6utsYsdWRNwON/s1600/viburnum+carleesii+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMDYd7vfUbU0imLlxa5p5sSFJWnjengNfNRcadb7MY6gIQswskUFGyj-XtoN6iZ2G9DnmhgdnStrzR-aPSXdITB2BWLJnQP1fjDVjaNekXWpNICg6Y28zmNPgFAV4CIwh6utsYsdWRNwON/s320/viburnum+carleesii+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Viburnum carlesii, my gardener friends. Commonly known as Korean spicebush or Korean spice. Which would, in name, and in provenance, seem to put a bit of a twist on the midwestern angle.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, indeed, there it is. Right under my nose. I think my cultivar may not be the exact one that inspired the perfume. On the other hand, the perfume is, by necessity, an "imagination" of the note. And I doubt I'll get Marjorie to confirm one way or the other. So...for now, we're going to play Clue.<br />
<br />
I accuse Viburnum carlesii of inspiring Marjorie Midgarden in the midwest garden.<br />
<br />
::gathers self::<br />
<br />
Sorry, I need a moment. I am still aswirl in a huffy puffy cloud of mega flowers. An hour later, and I still do not have a headache, which would be a milestone with ANY of the three vamps on my right arm, let alone a gathering of them in one lineup. <br />
<br />
That, plus the heady excitement of sleuthing my way to what I think is an unveiling...well....<br />
<br />
::pause::<br />
::ready to proceed::<br />
<br />
What do I think of Summersent?<br />
<br />
I think it is one of those pretty perfumes. I overheardread a conversation yesterday in which somebody referred to Apres L'Ondee as a perfume that merits the overused, generally underdescriptive term "pretty." I agreed. I think of it as a category, one which may be a subset of "girly." Not sure. Will tease that out in a bit. Wait, yes, a subset...rather, a partially attached "subset." Because "pretty" I can do, if not often. "Girly"...well, girly tends to irk me in its worst versions, and simply amuse me without making me want some in its best versions.<br />
<br />
So. Summersent is "pretty," meaning it goes in that category.<br />
<br />
It is also clearly a thickish without being too cloying (on me) or too brackish whiteish flower perfume. It is, apparently, popular in Europe, where it makes a large share if its sales. (Interesting, I think. Midwest inspired. American made. Over the top packaging. Big flower. Hmmm.) Make no mistake; this perfume wears not as part of your skin, or a melding even. It is a layer applied.<br />
<br />
But hey, so is most lipstick. And certain styles of shoe. And particular ways of arranging your hair. Or a cravat.<br />
<br />
::cloud vapors::<br />
<br />
I think I should come back once more to Summersent, on its own, to suss it out for those who might be curious. Meanwhile, it's June. ("June June June...June is bustin' out all over...") And some profound change in season has happened.<br />
<br />
Not just summer.<br />
<br />
But the season of my Big Floral Appreciation.<br />
<br />
<i>images author's own</i><br />
<i>spritzes and dabs obtained via author's own collection </i>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-59370656173860514872011-05-31T17:43:00.001-05:002011-06-02T15:38:07.368-05:00Things that smelled, May 2011<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDR2fXpF8Vd1mr4gWVLJ8N8Q7lFRwtlsY_FRbXQGA6X7-UE9Kmtv0Zzy664CR29V-aw5VZMADmdM7fgoO5Q7JxOi-XzKBsl-DIZy5CMOb2Gk0sNE6EjuMpqBOQMAcejTWPE9PfWkZkzitw/s1600/daffs+out+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDR2fXpF8Vd1mr4gWVLJ8N8Q7lFRwtlsY_FRbXQGA6X7-UE9Kmtv0Zzy664CR29V-aw5VZMADmdM7fgoO5Q7JxOi-XzKBsl-DIZy5CMOb2Gk0sNE6EjuMpqBOQMAcejTWPE9PfWkZkzitw/s1600/daffs+out+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDR2fXpF8Vd1mr4gWVLJ8N8Q7lFRwtlsY_FRbXQGA6X7-UE9Kmtv0Zzy664CR29V-aw5VZMADmdM7fgoO5Q7JxOi-XzKBsl-DIZy5CMOb2Gk0sNE6EjuMpqBOQMAcejTWPE9PfWkZkzitw/s1600/daffs+out+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDR2fXpF8Vd1mr4gWVLJ8N8Q7lFRwtlsY_FRbXQGA6X7-UE9Kmtv0Zzy664CR29V-aw5VZMADmdM7fgoO5Q7JxOi-XzKBsl-DIZy5CMOb2Gk0sNE6EjuMpqBOQMAcejTWPE9PfWkZkzitw/s320/daffs+out+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For me, the Smelly Month of May started with daffodils. And rain, and dirt, and crabapple blossoms.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF87HMiopvr0FaGAtSsCegaJ3A6z7HXciTfCGX1tHmYWBue1iRo39ANJSQfniFfubWiNUDL6AcedeaALsIZO1TGrX2XoEnqI96tL-YYMgkL_eDz_ddJtVZ1fwKHZwKbtZoHOQ2X2wgqc5r/s1600/daffs+in.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj659jg_MZIoUH7Wa1HX9UkSIwVKHHMCBH4XTrlS6lLsWu3gSE4NIYUtNP4DJ6dLYBJCSJfny8I5UoK1r-pzIaCvkOXhsWjTPg-AYKF-N5RJV_vmQbJEzyHB43ywzS8KsBhF_R21UZ301Th/s1600/crabapple+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj659jg_MZIoUH7Wa1HX9UkSIwVKHHMCBH4XTrlS6lLsWu3gSE4NIYUtNP4DJ6dLYBJCSJfny8I5UoK1r-pzIaCvkOXhsWjTPg-AYKF-N5RJV_vmQbJEzyHB43ywzS8KsBhF_R21UZ301Th/s320/crabapple+2.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF87HMiopvr0FaGAtSsCegaJ3A6z7HXciTfCGX1tHmYWBue1iRo39ANJSQfniFfubWiNUDL6AcedeaALsIZO1TGrX2XoEnqI96tL-YYMgkL_eDz_ddJtVZ1fwKHZwKbtZoHOQ2X2wgqc5r/s1600/daffs+in.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF87HMiopvr0FaGAtSsCegaJ3A6z7HXciTfCGX1tHmYWBue1iRo39ANJSQfniFfubWiNUDL6AcedeaALsIZO1TGrX2XoEnqI96tL-YYMgkL_eDz_ddJtVZ1fwKHZwKbtZoHOQ2X2wgqc5r/s320/daffs+in.JPG" width="320" /></div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGQZBcnR5ZKXGYb-d3uH_tBrYTew8vCt95j0Jon_SdT1opLwuJ18Z5Evtf1AEIFiMnaNZYYhzBFbRfHyuqXSTB0dVQ9rxJv7aaWARAmwF5o5KR3PxpjwqAvmV1IHcasXlUkapspS3784n/s1600/rain+%2528on+hosta+leaves%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGQZBcnR5ZKXGYb-d3uH_tBrYTew8vCt95j0Jon_SdT1opLwuJ18Z5Evtf1AEIFiMnaNZYYhzBFbRfHyuqXSTB0dVQ9rxJv7aaWARAmwF5o5KR3PxpjwqAvmV1IHcasXlUkapspS3784n/s320/rain+%2528on+hosta+leaves%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB8MBvWk0LnoYYHm47MH-ej3EfZOKjdQxCl0djWb-f5f7EvExNiQjLoFE0JI6kt1JXuUP15J-_JkiUnyczAScLr_HJbHra0ohzRLAG4qiGWUOPJGrKBPF0ozqhtm8jdT8OFhUNIx2_QPR0/s1600/hosta+shoot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB8MBvWk0LnoYYHm47MH-ej3EfZOKjdQxCl0djWb-f5f7EvExNiQjLoFE0JI6kt1JXuUP15J-_JkiUnyczAScLr_HJbHra0ohzRLAG4qiGWUOPJGrKBPF0ozqhtm8jdT8OFhUNIx2_QPR0/s320/hosta+shoot.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbhjcoEnPi0ZHOnHuwDL8G9UPR7ybmuMvagR2w-ymHCSP2QSAVtT5l7Uwn3FmZaKgedqYm4ymdoNvx_UnpGw8_2u_aIDyT_8Zw4YRvaBPqMnDydC5XPTmHeJeot4t3WDpeWEaKucV2tEv/s1600/crabapple+blossoms.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbhjcoEnPi0ZHOnHuwDL8G9UPR7ybmuMvagR2w-ymHCSP2QSAVtT5l7Uwn3FmZaKgedqYm4ymdoNvx_UnpGw8_2u_aIDyT_8Zw4YRvaBPqMnDydC5XPTmHeJeot4t3WDpeWEaKucV2tEv/s320/crabapple+blossoms.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnpI8h7Nt8U-SbOPUeXLL_rQ0B7t7io1L1QUsZLWYfv1NgNfTiTAuOPo8jnW5A4StNjh9CIt4nodSV3pGN6-ZFPi7ps8iRT6K_3Ekg5x6ALKRZwzPQHA9PF08Je9IU0uTERj2jlfun3vW/s1600/daffs+out.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnpI8h7Nt8U-SbOPUeXLL_rQ0B7t7io1L1QUsZLWYfv1NgNfTiTAuOPo8jnW5A4StNjh9CIt4nodSV3pGN6-ZFPi7ps8iRT6K_3Ekg5x6ALKRZwzPQHA9PF08Je9IU0uTERj2jlfun3vW/s320/daffs+out.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNaqqprip9o1lgqA8EJr1xfzmdn8Emu_F4-VgAdVyYdVG51SubDovVTOBVJWkfrZJHkWISoMYunPCa-P0iJctVrSkSJVruQZai8G-MCliBX2nN40uaEXM8d4_a35JqnrHaNTRFWy20OIYG/s1600/air+on+the+taconic+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNaqqprip9o1lgqA8EJr1xfzmdn8Emu_F4-VgAdVyYdVG51SubDovVTOBVJWkfrZJHkWISoMYunPCa-P0iJctVrSkSJVruQZai8G-MCliBX2nN40uaEXM8d4_a35JqnrHaNTRFWy20OIYG/s320/air+on+the+taconic+2.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNaqqprip9o1lgqA8EJr1xfzmdn8Emu_F4-VgAdVyYdVG51SubDovVTOBVJWkfrZJHkWISoMYunPCa-P0iJctVrSkSJVruQZai8G-MCliBX2nN40uaEXM8d4_a35JqnrHaNTRFWy20OIYG/s1600/air+on+the+taconic+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Then came a road trip. The smell of the air on the Taconic parkway, detergent and stale water in a car wash.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOq8XNi_-u_NAdD7Hea-26eEyj0-CVbme88vAsIQKXXTbYO6M38jr2r3TtM2UJw1ec0UXdj_4YUR_HgMt1pO9VTuMr0jNP3jpunOB04NXEmWb7Mw5rU8I3uGTcYBUuJRKkcHGkQj1aQ0w0/s1600/a+car+wash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOq8XNi_-u_NAdD7Hea-26eEyj0-CVbme88vAsIQKXXTbYO6M38jr2r3TtM2UJw1ec0UXdj_4YUR_HgMt1pO9VTuMr0jNP3jpunOB04NXEmWb7Mw5rU8I3uGTcYBUuJRKkcHGkQj1aQ0w0/s320/a+car+wash.jpg" width="239" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qN715XaGZRn05gpra3-z7PHb2XdT3te9ugT-bvceSJ06p-gEWY0ZAAUwWb80EKhzwmvYRQbEEAyib5TdimoGynwO-LPfH2mf5WL8VpkoAGaI1bsNdImri5fEQVwG63R83v_jo1rfNJIy/s1600/alliums+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOrGn8s3ygxitVlRtgXamlZFk3d5irGqm2gZU8VLzBEjhwfMeaebMTbKyrSB0Ifbp9xczLZANiKjXeW0l-Ts2gdz_LDm2gVrFoHKMQAtaNdj6mbR2c8B0iDzDeyyPTb8lxLwr4Vjzf2lfy/s1600/alliums.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga0h73rWMOTpWiWA7gcOn1yIMtMxgYkfqsFhRSvlwVFydAZPf9L9n51OGMA_7VmQFEzWhXZpgtvvZnuMRZOO0Xj73Fci2O4eVPZm3BiEvC0D0Ky0Fi3aFYdOghEbe-TBkZw7nfwC_vZLp5/s1600/orange+poeticus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga0h73rWMOTpWiWA7gcOn1yIMtMxgYkfqsFhRSvlwVFydAZPf9L9n51OGMA_7VmQFEzWhXZpgtvvZnuMRZOO0Xj73Fci2O4eVPZm3BiEvC0D0Ky0Fi3aFYdOghEbe-TBkZw7nfwC_vZLp5/s320/orange+poeticus.JPG" width="320" /></a><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qN715XaGZRn05gpra3-z7PHb2XdT3te9ugT-bvceSJ06p-gEWY0ZAAUwWb80EKhzwmvYRQbEEAyib5TdimoGynwO-LPfH2mf5WL8VpkoAGaI1bsNdImri5fEQVwG63R83v_jo1rfNJIy/s320/alliums+2.jpg" width="240" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLn9BmqpD9RCf01i_sWC77XmFyNAiYeePwl9oMFGMn6cror9-BuWfkRqhRm_5SaWluysM1-yu-TgGHPnE4RtbhJw3Dj79C550qJ8lTAZxWVShBforKyqDAdbaP7ZSmi42n51AeegDjqfKk/s1600/cherry+blossoms.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLn9BmqpD9RCf01i_sWC77XmFyNAiYeePwl9oMFGMn6cror9-BuWfkRqhRm_5SaWluysM1-yu-TgGHPnE4RtbhJw3Dj79C550qJ8lTAZxWVShBforKyqDAdbaP7ZSmi42n51AeegDjqfKk/s320/cherry+blossoms.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxhdntsmMgpKDlvE-iD17TlbUFqnau7PxhGIr3WcHa6Ts6_JEMRxvIzGRqTiwsWpHXq3JWbGPGDLBDuZQ6f2WAEwP6owYBXO6yS9DWBNaoVUl-bk5omGsD6oIDge7ADguMBOuq5hUuQf_/s1600/allium%252C+ozonic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxhdntsmMgpKDlvE-iD17TlbUFqnau7PxhGIr3WcHa6Ts6_JEMRxvIzGRqTiwsWpHXq3JWbGPGDLBDuZQ6f2WAEwP6owYBXO6yS9DWBNaoVUl-bk5omGsD6oIDge7ADguMBOuq5hUuQf_/s320/allium%252C+ozonic.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"> Alliums, with the one revealing itself to be a maturing morpher. Starts out vaguely ozonic, hint of vegetation decay with a whiff of onion. Turns into intoxicating sweetness.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">And then, there are the deep purple ones, which have a hint of grape. Fake grape. But not at all fake. Very huffable.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5WeRFqUlcpGXHWGDHMH0MMx-vfVAZLSLeQRx0gWBt5bDVXHd6ZabHxYbHCJCultMnZWHRJxr1YtG3b6pDmAtMuStTEa4-lnnEuSD1k1wC2nN42cD-q5cjcSlGJvByWJE0tIIjLgxH1LN7/s1600/dirt+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5WeRFqUlcpGXHWGDHMH0MMx-vfVAZLSLeQRx0gWBt5bDVXHd6ZabHxYbHCJCultMnZWHRJxr1YtG3b6pDmAtMuStTEa4-lnnEuSD1k1wC2nN42cD-q5cjcSlGJvByWJE0tIIjLgxH1LN7/s320/dirt+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiua-VD1czvWc3HgL8FQb00K1TZr62Yn07Ow7RFGrkMdgr86otWzvc5KZbbV-X6FLrKJdQSeWvkmbkUpj0Vs5q64Wt-Wn7Q49iok-IFYbIqZo4CiEH-Jzd7Kx8Mvr4uDd1OTjfUL6QhyphenhyphenIhX/s1600/dirt+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiua-VD1czvWc3HgL8FQb00K1TZr62Yn07Ow7RFGrkMdgr86otWzvc5KZbbV-X6FLrKJdQSeWvkmbkUpj0Vs5q64Wt-Wn7Q49iok-IFYbIqZo4CiEH-Jzd7Kx8Mvr4uDd1OTjfUL6QhyphenhyphenIhX/s320/dirt+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Homecoming. More dirt. Hyacinths. Tulips. Winter onions pulled and spring onions planted.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpAyPBdcU3wPEVn0hkBNRfK_VcoNb3ivUE2zbOJUM8g8To3VXtizufBVXLGzd4drDGHDVA0XXOW5uRFjY_s9ao9CQTAmSkp3xRbMMmFQE9yxm8AZ73wXKgKRhhLsCzUx6pAjAM9VRWtpr/s1600/hyacinth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpAyPBdcU3wPEVn0hkBNRfK_VcoNb3ivUE2zbOJUM8g8To3VXtizufBVXLGzd4drDGHDVA0XXOW5uRFjY_s9ao9CQTAmSkp3xRbMMmFQE9yxm8AZ73wXKgKRhhLsCzUx6pAjAM9VRWtpr/s320/hyacinth.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLFh3AMKRNTr8Z99IkDVGoi2hAe0y4dooEZVxrG934Mq2tvEnF_mhtV8zfsj16Yxvzcil92Ps2Tg2Z-Uc68R8-3kj7m7WJCTcQDOxZm1J_MRHokEVWVwFkzC7ge3OV8UnBqsddmNDd5on/s1600/dirt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLFh3AMKRNTr8Z99IkDVGoi2hAe0y4dooEZVxrG934Mq2tvEnF_mhtV8zfsj16Yxvzcil92Ps2Tg2Z-Uc68R8-3kj7m7WJCTcQDOxZm1J_MRHokEVWVwFkzC7ge3OV8UnBqsddmNDd5on/s320/dirt.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwmx_6ttXDR7UnNOar3zKiFrbw9geiCPVzt6EUIeLAOwgdhRg52GEbuY80XdonjHknS9_iXvNJrnhmu-GxCvcVLnExWPuN-IRWOOuOH2DBNu8Vd67x3TBWNrJENe3MEz_xDwhESwGK2Zl/s1600/korean+viburnum.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwmx_6ttXDR7UnNOar3zKiFrbw9geiCPVzt6EUIeLAOwgdhRg52GEbuY80XdonjHknS9_iXvNJrnhmu-GxCvcVLnExWPuN-IRWOOuOH2DBNu8Vd67x3TBWNrJENe3MEz_xDwhESwGK2Zl/s320/korean+viburnum.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: right;"> Oh, yes, you potent permeating thing. Viburnum carlesii, you reek. In a knock you over with white flowers of the northern latitudes way.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EXvztRnpEm-jDfWDQQEefhpPq10nSOc4bvSUcHdtYtI5VM9Hh4LL_0HYH4KIIwNMnk-QlZp5X4r2jSR3S7CmkYX8drCdCCeT8woi8J-g42eyIJu_Pe687XgmpPsTCnDstcM0SGXsrgfT/s1600/iris+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EXvztRnpEm-jDfWDQQEefhpPq10nSOc4bvSUcHdtYtI5VM9Hh4LL_0HYH4KIIwNMnk-QlZp5X4r2jSR3S7CmkYX8drCdCCeT8woi8J-g42eyIJu_Pe687XgmpPsTCnDstcM0SGXsrgfT/s320/iris+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwg2CebDmJrn5FODVi2y7fZWZXZA8yqlqxtV1rxCZE5jWjcH-vX2zHa378imLKtzY2BkCFLyqz_neo0gdJBNllETAYIadCGKy-JvTeLG_HP_S7UijN0vPFBtcZBQCp4M5AeY0pW5IYm7eY/s1600/onionlets.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwg2CebDmJrn5FODVi2y7fZWZXZA8yqlqxtV1rxCZE5jWjcH-vX2zHa378imLKtzY2BkCFLyqz_neo0gdJBNllETAYIadCGKy-JvTeLG_HP_S7UijN0vPFBtcZBQCp4M5AeY0pW5IYm7eY/s320/onionlets.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN6fjBj5W0lPrQsJHOsuPlcajR7sZJUmTYDtLfGp6sHwlRqsCX5SSeBPZ3Yhdxgi9QmAYFNOs1Hp66wudd-BUf7FfM2Bxv4i0xbIgi_OMbNZ3TOLJ1t-Wr8O8mEqBztNvPVttl9DZPf2ml/s1600/tartarian+honeysuckle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN6fjBj5W0lPrQsJHOsuPlcajR7sZJUmTYDtLfGp6sHwlRqsCX5SSeBPZ3Yhdxgi9QmAYFNOs1Hp66wudd-BUf7FfM2Bxv4i0xbIgi_OMbNZ3TOLJ1t-Wr8O8mEqBztNvPVttl9DZPf2ml/s320/tartarian+honeysuckle.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Tartarian honeysuckle, which like certain perfumes (remember my time with Apercu?), registers best from a distance. A new potted rose for planting, with full blooms while those in the ground are still working on shoots. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Lilacs, and more rain. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Just rain, rain + pavement + traffic, rain + fake car air. Rain in freshly cut grass. Rain, just rain.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ln64HqF_KcR_n5bGxVA22WZCgaB49RQmqDyh7_TBOBKMNNfK58hM3FPG2TaULEs9hiuYOFQXOcl453VnN9bOC0A4X2OxsUjZ3nFsRe3iAfOWuU2atPpW1cGaCu8aisX1b59Qw7ROOC_V/s1600/rhubarb.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ln64HqF_KcR_n5bGxVA22WZCgaB49RQmqDyh7_TBOBKMNNfK58hM3FPG2TaULEs9hiuYOFQXOcl453VnN9bOC0A4X2OxsUjZ3nFsRe3iAfOWuU2atPpW1cGaCu8aisX1b59Qw7ROOC_V/s320/rhubarb.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: right;"> Rhubarb. Sweet alyssum for tucking her and there. Sweet woodruff, late for May Wine on May Day but welcome always.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">Scented geranium starts.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">Always dirt.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">Always something new.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3d3OZIVQhLoeuDMe70TdfE87DeofAzrwMqGs4xZSN8kBpGpkNUayk0HBo0CYKaXkoYT0BbPYtXHHyMXimwwZ1PHV1VCsId3jPdVggNyRytNaCIVZkMlFY4x5qF8t7k7LZ0Zr7ZEm92VD1/s1600/sweet+alyssum.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3d3OZIVQhLoeuDMe70TdfE87DeofAzrwMqGs4xZSN8kBpGpkNUayk0HBo0CYKaXkoYT0BbPYtXHHyMXimwwZ1PHV1VCsId3jPdVggNyRytNaCIVZkMlFY4x5qF8t7k7LZ0Zr7ZEm92VD1/s320/sweet+alyssum.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNoFarlH6Ghtk8YA1pIxocrU236HjRllJFpZRPKafgW2IO5UTNke3ZZ6IO6lVptFi47pQCXBCBc8lqTLFaywRGoxYID_dBDCnVmp7jU_Q5yDVfhAqI1l9K66s7oYvHkY74oxyB8JHFVFI2/s1600/sweet+woodruff.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNoFarlH6Ghtk8YA1pIxocrU236HjRllJFpZRPKafgW2IO5UTNke3ZZ6IO6lVptFi47pQCXBCBc8lqTLFaywRGoxYID_dBDCnVmp7jU_Q5yDVfhAqI1l9K66s7oYvHkY74oxyB8JHFVFI2/s320/sweet+woodruff.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcqC4AC28lvVx_y9kswoytBHZg54rZ_7QYrOEoqt4iYSd3cl-dGaocdIvOCBxVNZCnOCLJ5jk5AzLIKhrn6Ha1Gza4Z0lt__9wyBCEd_tR-9nbFPibNb5wBrdfwDJdGMJAbCxc1_f_e5Z/s1600/scented+geranium+start.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcqC4AC28lvVx_y9kswoytBHZg54rZ_7QYrOEoqt4iYSd3cl-dGaocdIvOCBxVNZCnOCLJ5jk5AzLIKhrn6Ha1Gza4Z0lt__9wyBCEd_tR-9nbFPibNb5wBrdfwDJdGMJAbCxc1_f_e5Z/s320/scented+geranium+start.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And, of course, the irises. Irises come, like pallida and some of the german bearded. Smells of sharp lemon and soft sweet lemon chiffon and an impossibly lilting sweet grape.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKCSX-8si3P_PoJqqkabbHmEDlXu-u8NdKWSRlYzV9BDcBC-baPbZ5IxuMdmMP5TBha_Os5HqkJ6AIS7i3F8VzNwF0YooP854Y6675A0bpyssoZuo6cYTySoQuwJLZ_fuhRrcPa0PcpBR/s1600/iris+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKCSX-8si3P_PoJqqkabbHmEDlXu-u8NdKWSRlYzV9BDcBC-baPbZ5IxuMdmMP5TBha_Os5HqkJ6AIS7i3F8VzNwF0YooP854Y6675A0bpyssoZuo6cYTySoQuwJLZ_fuhRrcPa0PcpBR/s320/iris+4.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeiHek9rtVAxwBlaOjrgvGz_MQ4Vm2PVEkFyFzubmxoOiWneKzlTOzxK_75BGumNic_fQ89AhOuV1YMswFCETjiH2SBN61HvyESwhKCSjILC9ox4xzH29AOns6YTjRK2eXiRJ9X364uTW/s1600/iris+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeiHek9rtVAxwBlaOjrgvGz_MQ4Vm2PVEkFyFzubmxoOiWneKzlTOzxK_75BGumNic_fQ89AhOuV1YMswFCETjiH2SBN61HvyESwhKCSjILC9ox4xzH29AOns6YTjRK2eXiRJ9X364uTW/s320/iris+2.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0H8pZ3nPFwpbCD9kaw05O3AV0GpZpxLB3KwZI1n1K0JHV3Z9ylo9_UMuDzYXRfPAHJ1qg32utzT0maFVnLrAHw2AYL-grEJo2tp2w7UF0PqTqtOJh5yH4XvdlxQFVc7UENTznNaR9lePm/s1600/iris+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0H8pZ3nPFwpbCD9kaw05O3AV0GpZpxLB3KwZI1n1K0JHV3Z9ylo9_UMuDzYXRfPAHJ1qg32utzT0maFVnLrAHw2AYL-grEJo2tp2w7UF0PqTqtOJh5yH4XvdlxQFVc7UENTznNaR9lePm/s320/iris+5.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I have not been with words much in May. I have been some with perfumes.<br />
<br />
But I have been much, much with smells.<br />
<br />
I hope you had a good month. See you in June.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>all images author's own</i>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-48998746258227120462011-05-30T12:30:00.000-05:002011-05-30T12:30:06.365-05:00Remembering<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>"The peonies should be out by Memorial Day."</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>"Whites, starting Memorial Day, ending Labor Day."</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Parade.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Barbecue. Which I want to spell "barbeque." Or Bar-b-que.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Three day weekend.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">~~~</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I grew up through a particular commodification of culture, I think. I'm pretty sure I remember at least an equal emphasis on parades and honorings, though outdoor cooking and the unofficial start to summer were part of the equation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But it was almost as if you had to be solemn first. It made sense, like a blessing before a meal. Let us take a moment to remember those who, whether by volunteering or by conscription, whether known to you or merely an idea, gave their life in service to their country.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And I would see all of us gathered at the parade, and off to the cemetery, all of those grown ups who would later probably vociferously argue about what justifies war and whether there should be a volunteer army and military industrial complexes and greater good and all sorts of ideas that started off as syllabic swirls and eventually became part of the swarm my own mouth formed...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...I would see all of us gathered in one location. Out of respect. Remembering perhaps with different sortings, but remembering. Quietly.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">~~~</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Currently, a blow out isn't even a rout at a sporting event. It's a mattress sale. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">~~~</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'd like to say I'm not passing judgement. But I probably am. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I try to remember instead of whinge.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">~~~</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Nobody warned me about the salute. And I was just young enough to have it not occur to me, and just enough at the front edge of my adulthood to have it slay me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">When you make it through the funeral of a dearly loved one, when you are pacing your reserves like you do in the pool and are trying to swim as far underwater as possible before coming up for air, when you are doing the best you can to balance giving supportive looks and sneaking shared glances of agony without completely losing it, this calculation is very delicate. The calculation becomes even more important when you feel like if you do lose it, you don't know how you will come back.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">So you sit in your seat, and stare fiercely ahead when you realize the talking is half a sentence from being over. It's nearly over. You figure you can make it to the end after all, you will follow the cues, you know will never look upon that person living or dead again, but you will somehow either precede or follow them out of this room with the rest of these people sitting so stiffly in unusually formal clothes. You get distracted for a moment at realizing just how many of them you have never seen in these kind of clothes. You realize that these people who are usually familiar but currently in unusual clothes are still sitting, there is no cue to move. Then there is a rustle in the rear, and an honor guard (you remember that term from parades in years past) enters, and you think, "oh, they will lead him/us out. How nice."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But they don't move right away. You need a cue. You desperately need a cue. You sit forward again, the air starting to swish in your ears, but figuring you'll just roll with whatever movement comes next, you can make it, you can make it, so long as you don't make any eye contact now, you can make it.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And then there is an explosion, and you leap out of your chair. Your cousin looks at you, giving you the same evaluating look as when you started to come out of the roller coaster seat heading down the big hill that year long ago and you both knew that you were on the precipice of Trouble. At that moment of eye contact, the rifles, for now you realize they are rifles, fire again, and they pierce your veneer, and you start sobbing. It is too much, this fright and this ceremony and this ending and knowing that people are already trying to remember. The third and final shot is just loudness in a swirl.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And then Taps begins, and you realize you *thought* you lost it before, and you go back years before, when you saw your first eagle and found a tin cup hanging by a stream as if by magic and turned and saw a certain smile and it all goes into some odd expansion compression as you realize that your past was well into his future at the point that earned this Taps and it makes sense that the bugler is out of tune.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">You remember that you can never fully know another's life. But you deem it important to remember what you do know.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And in the case of Memorial/Decoration Day, you vow to remember what you don't know.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Gs2nghQR-q56sjBvs9WHdwDblf_FrSj24a5unmTnK7KRJ3X7ABuqgu0XQvfd0vyQNUDPRRaLt_D-SUI1qWd0SsA-cZx0G9hQVHVzDqreUAU-2r0NlpXcyz8X892LcRR5j2oh68t5TrZy/s1600/30882_1477962751726_1313482795_31291932_4223312_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Gs2nghQR-q56sjBvs9WHdwDblf_FrSj24a5unmTnK7KRJ3X7ABuqgu0XQvfd0vyQNUDPRRaLt_D-SUI1qWd0SsA-cZx0G9hQVHVzDqreUAU-2r0NlpXcyz8X892LcRR5j2oh68t5TrZy/s320/30882_1477962751726_1313482795_31291932_4223312_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>A NYT article exploring the backstory to Memorial Day in the United States. David W. Blight, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/30/opinion/30blight.html?_r=1">"Forgetting Why We Remember."</a></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Thanks to <a href="http://www.fairfieldcitizenonline.com/news/article/Buglers-group-sounds-final-salute-at-military-1397881.php">Buglers Across America</a>, because digital taps just doesn't play.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-80697650320017872162011-05-24T12:24:00.000-05:002011-05-24T12:24:11.555-05:00The Smell of Fury: Mr. McGregor's RevengeAmong other places I've been lately is my own backyard. Where I do attempt to garden. Things intervene at times -- Mother Nature, life. I generally roll with it. One of my tenets for gardening is I only want to fuss if I feel like it. Otherwise, the joint should be able to largely run on its own. (I give it roots to grow, it needs to use its leaves to fly, so to speak.)<br />
<br />
All is very Zen. Weeds come, they get pulled. Probably. Edges are maintained, but not religiously. Experiments in cohabitation (will it be okay if I grow this iris in the asparagus bed?) are made. Harvests are assumed to be about 1/3 of potential, given the fact I like to maintain things wildlife-friendly. Why 1/3? Calculate 1/3 loss to wildlife, 1/3 potential loss to whatever, leaves 1/3 for us humans. This sets the bar at a level that leads to minimal disappointment and maximum happy surprises.<br />
<br />
Unless this happens.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZRSaItQUOM0B_sy4vI607TzpzJZsggcC1VO52D5Z-ZMHLh1uYA6eGEuOXEI-FM_IyGNYr_KZshL-ixCIcjFPJMOY5uDFjPRwi4IuX_XQ79hAASzwuM9_Kbm36AtDAHbwOVe_y-7ZXT1O/s1600/tomato%252C+noshed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZRSaItQUOM0B_sy4vI607TzpzJZsggcC1VO52D5Z-ZMHLh1uYA6eGEuOXEI-FM_IyGNYr_KZshL-ixCIcjFPJMOY5uDFjPRwi4IuX_XQ79hAASzwuM9_Kbm36AtDAHbwOVe_y-7ZXT1O/s320/tomato%252C+noshed.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Decapitation by rabbit.<br />
<br />
In which case, The Peaceable Kingdom gets all rumbly. The young me who cringed whenever Mr. McGregor menaced Peter Rabbit needs to go in a closet and hide, because the old and wizened me starts looking around for a hoe. <br />
<br />
And I don't mean to start weeding.<br />
<br />
Until I started growing vegetables, I never felt this kind of id-like response when dealing with things dirt. I've seen hostas munched down to nibs, and merely shrugged, knowing they'd be back the next year. But when it came to produce...tasty, fresh, labored, contemplated, organic, so fully imagined I drooled fruit of my labors, fruit whose cost came partially out of the family grocery budget...well...<br />
<br />
...like a pea, I snapped.<br />
<br />
The first year, I took to letting the dog out and encouraging him to go chase the leaping lepus. I had to rethink that strategy when he was, erm, VERY enthusiastic about discovering a bunny den. With babes. (Turn away. It gets worse. I won't discuss, but yes, I had to practice "ethical" euthanasia.) So I turned to prevention, which of course would have been best to practice from the very beginning. I've tried hair, pet and human, red pepper spray, row covers. Hair works erratically, and then only until it rains. Red pepper spray works, unless it entices, and in either case, only until it rains. Row covers work, until it gets hot, and then they need to come off.<br />
<br />
And I don't like the way they look. I like looking at greenery in my garden, not gauze.<br />
<br />
So, it's a hodgepodge of prevention and acceptance around here. With the occasional bout of mind-noise anger. <br />
<br />
I inadvertently brought this topic up with some 'fume friends. And, because I had sympathetic ears -- none of which quivered or were floppy -- who inspired me toward a particular slant. A scented slant. A proposal for Christopher Brosius. To wit:<br />
<br />
The Smell of Fury: Mr. McGregor's Revenge<br />
<br />
The title came to me in a flash. But it took a little time--and some painful honesty--to compose a proposal/inquiry.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">TO: Christopher Brosius</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">FROM: A Passionate Gardener, an Avid Scent Wearer</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">RE: Brief for a New Project</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">CB, you're one to tackle this one. It doesn't tell a story so much as take you down of (garden) path of personal development, vegetable patch style.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The story: Discovery, Delirium, Reconcilement</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The backstory: Innocence lost, Peter Rabbit</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The smells: AT FIRST dirt, fresh air, other vegetation--for this writer, a rub of sage, a hint of garlic chive, the sharp medicine of creeping charlie, the ozonic yet odd decay of an allium flower, the hint of a leather glove, rubber and feet (hello, best garden clog ever). A HARSH SMACK of tomato leaf which leads to a SHARP TRANSITION as the smell of metal glints invitingly in your nose. Other writers might propose a hint of gunpowder at this point, but I'm thinking fur and the brush of pine and sweat and the smell of a blister forming as a runner tries to gain on a rabbit while wearing rubber clogs. A SWIRL again of transition as you briefly but disturbingly ...oh, dear, it is so harsh to say...but you are bold, and you will go where I can't...it is only imagined, but my visual will become your fur plus blood, I think. So QUICKLY a waft of the fresh breeze only hinted at in the allium now writ complete and non-compromised, green and ozonic all at once, leading to flowers and the crisp smells of green beans and peas and the oddly sharp (gee, is there a connection to the blood here?) smell of a properly ripened but not mushy tomato. Perhaps a lovely balsamic vinagrette?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Fava beans, your call. I say it is over the top. But I have a friend who wants the whole denouement to be rabbit stew. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Can we talk?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I dunno. It's a start. And certainly a catharsis.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm more demonic in my head than I ever am when it comes to real life. In real life, I bought more tomato plants than I had space for. Already, I'm mourning that I did not think to put Pink Lady, that modern faded something, in the ground first, for then I would be swapping it out for the robust vintage Mortgage Lifter. But I tend to think positive (oh, hush), so was hoping I would just be offering up the extra plants to a neighbor.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I brush the dog -- who has fur, I know, and does not offer any sebum-ish moments as I groom him. I let him roam. I make homemade non-toxic but hopefully highly repellant sprays. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But mostly, I putter where I am inclined, let the rest go, and hope for the best.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe one day, I'll be sneaking huffs of a new scent I'm testing, shorthanded as McGregor's Fury amongst perfume folk. Wait, no--better yet--I'll be a pre-release tester. You know.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">{Beat)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So that this cosmetic can be identified as not having harmed rabbits in testing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4_y5UoV7mLSsmBrzfoqYhI19QIwv7-HeSHLBSF5h6v0D5zFmNbCGWPbpIwbU3OfAr5m_VVnFlt0obhB_GuKo2D9MPdf7CXpx7UP4-AGyZ77ztZ9OhLLteCPrK8Od5dMkcxDVUmkijb7x/s1600/1037648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4_y5UoV7mLSsmBrzfoqYhI19QIwv7-HeSHLBSF5h6v0D5zFmNbCGWPbpIwbU3OfAr5m_VVnFlt0obhB_GuKo2D9MPdf7CXpx7UP4-AGyZ77ztZ9OhLLteCPrK8Od5dMkcxDVUmkijb7x/s320/1037648.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>photo of decapitated tomato plant, (sadly) author's own</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>"stop animal testing" image found on various websites, including <a href="http://deitchley.com/2006/12/">Amy's Gripping Commentary</a></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-87050112899608471422011-05-09T20:01:00.000-05:002011-05-09T20:01:13.228-05:00Things I Remember I Know When I am On The Road*I used to get carsick when I was a kid. There is no escape from your own --or anyone's-- perfume in a car cabin.<br />
<br />
*I generally like amber as a category. I tend to think I ignore it during hours 2 and 3. But I just pretend to ignore it, or ignore it enough. (see above) <br />
<br />
*when traveling alone, there's no one to blame but yourself. (see above, plus stands alone)<br />
<br />
*you can smell cow manure at any speed<br />
<br />
*when I was a kid, a house with its own pond and diving raft seemed to be all that and a bag of chips. Today, I saw two ponds with "narrows" and footbridges over. Footbridge = bag of chips. Pond still desired.<br />
<br />
*last time I was on along road trip, Amouage sandalwood attar nearly killed me, then was my happiness. Luckily, I remembered this without recreating the incident.<br />
<br />
*you can smell freshly cut grass at most any speed<br />
<br />
*tandem trailer trucks make me nervous. Triples scare the bejeezus out of me.<br />
<br />
*the Falling Timbers rest stop is still frozen in time. With the addition of the smell of Cinnabon.<br />
<br />
*I used to be able to smell a lit cigarette is a passing/passed car. I don't know if I still can, but I do know these days there is always a spot near an entry door where the few, the unrepentant, the smoking crew congregate. And it smells like it used to when you opened the door to my dad's office,<br />
<br />
*I may never afford a car that does not have cabin noise.<br />
<br />
*tomorrow, I will not challenge the scent gods. The next 450 miles will get a cool iris, thank you very much.ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-23911064069763555402011-05-04T14:21:00.001-05:002011-05-04T15:16:48.573-05:00Grafting (a review of Boyfriend perfume)Ah, spring. The dirt smells great, both of renewal and remnants of decay, along with a suggestion of worms. The trees here are finally starting to bud. We're finally moving beyond daffodils in our blooms, though it's still pretty bulb heavy. Hello, tulips. Hello, crown imperials with your odd extra-terrestrial upside down-ness.<br />
<br />
Lots of walks through the garden. Where one can't see much, really, but the vision...the vision imagines what is here, and there. Attention marks when the asparagus roots come up, and how quickly. Rotates a few vegetables in the mental array and makes note of an adjustment of where to put the seeds and plants for this year.<br />
<br />
Looks at the fruit trees, and allows the brain to do a little ruminating on the advantages of dwarf versus full size trees when one's back yard is not an orchard. Thinks of the rigorous near torturing that is an espalier. Cringes a bit at the Frankenstein that is a 5-in-1 apple available in one's favorite catalog.<br />
<br />
Grafting. Slice and suture. Thank goodness it works in surgery. And while I cringe in principle when it comes to Frankencrafting plant life, I have to admit to having a couple of roses that rely on it. Not to mention how many of those dwarf fruit trees owe their presence in our gardens.<br />
<br />
Heck, I've even tried it once myself. For propogation of a species. In my garden.<br />
<br />
But that does bring me to a treasured Saturday afternoon horror flick memory.<br />
<br />
And Kate Walsh's <i>Boyfriend.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
***<br />
<br />
If it's perfume that brings you here to the Ledge, you've already read about <i>Boyfriend</i>. "Why should I have to give up his scent?," or something like that, asked Kate Walsh <i>apres</i> relationship. Keep the scent, ditch the dude. But, since one still lives within one's own skin, put in one bottle that which you liked smelling on him...and then that which you liked smelling on you.<br />
<br />
Grafting.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to Ray Milland and Rosie Greer. The first time I smelled <i>Boyfriend</i>, the citrus/cologne-y opening was clear. And then it fell, rather than transitioned, into a pleasant woody vanilla. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvOYZ9mJjNvsZOkxWyhoMPyGEoqq1L5puJtkdyS8vbXd38skxYmwTu4_yTWUHVdCyiGdoxMI82P0IVyVY07A5CsGpMQdouHx2QspLL6ymkF27wjmi6qxBQiJAW8nc6ODF6mc3LPJVjuqi/s1600/graft.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvOYZ9mJjNvsZOkxWyhoMPyGEoqq1L5puJtkdyS8vbXd38skxYmwTu4_yTWUHVdCyiGdoxMI82P0IVyVY07A5CsGpMQdouHx2QspLL6ymkF27wjmi6qxBQiJAW8nc6ODF6mc3LPJVjuqi/s200/graft.jpeg" width="183" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">The cleft graft is used for topworking older established apple and pear trees, either on the trunk of a small tree or on the side branches of a larger tree.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"> {...} </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">Cut the cleft (avoid splitting if possible) with a grafting chisel, large knife or hatchet. After a few trials you will learn the proper depth of cleft.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"> {...} </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">Open the cleft slightly with a grafting tool or screw driver. Insert a scion on each side, with the inner bark of stock and scion in contact.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">- <a href="http://www.extension.umn.edu/distribution/horticulture/components/DG0532c.html#cleft">University of Minnesota/Extension</a></span><br />
<br />
That there is a cut and paste from instructions on how to perform the cut and the union in a cleft graft. A cut and then a union is of course symbolically (and literally) appropriate when it comes to surgery. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure exactly how it worked for the chemists who worked on <i>Boyfriend</i>, but let's take a look at how it worked in <i>The Thing With Two Heads.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsU2gSG0Yyq9Git-vK5uMOymM_GDVjRNkwpRlKAimEGartT4ge1kydnQcnDK5H2e2J8i-iN2pAycLo_3-U64qaCooZH9xXi-qTc1WtrecvlLYMrk3PAPmkhCcezY3Gr4nZ9qx7XBfJIVAu/s1600/thing2heads1-568x306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsU2gSG0Yyq9Git-vK5uMOymM_GDVjRNkwpRlKAimEGartT4ge1kydnQcnDK5H2e2J8i-iN2pAycLo_3-U64qaCooZH9xXi-qTc1WtrecvlLYMrk3PAPmkhCcezY3Gr4nZ9qx7XBfJIVAu/s320/thing2heads1-568x306.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You see, unlike in one of my other favorite horror flick memories involving heads and grafting. I won't say the title here, but fans love quoting this exchange:</div><blockquote>Girl's head in petri dish: Don't tell me, I've been in a terrible accident, and I've lost my legs. Mad Scientist Boyfriend: No, it's worse; much, much worse.</blockquote>But I digress. In <i>The Thing With Two Heads, </i>Ray Milland's head (okay, his CHARACTER's head) gets grafted onto another body. Rosie Greer's body. In the ways of memory and time and mental processing, I forget all about the important civics lesson the movie intended to impart. (Milland's character was an SOB bigot who wanted to live longer, and needed to learn to get along.) Instead, sunny side of the street<br />
child that I was, I ended up remembering only the image of the two as one. In still frames, except for the moment when Milland first sees the other head growing in the mirror. Somehow, I split off that movie (a sort of Twilight Zone episode in my weak mental sorting) from "the other" movie, the part that happens after Rosie's head becomes full size. Which is a faint awareness stored way back behind <i>The Defiant Ones</i>, and has overtones of learning to get along.<br />
<br />
I share this with you, because at some point in the history of this blog, I had to reveal just how faulty and meandering my collective awareness can be. Mind you, there is a certain logic to be found, even when not obvious. But, nonetheless, since I usually review/think of perfume in context and not as a series of notes in my nose, well...fair and complete disclosure.<br />
<br />
Anyway, <i>The Thing With Two Heads</i> involves putting two personalities into one vessel, as it were. Which is how I came to think of it when imagining how I would review <i>Boyfriend</i>.<br />
<br />
What's that you say? I have not yet reviewed <i>Boyfriend</i>?<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Right. Okay, first start with what I said up there about pleasant woody vanilla. As it turns out, the "boyfriend" part doesn't always darken my doorway; sometimes, it's straight to the heart of the matter. Whether or not the boyfriend appears, the girl with wood is a consistent thing, and once she arrives, that's what you've got until it's over. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Sometimes I get a hint of chemical-ness (this is where I suspect the affordability comes in), and nothing about the vanilla or the wood is notable. BUT. Hey. It's okay. And given that I prefer my vanilla not too sweet, when I'm wanting to wear some, I appreciate the woody aspect.<br />
<br />
It is about here that I believe it is appropriate to note that it would seem Kate didn't really need that boyfriend after all. Just a reminder that she had one/could have one. And then go use her own wood.<br />
<br />
Ba DUM bum!<br />
<br />
By the way, the body butter is quite nice. Works pretty darn well as a product, and has the nicest parts of the vanilla wood without the hint of chemical. <br />
<br />
It is here that I will say that on the Thing With Two Heads scale, this one works in reverse motion. The one head disappears, instead of growing.<br />
<br />
**<br />
By the way, the body butter is quite nice. Works pretty darn well as a product, and has the nicest parts of the vanilla wood without the hint of chemical. <br />
<br />
*<br />
Also by the way, if you want a real mash-up, where both heads have equal weight, that would be Jose Eisenberg J'ose. No, not Jai J'Ose. Eisenberg J'ose. I talked about it <a href="http://scelfleah.blogspot.com/2009/05/whats-worse-than-discontinued-favorite.html">here</a>. Turns out, in retrospect, it was ahead of its time. (Get it? It was aHEAD of it's time??? Ahhhhhhhhhhahaha.) <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>image of grafting for asexual reproduction from </i></span><a href="http://www.tutorvista.com/content/biology/biology-iv/flowering-plants-reproduction/asexual-reproduction.php"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>TutorVista dot com</i></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>image of Rosie Grier and Ray Milland challenging even the tailors at Men's Big & Tall from </i></span><a href="http://www.badassdigest.com/2010/12/31/schlock-corridor-the-thing-with-two-heads"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Badass Reviews</i></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>, which proved itself to be just where I should borrow my image because not only did I entirely enjoy discovering the blog in general, this particular entry includes the movie poster (totally awesome, please go see) but the Burt Reynolds Cosmo centerfold which caused one of the longest threads of discussion I've ever seen among some perfume-loving Facebook friends recently. In fact, I so enjoyed finding this level-headed review of the movie and its director that I forgive them for clearing the cobwebs in my mind and reminding me what the film really was. Because that scene on the motorcycle with the mannequin head was worth remembering, and it came back full chortle, erm, throttle.</i></span>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-81727384581834750902011-04-25T10:15:00.000-05:002011-04-25T10:15:52.577-05:00Sweeping generalizationsI started my day by sweeping. Outside. An activity which here in America was often depicted as the bailiwick of immigrant women who had trouble speaking English and a penchant for wearing housecoats all day.<br />
<br />
There is a threat of rain, and I figured it would be a good idea to gather me maple buds while I may, before they were all washed toward the patio drain, leading to a clog and the creation of a sort of wading pool inhabited by metal furniture and a firepit.<br />
<br />
I also enjoy being outside. It is spring, for realz. A chance to breathe fresh air, listen to the birds, redirect the energies I would rather be putting into the garden (it is still EARLY spring around here). And, quite frankly, a chance to avoid <a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/02/23/stand-up-while-you-read-this/">sitting syndrome</a>, a malady to which I fear I have become quite prone in this the most recent act of my life.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Rqk9kLY6DHsTpBzrdhVh4X6ofhyphenhyphenin-IC7kYhKxq-arqFlTS9mSNWRf0dWAnKJHz7lXvi1WuCg3B4pBwumZ34qwfx3Y2xfzg8lEc4opE9EZPe30KeKhTvt7WkoDqG6mLuBDJKlrOYI43x/s1600/big+broom+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Rqk9kLY6DHsTpBzrdhVh4X6ofhyphenhyphenin-IC7kYhKxq-arqFlTS9mSNWRf0dWAnKJHz7lXvi1WuCg3B4pBwumZ34qwfx3Y2xfzg8lEc4opE9EZPe30KeKhTvt7WkoDqG6mLuBDJKlrOYI43x/s320/big+broom+1.JPG" width="320" /></a>So I swept. I swept, and I felt a callous building. I swept, and I thought. I swept, and a pile slowly gathered. I thought about big ideas, about the second half of life. I swept. I thought about...nothing. I swept, and I sniffed Ineke's Field Notes from Paris on my wrist. I swept. And I swept. And I swept.<br />
<br />
And I came up with an idea for a post.<br />
<br />
Care to come sit?<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
Why Field Notes From Paris this morning? Because a friend sent it to me, as an expression of something she thought I might like. Which made me eyeball Field Notes in a different light. "Ah, creature; someone else knows you, and based on what we've gleaned of each other's nose preferences, thinks I would, too. Hmmm." Now I had stereoscopic vision: in the one frame, an assembly of my previous impressions, which were a mix of yes no intrigued ultimately not worth a full bottle. In the other frame, a swirling of potential reasons why the matchmaking review set me up on a date with this one.<br />
<br />
**<br />
Shhwwwipsh. Shhwwwipsh. Shht sssht. Shhwwwwwwipsh. <br />
<br />
I swept. I sniffed the Ineke on my wrist. I thought about activities that don't bring us information or data to process, "simple tasks." The kind of thing that in years past I might have done to music. Aha! To music! Could I be providing my mind with background noise, a low demand but still processable track to attend to while gathering ground bits from various locations and assembling them in one area? Was "listening to" a scent akin to listening to...a symphony? a pop tune? a concerto? Perdido, as performed at the Newport Jazz Festival? Perdido, as performed to meet the time constraints of a recording? Was it right to limit it to one tune? But it had to be, right, because one perfume was but one presentation, even if it had multiple acts in its development? Is a symphony to easy, too snooty an approach to thinking of multiple acts? Maybe a mix tape is more appropriate?<br />
<br />
The answer, of course, was "all of the above." Depending on the scent.<br />
<br />
What I had on my wrist was Ineke Field Notes in Paris.<br />
<br />
Instead of making a musical connection, my brain headed to the language of 'fume. And not in a thoughtful way, either. "Masculine," said the voice in my head. Sssssht. Sssssht. SHHWIPSH.<br />
<br />
Well, drat. So much for deep insight. But, yeah, once I process the gentle tobacco that first hits me, the whole thing seems rather...linear. Pleasant, mind you. But linear. Like sitting alongside a channel to have a beverage in a tight space. The view is pleasant enough, and you are enjoying yourself. Your eyes feel happy. But you are essentially drinking one thing, and you cannot adjust the parameters of your sliver of a view. With the exception of the occasional glint of light (something does sparkle in FNFP every now and then--citrus?--and occasionally something else flits by), what you have is...that.<br />
<br />
Shhwwwwipsssh. Shht. It is nice, mind you, that. There's an advantage in calming down monkey mind. Shhhwwipsssh. Shhhwipppssssh.<br />
<br />
*<br />
Later, after I came inside, and grabbed my camera so I could grab a picture to illustrate the post, and ran for the phone which was ringing, and reintroduced a little noise to my meditation, I heard the word "masculine" cross my brain again. And I thought "Aha! Caron masculine...yes! Third Man!!" And made note of the moment so I would write about it, and ran to gather my decant bottle of 3º Homme that another friend sent me back at the start of my descent, spritzed the opposite wrist the the nominative* masculine, and came back to my computer. With relief, I realized I am not crazy. They are not the same, this Field Notes and this Man Who Came After One and Two, but they both smoke. They both roll in a flower. The both don't play out so much as sit with you, but in a playful mood.<br />
<br />
They do kinda smell the same, in other words, and in the same way. The Caron is sweeter. I'd pick Ineke for warmer weather, if choosing between the two, because the Caron sweetness might be to cloying in heat and humidity.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfwl1JsXrILbY0V99BnmiBBv8EBoAeiN-PzrckjLyOBf4_FqFqo8nruEX5NGAs_lgwg_ii7YnAZTF-KF7gvBPjph5b6k9kOsSoWgLU6mWPffqQJQIu1MKQgsKXDuWL2PHw1PoRE0xQ8fz/s1600/broom+pile.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfwl1JsXrILbY0V99BnmiBBv8EBoAeiN-PzrckjLyOBf4_FqFqo8nruEX5NGAs_lgwg_ii7YnAZTF-KF7gvBPjph5b6k9kOsSoWgLU6mWPffqQJQIu1MKQgsKXDuWL2PHw1PoRE0xQ8fz/s200/broom+pile.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
~~<br />
As you can see, I've gone from empty mind to busy brain all of a morning, and we're not halfway to noon yet. But I needed that time with the broom as much as I relished the firings of the brain as it sought new ways to say "this reminds me of...". <br />
<br />
Which, in the way of a sweeping generalization that says "these scents are masculines," is a metaphorically generalizing way of saying "Sorry I've been gone, but I needed that." <br />
<br />
Too much input. Too much sitput.<br />
<br />
Not that anything is fixed. But I think I've figured out a way to navigate the rhythms of the current set of stuff.<br />
<br />
The nice thing about the Ineke is that it reflects that idea of stasis and change all at once. Modestly.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bNeWMQlVtUKd7Tcdie_UxZ3npGyEMuYCEz-Zi1E5AD75jQ6CBk1fqhdNPx5ES9GjUjqBXUF7Hw-QzoWsp0LkF-Nfd_0tGnjd7009iTXw_lbZ_ISHQfebz1EBO37ut1fyX5ZTKCPaH8TJ/s1600/drain.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bNeWMQlVtUKd7Tcdie_UxZ3npGyEMuYCEz-Zi1E5AD75jQ6CBk1fqhdNPx5ES9GjUjqBXUF7Hw-QzoWsp0LkF-Nfd_0tGnjd7009iTXw_lbZ_ISHQfebz1EBO37ut1fyX5ZTKCPaH8TJ/s200/drain.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Very modestly. But there.<br />
<br />
Ssssswwwwipppfffh.ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-4805446801288253862011-03-22T10:28:00.000-05:002011-03-22T10:28:15.866-05:00"Secret of Chanel No. 5" Interview (FYI)Will be posting this link as an addendum to our Weekend Book Club discussion, but thought I'd pass along <a href="http://blogs.forward.com/sisterhood-blog/136335/">this interview</a> with Tilar Mazzeo from <i>The Sisterhood</i> blog.<br />
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Anti-semitism is discussed, and reference is made to research that suggests "we like scents that highlight [...] the 'scent' of our immune systems"--I believe she is referring to research chatted about in perfume bloggery as "t<a href="http://www.eoht.info/page/Sweaty+T-shirt+study">he sweaty t-shirt</a> study."ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-12683459979044005442011-03-17T08:20:00.002-05:002011-03-17T10:46:08.648-05:00Green, of course<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquHsiYeK0Rg8EZ0VatQ8YXZ8M5qR9D9GnwFCQltY8So7hd5DQZFs2dZaraeo7zAEpDuW9hWwEMN3Y8-3NooQPsuWJhZ5pjTM60Tsv7PJ2TbBEED15tq1Zghdp8VUdxD5eOL3hmGb823Uj/s1600/chicago+river+green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquHsiYeK0Rg8EZ0VatQ8YXZ8M5qR9D9GnwFCQltY8So7hd5DQZFs2dZaraeo7zAEpDuW9hWwEMN3Y8-3NooQPsuWJhZ5pjTM60Tsv7PJ2TbBEED15tq1Zghdp8VUdxD5eOL3hmGb823Uj/s320/chicago+river+green.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I'd complain about what they do to fresh water around these parts on Saint Patrick's Day, but pouring a bunch of green dye in the river ain't the half of this particular waterway's story. I mean, it's been a dumping canal for the stockyards, and they managed to make it flow backwards, among other things.<br />
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I won't even start carping about that Asian fish. Given the holiday, I suppose I could start *harping,* but as I wouldn't be using a lyre, and likelihood of being lyrical is low, I'll skirt that harangue.<br />
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If I'm lucky, tomorrow I'll skirt around the hungover as well. So many "honorary Irish," so many green gills.<br />
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***<br />
Yesterday, I took some batting practice for the wearin' o' the green. I put on Gap Grass lotion, then generously spritzed (two times! one arm!!) some Martin Mariegla Untitled. Guess what? Very nice.<br />
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That Martin Mariegla is an interesting creature; it manages to infuse galbanum--good old dry cool wind, hint of cigarette ash tray galbanum--with a vaguely resin-y sweetness that immediately said "add me to your green galbanum line-up, oh she who loves it so." And the pairing of it with Gap Grass made a sort of complimentary harmony, seeing as Gap Grass manages to sweeten up green grass without needing to cut it down and turn it into hay.<br />
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Yup, it was a very "nice" green. In the same way the "Irish Holiday" has been mangled into something that hyperfocuses on one story from an often turbulent a complex island, one story which has evolved into a vague tale of a sort of benevolent skinny Santa Claus who lifted his rood and walked all the snakes to the shore where they magically forever went away.<br />
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But--and here I raise my hand against the force of fierce edgy perfumistas--I do find that pleasantries are often, well, pleasant. Sometimes we need to sidle up to a challenge like galbanum, serve our dark brew with a dab of honey, put caramelized onions on the cooked bitter greens, whatever, to help adjust to the taste. I'm okay with that. I'd say that Untitled makes a good gateway galbanum drug.<br />
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And a fitting way to wear the green, happy cleaned up American style. You know, kind of like Saint Patrick used a shamrock to get across the idea of the holy trinity.<br />
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<i>image of the Chicago River from <a href="http://www.chicagolandrealestateforum.com/2011/03/11/get-your-green-on-this-saturday-in-chicago/">Chicagoland Real Estate Forum</a></i><br />
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</i>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82847041806026347.post-90382094617268161582011-03-16T12:13:00.000-05:002011-03-16T12:13:30.830-05:00Do overs, awakenings, and fresh whallompsIt's happened a few times in the past week. Been plonked down into a fresh look at things, musical style.<br />
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The other evening, walking out of a restaurant, hearing The Beatles "The End," right as the "...and in the end..." began. This morning, hearing Bach "Air" Orchestral Suite #3. <br />
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I cried. Both times. <br />
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At this point, what you might like to know about me is whether or not I am a weeper. Of people who know me, the answer would vary. Some know me as a rather emotional sort (what was someone said...a "raw nerve"?) Others think of me as the ultimate Stay Calm and Carry On sort (what did someone else say..."all head, no heart"?) The truth encompasses both. But this is not about my personal truth.<br />
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Because this isn't about whether or not I'm an emotional nutcase, or the descendent of that guy who fainted when he heard the first chord of "Rite of Spring." (Is that the story? Somebody remind me what I'm thinking of.) What this is about is the astounding power of the human mind to find itself looking at something familiar, familiar to the point of having background noise, a cliche, dismissed, even...and discovering that for some reason, it still has the power to whammy.<br />
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When it comes to music, I find this power can be experienced three ways:<br />
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1) It's as if I never heard it before, and am back to something raw and primary;<br />
2) It's as if I never heard it this way before, that somehow the life I've lived since first being introduced has circled me around to some sort of fresh yet now full of depth of understanding "a-ha";<br />
3) I am sitting inside a collection of musicians playing a piece and the literal physical experience of the music (oh, those thrumming vibrations, ohhh, those harmonics, oh, the way we're playing together and the way this line is coming together) turns into an emotional/psychological reverberation that is raw, primary, and ahhhh aha all at once.<br />
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There are other arts, other life experiences that can be familiar and yet gob-smackingly profound. <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>. The opening to <i>Wings of Desire</i>, or the scene in Murnau's <i>Sunrise</i> where the husband realizes he really does love his wife. One human quietly reaching for another's hand, no eye contact required. The smell of lilacs in the spring. Feeling the breeze across the lake on your bare skin. <i>Calvin & Hobbes</i>. Toast. <br />
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**<br />
This phenomenon I am trying to grasp is not to be confused with the concept of a do-over, which anybody who has spent time in playground games or sandlot sports well knows. Something goes awry, and the gathered throng has a sort of collective ruling that, yes, somehow Universal Force was unjust or somebody acted against an unwritten but understood rule or the neighbor's dog grabbing the ball and running back home justifies something that is neither an erasure nor an elision of time, but a second attempt, with the first being struck from the record. A la "the jury will disregard those remarks." <br />
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**<br />
Nor is this to be confused with an awakening, where you feel like for the first time you are fully able to apply your senses and understand something, realizing you never really got it before. Granted, there is a kinship between an awakening and the second of my conditions, wherein you have a fresh and fuller or different view/experience. But in an awakening, you realize you never got it before. In a fresh whallomp, you realize you are getting it again--perhaps with a new angle--but still with that knowledge that you have been in that spot before. And that you have been given the gift of the whallomp without taking away the gift of your past. <br />
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Fresh whallomps require the simultaneous knowledge of prior and current, even as the current seems entirely new.<br />
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In perfume parlance, my recent happy dance with Mitsouko was an awakening. My relationship with Chamade or Bois Blond or No. 19 involves fresh whallomps.<br />
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**<br />
I love being whallomped. Okay, so maybe not always right as it is occurring, seeing I prefer being reserved when in the company of strangers, and having tears descend out of the blue in what might seem to be an inexplicable and alarmingly precipitous way makes me at least as uncomfortable as any casual observer might be. But I love that humans have this gift, this gift to both have a past and a powerful present that all at once suggests the ability to relish beauty and the opportunity for renewal, to adjust and/or amend our understandings.<br />
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Which I've obviously been tracing as a principle in my perfume journey. But is best recognized as a theme in my general journey. I hope that you have it in yours.<br />
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<i>I'm still trying to come up with a good word for what I am trying to describe here. Rounded up and being held in the corral for consideration are gems and commoners such as gobsmacked, surprised, astonished, ambushed, thunderstruck, overwhelmed, awed. Thunderstruck and gobsmacked keep rising to the top, but how to get in the sense of wonder and awe? It's a "fresh whallomp" for posting purposes, but if you have ideas, please share. Along with steering me toward the dude who fainted at the beauty of a single chord.</i>ScentScelfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820noreply@blogger.com7