Morphing

Frozen in the garden trug a few weeks back
When reading the runes, the "ice" symbol represents "the element to which all things must return before they can change"

I've been on a perfume purchasing hiatus for a while.  I go on them from time to time, for one reason or another or some combination thereof.  The most common themes are: 1) Health, 2) Budget, 3) Nose/Brain fatigue.  And by fatigue, I don't really mean being twisted dry from too much smelling -- though that did happen a couple of times.  I mean more that I am done with the input portion of my {now recognized as} cyclical pattern...that it is time to either ponder, or just let things lie fallow for a while.

It's a combination of thinking patterns (sometimes described as "creative," sometimes just "proceessing") and physical patterns (migraineurs know full well there are times when certain sensory inputs are a Do Not Enter zone of high danger).  To tell you the truth, I don't mind.  Many passions and interests in my life have involved nearly manic hunting/gathering periods, followed by intense exploration, followed by thinkings, followed by time off.  (Or an overlapping progressing more or less following that pattern.)  Filmmaking, for example, is structured that way: pre-production is the hunting and gathering, production is a crazy intense exploration/application time, editing is thinking/application, and then you are done.  So done.  So quiet, after all of those people and all of that noise and all of that thinking.  Teaching, too, runs that way with me: creating and preparing a class is the hunting gathering, going through the semester and guiding/leading is the exploration (because any good teacher knows you aren't simply delivering information, you are ready to process and learn based on feedback from students, whether the learning is about the subject or your own teaching methods), and then the evaluation of the "products" the students come up with at the end of the class.

Not to flog a prone horse, but I could build similar cases for gardening and the never ending process of child rearing.  And those are all longitudinal...gardening, filmmaking, teaching, child rearing, they've all played and replayed the cycle over time.  There are other things, like my passion for cooking, that had one major cycle and has been on a slow simmer with occasional flare ups ever since, or my interest in antiques, or or or...a whole slew of stuff that involved One Big Dance and has since simply been folded into the repertoire, revisited from time to time.

I'll figure out how to categorize my music playing over this paradigm later.

So while the third thing I listed, budget, is an external reality that affects purchased acquisitions, it is really just that:  An external factor.  Sure, if I had a more generous budget...which means at times simply having a budget for it...I'd probably acquire more perfume things.  More splits, more venerated discontinueds, more wacky explorations into the unknown.  But the fact of the matter is, I'd build a back catalogue.  I already have one of a sort; it's not nearly as extensive as what some of us perfume people have amassed, but I'd be deceitful if I didn't acknowledge that the typical consumer would check out what I could sniff at any given moment and cock their head sideways and adopt one or more looks from a list that includes incredulous, suspicious, pitying, evaluative, and pondering intervention.

Who knew there would be a day when I use my piles of books as a shield, a diversion, a way to deflect possible condemnation?  As if there are more respectable things to hunt and gather...which to be honest, I think there are, in a public perception sense...I mean, folks reveal their libraries, their recorded music collection, their Lladro figurines, their orchids.  Funny, isn't it, that in some households, Beanie Babies went on proud display, but meanwhile you'd have to dig around to find my Intoxification, my back up bottle of Black Cashmere, my boxes of splits and decants?

But I digress.  Somewhat.

And somehow, I wanted to get to Parfumerie Generale Aomassai.

Right!  So, I've been on a triple threat smelling/purchasing/thinking hiatus.  Mmmmm...let me clarify the thinking part.  I've not been thinking about perfume on the "smells like" level for a few weeks.  Not directly, not metaphorically.  I've been thinking about perfume occasionally, and wearing it occasionally, but not actively, if that makes sense.  Not with the heightened consciousness of taking in something new, not with the extra awareness I often like to apply to an "old friend" to see if things are the same or changed in our relationship.  So I've been low on perfume reviews.  (What?  What's that chuckling??  Oh, right; I'm never much one for a straight up review.  But they did used to happen more regularly.)

A couple of days ago, I got my first "new" scents in over two months.  (What?  What's that chuckling? A non-perfume person happens to be reading, and that strikes them as a somewhat silly sentence?  Yes, I understand.  But this is the world of perfume.  Try to imagine yourself without a new book, a new movie, or heck, a new foodstuff, or a fresh skein of yarn, to explore for nearly a whole meteorological season.  It's kind of like that.  Non-tragic, but notable.)  Splits of Parfumerie Generale Aomassai, Eau d'Italie Baume de Doge, and Caron Coup de Fouet.

I can nutshell the second and third for the moment:  Coup de Fouet, the edc version of Poivre, is just how I like a carnation delivered:  spicy, with depth...in this case the depth is provided by a woody creamy base, but being an edc, not a dense chewy one.  Early in the wearing it reminds me a bit of an old chewing gum--Beeman's? the clove gum? something on my grandfather's desk.  Anyway, a nice way to blend light delivery with serious notes.

Flowers from Sicily, found on James Hull's Italy Photo Blog

Baume de Doge also takes me to something food-related, but in this case, a fine execution of what on the surface would be a simple cake.  I have to go for cake and not cookie because it is not dense like shortbread...it's lighter, airer, like something that would have "crumb"...but still has enough density that I don't want to go to cocktails.  Though come to think of it, I'd like a cocktail version of this on a warm spring day.  BUT (getting back on track), the cake I'm thinking of is a vanilla with orange zest and a shot of Fiori di Sicilia.  The sprayer is broken on my decant, and I need to fix that in order to see if I get more development like Kevin at NST does.  I'll come back.

But the whomper here, the magic morpher that entered my life just as I was thinking "hey, I haven't met a good morpher in a while"--which I happened to think while wearing my beloved Chamade during the period of not thinking, one of the uber-morphers in my playbook--the crazy morphing something from Parfumerie General, Aomassai.  


Unlike Chamade, which is pretty and then stunningly beautiful, Aomassai is intriguing but difficult, then nearly ugly, then a small fugue of those two plus a third, kindly smell personality.  The burnt caramel opening is one of those things that triggers the "check the oven!" danger reflex, but also pulls me in to sniff it again.  And again.  Is it burnt badly or not?  Then some chocolate thing, not sweet, starts weaving through. Then sweet somewhat threatens, then the not sweet chocolate tones it down, then you worry about calling the fire department again.

And that's just the first round.

Then you get placed in some sort of grass hut, it's kind of damp, and you're pretty sure it's started to molder.  It's interesting, but like the first round, you don't know that you really want to be here.  In fact, you start realizing that for all the challenges of the first round, this second act could possibly suffocate you if this is going to be where you are left.  Because you might dare visit that grass hut, you might wear that wet basket on your head, but you would never plan on carrying through the rest of the day that way.

For me, thankfully, then comes a breath of air.  Of course, whatever was cooking in the oven comes wafting back through (it was at this point I realized I maybe had smelled burnt hazelnuts earlier on, which is a horrible smell, btw, but never came fully through), but at this point, it's more than okay.  And, if you are patient and wait for it, you'll live through a fugue of where you've been and what is coming and then finally settle in a zone that is comfort scent.  Yes, intelligent, intriguing comfort scent, perhaps held cozy all the more so for the earlier tussling.  Now the caramel is just toasted, but has depth from the spices, the cocoa, the wood...and the tussling.

So there you have it.  I've been on a perfume hiatus, and actually still kind of feel like I'm yawning and stretching and getting ready for whatever is coming next.  But then I blindsided you (and myself) with a trio of new smells.

You go deep, you come out.  Cycles.



first photo is author's own
fiori di sicilia from the King Arthur online catalog


Check out Wikipedia's disambiguation page on Morphology -- linguistics, astronomy, math, rivers, more.  It's a fun launching pad for hunting and gathering.   Food for thought in terms of how things change.  And a bit of a chuckle...would that I could disambiguate myself...  

You go right ahead and take that tone with me: Caron L'Accord Code 119

The cello, played well, is one of my favorite musical instruments.  Okay, fine, that's almost an unnecessary equivocation; I mean, how many instruments do you enjoy when poorly played?  I point that out, though, because while almost every one of my favorite instruments in terms of sound requires being played "well," there is an exception:  the sound of a simple flute.  (As in a pan, or three holed wooden.)  But my trinity of saxophone, cello, and guitar?  No hackers, please.

Any one of those, played the right way, is capable of seducing me.  Flat out.  Because if you can play it well, a) you've got talent (an intrigue), b) you've got expression (an intrigue), c) and your instrument is doing something to me that is beyond my brain (an entanglement).  And that something beyond my brain involves the resonance of the sound, the aspect of the tone, the comfort of the register...high enough to perhaps modulate and perhaps "say" things, but low enough to simply go there.  As if the sounding board is in me.  Harmonic vibrations and all.

In the case of the cello, this is a significant trick.  Drag horsehair across a string, and you are likely to produce a sound whose effect is just shy of nails on a chalkboard.  (Sit down already if that sound doesn't bother you.  It sends shivers down my spine even as it rakes bony fingers up my back skin, and makes my innards cringe, and my head try to close the security shutters.  It is BAD.)  Then there's the issue of playing in tune.  Forget rhythm and expression for the moment.  What I'm pointing out here is that the same case of wood that can be the instrument of seduction can also be an instrument of torture.

photo by Tristen K

In other words, there is the ability to use the power of those f-holes for good or for evil.  (By which I assign the sexual consorting to "good" and the fleeing from the room in distress as "evil," so if for some reason your moral code switched that around, please adjust your dial.)

I think it's rather the same when you threaten to assemble some rose, some blackberry, and a "vanilla/heliotrope/musk base."  Were I to see these notes, with the accompanying phrase, I'd turn and hightail it to the next county.  Because my assumption would be the net effect would be evil.  (Which in this moment is NOT a good thing.)

Fortunately, nobody told me what was in L'Accord (Code 119) when I first smelled it.  And I was (and likely still am) too much of a rube to know.  Therefore, I was able to experience it as Rostropovich behind the cello, and not a drunken frat boy who once mock-played a fiddle in a production of Oklahoma.

Sure, say it has fruit and flower.  But say they are presented dusty, and somewhat darkly.  Allow that while it is rather dense, it will not suffocate.  Point out there is a rasp throughout that will never, ever let it be treacly.  Say that the musks, if there be musks, are not those white things that are detergenting so many perfumes lately.  They are the dusk of musks, the ones that start to reach down into the animal register without getting base {ha ha! a pun!!} and make sure there is a bountiful harmonic range.  Make sure that it is made clear that the patch is the kind of patch that makes Coromandel "al dente" but doesn't suggest a head shop.

Make sure, in other words, to say that Richard Fraysse has used his power for good, and not for evil.

Because me, who shies away from patch, who generally likes vanilla dry or bourbon-y, who can handle musk only in judicious amounts, who does indeed like "amber" (but finds that to be a term with range), who can find jasmine piercing and rose cloying, is happy when I wear this.  Musically, L'Accord has the register of an alto blended with a tenor, the warmth of the wood (with the addition of lower registers in its resonance), the tension of the vibrating string that doesn't irritate but rather somehow stirs even as you tacitly sit and take in the whole.


***
If you were here yesterday, you know that in the interest of self-preservation, I just spent nearly a week without perfume.  I am not one inclined to wear perfume when ill; definitely not for certain types of ill.  Given my old relationship with perfume, whenever I return from a scent-free period, I am loathe to start with a "challenge."  It occured to me that the raspy chewy goodness of L'Accord might be a bit much to launch into.  But I had no choice.  I needed to revisit, to make sure I didn't miss anything.  So, with a bit of a wince, and a pair of nostrils ready to close up, I spritzed.

Happy.

Like meeting up with an old friend and picking up after a long interim had passed.  Perhaps on your way to meet them, you worry whether things will still be comfortable, maybe even consider the possibility you will no longer enjoy their company.  But once you get there, no awkwardness at all.  You pick up where you left off, and immediately slip into a comfortable zone.

**
So that's what I got:  a full package of pleasing texture (raspy bits over chewiness) and plush depth (layers, such layers), delivered in the right register.  I'm co-posting with Marina over at Perfume Smellin' Things today, so if you haven't been there yet, go take a look and see what she has to say about Caron's L'Accord and fruity florals.


I hold her accountable for that picture, by the way.  I went off searching for a sensuous, artful, loving picture of a cello, one which centered around the bridge, allowing you to feel the density and follow the grain of the wood, notice the tension on the strings, sense the frail aspects of each individual horsehair in the bow but see how together they formed something which would goad the string into making sound.  A visual representation of that idea of pulling together illogical ingredients for a pleasing result.


I ended up with a scantily clad willowy brunette draped around a centaur cello.  Somehow, it seemed right.


What's that?  I can't hold Marina accountable for my dip into those prurient waters?  Fine.  I'll blame the remaining waft of L'Accord.  Which, by the way, lasts and lasts....*ahem.*  Right.  As I was saying...not Marina's fault.  But I'm still holding her feet to the fire for a few perfume purchases I've made over the years.  

Mixed Fruit News

Yesterday Cafleurebon reported that Caron's L'Accord (Code 119) would be released in the U.S. this summer.  This is good news, to me at least, as my love for L'Accord has not diminished since I wrote about it last summer and spent time basking in my waft.

The bad news is that they are calling it a fruity floral.  Which is too bad, because to me that conjures sweet dreck celebuscents for the young.  This one is not cloying, it is not too sweet, the flowers (rose and what??) are imbued in a gently raspy chord of patch and musk with herbal elements that emerge as you wear it.

I've enjoyed it in Paris heat and Chicago blizzard.  If the report is true, I'll be one happy camper, knowing I don't have to get my passport stamped in order the replace my bottle.  That's some expensive ink, after all.

EDIT TO ADD:  Marina has done some sleuthing, and cloak and dagger operations reveal that the stateside release will happen in March.  Which isn't so far away, after all....

As I was walking down the rue one day...

No, no homme came up to me and asked me what the time was that was on my watch.  I did, however, reach an Accord.

Promenade left at a circle (they happen here, regularly), and after progressing past the Prada, I did a double take.  What was that?  That quiet facade, that charming door, that lettering in gold on the white paint...

"Caron."

Yes it was.  We had business nearby, and as you know I had put off serious thoughts of serious perfume investigation until next (now this) week.  But there it was, yes indeed, Caron, confirmed without a doubt when I opened the door and beheld in front of my eyes The Urns.  Themselves.

(Why doesn't Donatella Versace have a wall of these herself?  Does she?)

It's amazing how quickly embarrassment at terrible language skills will melt in the face of so much juice, so prettily displayed.  I walked up to them, and slowly walked from one to the other and back again, first taking it in, then taking note.  Sure, there was Or et Noir, in a volume that would question the very existence of my hoarded vial at home.  Yes, there was Pois de Senteur.  Parfum Sacre.  And.  And.  Tabac Blond.  And.  And.  And.

And what's this, tucked up in the left corner of the collection of urns to the right of the doorway?  L'Accord?  I rifle through my brain, and come up with nothing.  I cannot remember hearing anything, reading anything.  Curiosity wins, and it becomes the final strip sprayed.  Mmmm...oh, dear, this seems to be a dark fruity-ish floral-ish but don't call it fruity-floral something.  Texture is viscous.  It doesn't take me long to decide.  Though known loves lined up with knowing smiles, thinking they would be the ones asked to dance, it was L'Accord -- a creature unlike any of the others -- that was invited to my wrist.

A wrist I huffed and I huffed up and down the Elysses.

Oh, suprisingly happy opening.  You may well (all too well, perhaps) know that I am not bent toward fruit nor floral nor the combination thereof.  But there are certain roses...and every now and then a special blackberry...that will cause me to sniff again.  And then there was this thing on my wrist, which was warm without being sickly sweet, which threatened to be to thick for a summer day on the pavement on Paris, but which was always just...pretty bending toward beautiful.  Dense flower.  Some chocolate (which my brain keeps telling me could be patch) weaving in and out.  A trace of something medicinal.  Perhaps one could call it a dessert with hints of savory, anchored in bread.  That's it, more bread pudding than pastry.  But staying there is not fair, because it is more grown up somehow.  Yet it doesn't cheat by simply being a liqueur version of something with mass.

What was this thing?

It dried down beautifully, and was tenacious.  Became somewhat drier, in a leathery not woodsy way. And I start wondering just what flower it is I'm smelling, whether it was just suggestion that said it was a rose?  It's not now, not really...it's less sweet, and other stuff, dried greenery made liquid, is hinted at.

Oh, I think I have to do this again.

(I thought.)

And so I have.

***

L'Accord (Code 119).  I came here thinking I might let something vault the walls of resistance...Bois des Iles in extrait?  A non-export Serge?  Something from Patricia de Nicolai?  Instead, from a shop I hadn't determined as a "must visit," a fragrance that was a complete surprise.

As of two days later, so totally purchased.

**
I desperately tried to hunt down information on this perfume, in an attempt to be "thoughtful" and sensible about a purchase.  All I got was Octavian...and given how much I respect his thoughts, all he spelled was doom for my pocketbook in his brief look at L'Accord here.  I probably would have gotten it anyway, but not so freely.

Incidentally, I asked the salesperson about the "mystery of number 119."  She laughed and replied that it was a reference to the address where it was created, initially put on the perfume because the company was interested in seeing how customers would respond.


*
I hesitated to write anything about this one...yet...the voodoo, you know.  Seemed like it, and I, should be home safe and sound first.  But there was also the bad karma of holding back...so, here you go.

I am wearing it now.  Patch/choc has not made the appearance it did that day on the Champs d'Elysses, but it is cooler, and I'm not on the pavement at the moment.  The sounds of a flute rehearsing across the courtyard have stopped, and now a soprano and a tenor are running through a duet.  Somewhere, my brain is thinking this is appropriate and related.

Caron Violette Precieuse, vintage version

It's one of those tales--you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll call your friends.

Should you get hold of even a small driblet of the original Violette Precieuse, you'll experience one heckuva morph.  I did, at least.  It started as what seemed like yet another violet--you know, that note you can find in Penhaglion's, in a bar of soap your grandmother had, in the bath shop, the smell that says "I am a violet perfume."  A hint of something else, maybe?  But nothing worth working your drawers up about.

Had my driblet not been a precious resource from a perfume friend who has a thing for special scents, I would have scrubbed.  Plus, I knocked around taking care of a few things, and it was getting late for my walk, so I just left it.  And forgot about it.

A third of the way through my walk, I raised my hand to brush away a leaf, and WHOA!  Something smelled interesting.  I played a little game for a moment; I was wearing gloves, and I have a pair that have most serendipitously taken on the scent of L'Ombre Fauve.  But I knew I wasn't wearing those gloves.  Let's see...what could it be...scents that I would have worn that had an edge like this...but I didn't recognize it, so I must have only worn it once...okay, raise glove again...it's not on the glove.  Cognitive dissonance...confused moment...and it hits me.  It's the Violette Precieuse.

This smell is new enough to me I can't give it notes (not that I'm particularly good at that game, anyway).  It's vaguely medicinal, vaguely leathery...and you'd only know there's violet running around in there if you had experienced that opening.  I don't even know if I like it; I just know that I am enjoying spending time with it so much, I'll play with it again.

Which brings us to the sad part of the tale...when my driblet is gone, no more play pal.  Because VP was discontinued long ago, reintroduced a few years ago--with a different formula.  So I will be better off if I decide I don't like it.

I already know this: I'll never regret the introduction.

Words returned, eaten

Perhaps it is only fitting that after an extended absence, the words I offer are...eaten.

Did I ever mention that one of the scent families I do not, would not, could not like is carnation?

That I can not enjoy Je Reviens in a box, or Bellodgia with a fox?  That I would not try any ouillet at the fair, that I simply could not imagine going there? 

Hello, Bellodgia parfum.  Open mouth, insert foot.

It opened the way I would expect.  There was that florist's carnation.  But I was busy, and Bellodgia had time to hang around.  And out of the blue, I found myself asking "what smells good?"  (Kind of a tricky question when one is in the midst of a sample binge; I had five to choose from.)  Not only was it lasting, I enjoyed what it had become.  It didn't rock my boat, mind you, and was not "original" or "daring" ... it wasn't the smell of the circus, or your favorite pastry, or the forest floor.

It was simply...nice.  Really nice.

So, blart, I eat my words.  In perfume form, I might appreciate this thing called...carnation.  

But I still don't like Je Reviens.  And I think the trick with any of them that work is going to be the thicker, developed version that a denser concentration allows.  Not necessarily fetid in 10 day old water, mind you...I can create that in my own living room, thank you very much, and I don't necessarily find it attractive...but the pushing back of petal after petal with slowly accumulating non-jarring tangential notes that is the concentrated version.

I did plant a tall carnation in my garden this spring, after years of sticking with the shorter pinks.  Is that a factor?  I don't know.

If you've been here before, thanks for coming back.

Aimez-Moi

The last time I discussed Caron, it was all things Homme. And I did enjoy my lavender excursions (Third Man, pour Homme, L'Anarchiste), but yesterday, for whatever reason, I turned to the Aimez-Moi.

I had been avoiding this one, thinking it would be too froufy, too sweet. Kind of ironic to then go for it *after* the manfumes, no?

I liked it. A lot.

It does open rather sweetly, but there's something--the anise?--which keeps it from being cloying. And oh, my, but the drydown is lovely and haunting. Perhaps it was the perfect way to start the day. You start with a delicious pastry, not too complicated, but well done, with a good balance of sweet to spice and the right amount of dough to anchor it all. You leave that behind, thinking you enjoyed your repast, and move on with your day. A couple of hours later, you discover yourself turning around to find out what smells so good. It's you, with a rich, Caron-ish drydown, a haunting of a cloud that has dropped the sweet confection and turned into a chiaroscuro brew that hovers close to your skin.

Don't worry...I'll get to straight talk. Soon. I'm going to try this one again.

******
afterglow update...

That was all written from recollection. The power of the drydown veil, perhaps? Not only that, but I think full disclosure demands that I reveal I have been on a bit of a L'Heure Bleu bender...started on Saturday, been groovin' it ever since. Until I switched to Aimez-Moi yesterday. Think that might have changed my pre-dis position toward the sweet at all?

I won't change my words, because that was how I felt at the conclusion of my first encounter with Aimez-Moi. But I feel compelled to tell you...it might go on more like a liquified candy poured onto a thin tart base. Please, be patient. Give it a chance to morph. Try it when you are open to sweet reverie, or when it's chilly enough to hide some behind a sleeve. Remember, despite the power of the openingit's gonna play hide and seek a bit.

If you do try it, if you have tried it, tell me what you think.

Caron Pour un Homme

Lavender. Very clearly. Like an essential oil suspended in carrier oil. Not unpleasant, and certainly not complicated. The roll-on applicator, even on the manufacturer's samp, kind of makes sense. Reminiscent of both scented natural oils, and those Healing Garden roll-ons.

Then a simple morph into vanilla. I'm thinking, this is what boys like? Or might this be what Aimez-Moi would be, if you conceive it pour homme? Regardless, I can see purposing it as an uncomplicated daytime scent. When she reviewed it two years ago, Victoria at Bois de Jasmin mentioned green & floral touches, which I honestly didn't catch, but I must admit, today's run around the block posed challenges, as I was busy teacher who ended up pre-migrainey.

(Which brings up a point worth noting: this one did not act as a trigger, nor did it exacerbate when symptoms began.)

I can see having a sample vial of this travelling with me as a way to bridge the gap between the old essential oil concoctions I'd blend for mood and a hint of gourmand comfort. It might strike as even more valuable in the dark cold of winter, when the no-frills value of the straightforward lavender serves restorative and soothing purposes, even as the vanilla gently elevates and levels out my mood in a gently "warm" way.

Nothing complex. Nothing wrong. Nothing more.
(Will give it a go again sometime in the future, though, to see if the same impressions hold.)

3,2,1 ... Caron Third Man : second wearing, first impressions

Nathan was right. I am liking it. But I have not yet reached conclusions.

Caron's Third Man is a scent I could wear. It opens with a lavender syrup punch that knows just when to start drying down. At the moment, in the midst of my second run with this, I'm trying to figure out why there's more incensey spice on my left arm drydown and a swath of summer garden flower on my right. It's okay, I'm alright--both are cool.

Good thing, because now the vaguely incense note jumped to my right. What IS up...I'm only sampling one fragrance at the moment, for Pete's sake; it happens to be on both arms, solo. No worries, I'm still alright; I remembering that my general impression on the first run was "I like," and had lavender running throughout, as it seems to this time. Now I'm burying my face in my arms, and got a simultaneous shot of cigarette smoke and lavender clothes detergent. Whoa.

Which means I pull back to a more traditional sniffing angle (one arm, nose just there), and I'm smelling 'em all: lavender. sweet (but now in the background). spice/incense. smoke ever so lightly curling through.

At two hours, I thought it was going to disappear, but no, at three, it still lingers. Huffs in series lead to separate impressions: first the lavender still hanging in an ambery sweet gel; then that vaguely incense-y thing (I'm writing too early, perhaps; my specificity, while never my strong suit, is still off ); then some combination thereof as a hangs in my skin scent.

I'm not going anywhere near Caroll Reed's film The Third Man right now, though it's dawning on me that this "what is up with this?" shifting experience could be related...(you think?)....