Perspective / Happy Solstice

There is an optical illusion that impressed itself upon my brain in my youth.  You are likely aware of it.

I retired last night, wondering if conditions meteorological and somnambulogical would allow for me to see a lunar eclipse on the solstice.

Alas, the heavens brought snow to ease the way for jolly old sorts in sleighs later this week, but obscured any hope of seeing glowing orange orbs hovering overhead.

Real ones, in the sky, at least.

My meandering thoughts took me past things razor's edge.  Lean this way, and things appear so.  Lean a little in another direction, and they are something else.  A lamp.  Two faces.

Mushroom.  The ghost of Apres L'Ondee.

The second would be, of course, Frederic Malle / Maurice Roucel's Dans Tes Bras.  In a phenomenon different from "morphing," when a perfume progresses from one something to another something, but consistently behaves as such from wearing to wearing, the olfactory illusion creates a different experience depending upon approach.  With Dans Tes Bras, if I come to it at just the right point in its drydown...just as the opening notes start to settle, before violet and heliotrope really first start to appear, the overlay between the opening and next unfolding smells like...mushrooms.  Yes, I get what people were saying when this one first came out.  Mushrooms.  Which I missed at the time.  And yet got something earthy.  Fifth trip in, I ran around with an "aha! Apres L'Ondee!! it's in there!!!" moment.

Fall.  Spring.  Something its own.  Something that puts a ghost in a prism.

All depending on what your perspective is that day, and where/when you put your eyes/nose to it.

Which got me to thinking about winter, and long nights, and icicles.  And how radically different scents come up as "winter," depending on who is talking or who is looking.  L'Eau d'Hiver, because it is white (Tom), or because it smells like that icicle (actually, she says snow) when it melts in your hand (Bois de Jasmin, who is writing again btw, oh happy happy).  Nuit de Noel, because it is the smell of that which is wonderful about Christmas Eve, snug and happy with loved ones (Patty), or because it's simplicity conveys all that is good about Christmas, simple pleasures and time with friends (Yesterday's Perfume).

There they are.  Both winter attached.  And yet very different, the light ethereal shimmery Hiver and the simple thick orange confection Nuit de Noel.  Perspective.

There is something fitting about these contrasts that should be either/or but become "and" when they pass through a certain part of your mental process.  Something fitting when apehelion and perehelion become bandied in ways you usually don't hear unless you are in science class.

Something a little wonderful about the fully "lit" moon, which is really just reflecting the sun's light, being obscured by your/our/the earth's shadow, which allows it to change color and character, if only for a little bit.

May your solstice allow for many happy discoveries.

Dans Tes Bras

I've been sniffing this one on occasion for, oh, say, a year and a half.

The two times previous to this one, I was all "hunh, it's another kind of somewhat powdery violet, really."  Which was a relief of a synthesis, because for a year I'd been waiting to smell these nearly rank mushrooms, thanks to the early word.  And, truth be told, when I finally had my "it's this simple" little epiphany, I also found the mushroom.  It was the effect of violet + something that comes out as it goes into stage 2.  Still figuring that one out, but for me at least, the mushroom "aha!" was all about the collective effect of the notes together, not a spot where one can dig and find a mushroom.

Yesterday, something new happened.  I'm going to try it again, to see if it happens again.  But all at once, I saw/sniffed the following:

Take one

and go bury it in some moderately rich soil.

Watch these sprout from the planting spot

but don't huff quite yet.  Wait until fall, when the roots have become established, and the plant is now fully established.

Now yank it out entire from the ground, and shake off most, but not all, of the dirt.  Sniff, but from the root end, not at the flowers.

Voila!  Dans tes Bras, my nose, early October 2010.

I had the best time with it ever.  There was promise in the not-quite-that-simple powdery violet opening, which revealed the reward of earthy foliage twiggy-ness, all cushioned in comfort softness.  

I want to go back.  I want.  I want even though the third act is, well, a bit of a drop off.  I'm going to drain my small portion, but right now, even as I remain uncertain of the finale, I'm ready to skip the larger decant stage and go straight to full bottle.

Which is partly intellectual--I like supporting Malle's project (as if my occasional relatively paltry investments count as "support"), but mostly emotional/pleasure based.  I want to go there, into that spot of mostly composted dirt where someone unearthed this strange new plant, wrapped in a cashmere blanket and ready to tuck in for a while.

When I wake up, I'll put the plant back in the ground, so I can come back for more next season.

Please take a moment to enter a theory on Ondee On Ice, if you are inclined and have not done so already.  You can play "Clue" style, if you like...either suspect, or accuse....


images:
Blue Violet taken by Scott Schwenk, viewable at the Hubbard Brook Project
L'Heure Bleue bottle from Octavian's 1000 Fragrances blog, in a post titled "L'Heure Bleue, Fol Arome, Pois de Senteur"