Every New Year’s Day, while social media floods with “new year, new you” declarations and ambitious resolution lists, I share my own little message – Bashō’s haiku: “Year after year / on the monkey’s face / a monkey’s face.” Perhaps it’s become my own kind of tradition, a cheeky little poke, a humble nudge, a reminder that my familiar face in the mirror greets me on January 1st, unchanged by the turning of the calendar.
I let go of the idea of resolutions long ago. Why make promises to become less – to lose weight, to take up less space, to need less? Instead, I set goals, always reaching for something more expansive – more understanding, more courage, more connection, more of myself. Usually just one meaningful intention for the year ahead. Not to change who I am, but to become more fully who I might be. Or at least, that’s what I’ve always told myself.
This year’s goal crystallized on January 2nd, emerging from a moment of pure exhaustion. I’d just survived two weeks of intense holiday people-ing with Yvan’s family, and my first-ever colonoscopy had just been rescheduled – after I’d already fasted for half the day. I was tired, hungry, and a bit cranky, if I’m being honest. As dinner time approached, I could feel myself sliding into my usual stress pattern: I’d either declare, “Popcorn for dinner!” or order tacos or something equally cheesy and greasy. It’s what I always did when overwhelmed. But then an interesting thought percolated: just because that’s what Sarah always had done, did she have to do it tonight? What if I challenged the monkey’s face? Instead, I threw some rice in the rice cooker and made a light veggie soup. It was infinitely more satisfying, undoubtedly better for my body, and I didn’t spend any extra money. A small victory–though maybe not as tasty.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my patterns lately, wondering where they all came from. They show up everywhere – in the particular way I need my morning coffee prepared (you don’t even want to know me if I run out of the right creamer), in how I arrange my days, in my quick “no” to spontaneous invitations. But are these patterns really protecting me, or have they just become comfortable ruts I’ve never bothered to question?
And what is it about uncertainty that feels so wobbly? When something disrupts my routines – even something as simple as having to settle for a slightly different cup of coffee – why does it ripple through my entire day like an earthquake? Is it really about the coffee, or is it about something deeper – some need for control that I’m only now starting to peek at?
I find myself wondering about all this scaffolding I’ve built around myself. Was it necessary once? Is it still? When did these supportive structures become constricting ones? Or have they always been both at once – offering security but demanding stillness in return?
Sometimes I catch myself counting the costs of being so set in my ways. How many connections have I missed because spontaneous invitations feel too daunting? How many opportunities have slipped by because they didn’t fit neatly into my established patterns? What would it feel like to say yes more often to the unexpected? Would it be as terrifying as I imagine?
But then the practical questions start nagging: how would I even begin to challenge these patterns? Which ones are truly essential to keeping me functioning, and which are just habits pretending to be needs? Is there a way to experiment without risking collapse? Could I start small – maybe accepting a slightly different morning schedule, or trying new approaches to familiar tasks? Would each small deviation really build tolerance for uncertainty, like gradually strengthening a muscle? Or would it just feel like constant, needless stress?
And what about authenticity? If I challenge these patterns, these reflexive resistances, am I betraying something essential about myself? Or am I perhaps discovering something more essential that’s been hiding behind all these careful routines?
Lately I’ve been staring at Bashō’s haiku differently. I used to see it as a comfort, a justification. But maybe I’ve mistaken my face for a monkey’s for too long.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
In this year’s Yule collection, Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab celebrates a decade of spectral encounters and spiritual comfort. Here we find grandmothers’ crystal candy dishes alongside parlor séances, Christmas candles burning beside ghostly doubles, and even a mouse stealing bites of lavender-dusted popcorn. From bayberry memories to midnight confections, these scents flicker between darkness and light, between what was and what lingers. Sometimes they’re jaunty and bright, other times they’re weighted with musty glamour and golden memories – but always, they offer solace in winter’s darkness, whether through sweetness, strangeness, or sacred remembrance.
Here are my thoughts on some of these haunting, comforting fragrances.
The Season of Ghosts(bergamot, frankincense, rose geranium, ginger, lemongrass, and blood orange) Opens with the candies that lived in grandmother’s crystal dishes – the confectionary citrus sweetness of pillowy circus peanuts and tangy jellied oranges glowing like stained glass. But it’s the turn it takes, the transformation that haunts: a slow bloom of golden musty glamour that hints at powder puffs and hat veils, of the musky, mossy, bronze grandeur of those perfumes that filled rooms with their presence and lingered for days in fur coats. It’s finding faded sepia-tinted photos in an ornate old candy tin of your grandmother from that unmistakable era, each image radiating the warmth of a moment when time moved slower, and youth seems older than our own age now, more weighted with substance and shadow.
Midnight Marzipan (a ground almond snowpack glistening under a chilly scattering of sugar-bright stars, standing out against a night sky of the darkest cacao) I braced myself for the marzipan in this one; I didn’t even realize I did it, but when I finally smelled what was actually happening in the scent, I realized I had been holding my breath. Though I love marzipan –adore it!– both in scent and taste, it can overwhelm with the high-pitched peal of sugary sweetness. What I got instead was the deep, full, resonant, sonorous richness of barely sweet, dark, dark chocolate. The marzipan was a soft, trilling frill, fluttering at the edges. A duet between Darth Vader and Megan Mullally, where the Dark Side of the Force becomes velvet cocoa-dusted truffles and somehow makes Karen Walker’s signature giggle feel like sugared almond stardust on snow.
Faunalia (a thick, starlit, unspoiled forest, with a burst of wild musk, opobalsamum, black bryony, mandragora, and hemlock) Like opening a forgotten storybook, where the forest’s scent rises between pages tinged with the echo of vanilla – not the sharp bite of pine or wet earth, but something once growing but softly bespelled, slumbering and subdued. The musks feel antique rather than wild, a soft sepia tone rather than vivid green. It’s what you might smell if you pressed your nose to an illustration of dark woods in a Victorian fairy tale, where the ink itself carries old magic and time-worn pages hold the memory of primordial forest and ancient greenwoods.
Poor Monkey (pink lotus root and fig milk with ylang ylang, bourbon vanilla, soft myrrh, fir, khus, and sandalwood incense) Like preserves made from petals gathered too early for dew – a tender, translucent jelly that holds summer’s sweetness suspended in light, the way an altar holds its morning offerings. Fresh figs split open like pale stars, lotus petals floating in milk-white bowls, and unburnt sticks of sandalwood waiting patiently – sweetness as a promise, like tomorrow’s devotions already taking shape in the quiet hours before sunrise.
Pomegranate MilkThe red sun races through winter-stained snow like Dracula’s eyes in that final chase – all grenadine turned lurid and glowing with the day’s dying light. Why does this perfume also remind me of Japanese candy discovered in the back of an import shop, that distinctive musty-sweet chalkiness? Perhaps it’s the way time and context reshape sweetness into something stranger – in sunset’s crimson hour or years on a forgotten shelf, what was once simple pleasure takes on an elegant decay.
Porcelain Krampus (brown leather and a bundle of switches encased in pale white orris root and rice powder, translucent white musk, Himalayan ambrette seed, and milky vanilla.) She sits pristine in tissue paper, this porcelain child with cool milky skin and frost-pale curls, radiating a sweetness both powder-pure and glazed smooth – like marshmallows dissolving in winter air, like sugared pears turned to frost on the windowsill. Though she glows with innocence, you know better. That’s why her tiny severed hand lives in your pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief, small and impossibly perfect, still trailing that haunting whisper of confectioner’s sugar and cold cream. You tell yourself it’s for safe-keeping, and perhaps that’s true in a sense, but really, you’re keeping yourself safe –from her gaze in the dark each night, as she watches you from high on her shelf, with a smile that’s patient and sweet, and ever-so-slightly wrong.
Hard Cider Cake (a thick, spongy white cake spiked with hard apple cider and frosted with whiskey-laden buttercream) A possum-riding gnome rolls up in a car made of twigs and acorns. “Get in, loser,” they grin, “we’re having cider with the Green Man.” What they pour is fresh-pressed and unsweetened, with something unexpectedly verdant lurking in its depths – like drinking autumn sunshine filtered through new spring leaves. The old magics are simple ones: apples and leaves, earth and air, each sip tasting of secrets whispered between the roots of ancient trees
A Cup of Tea in the Verandah (black tea and bergamot shimmer in the glow of sunlit amber as cypress boughs cast lingering shadows, the heart blooms softly with jasmine sambac and tender orris) A single bloom emerges from craggy castle walls like a long-lost, long-gone friend impossibly appearing in morning light – its petals glowing rosy with the same translucent warmth as sunbeams through stained glass. The stone beneath holds secrets in its tea-stained shadows, cool and tannic as bitter centuries of words unsaid, feelings unreturned. Memory blooms here, unbearably delicate yet persistent and softly strangling as ivy, reaching through time toward a cup that was never filled.
Phantom Team of Horses(a spectral cacophony of shimmering, translucent dun sandalwood, grey amber, and wraith-chilled chestnut galloping through the mist-cloaked shadows of time, a clattering of clove and black pepper, and a crack of phantom leather) Through mist and gloaming, phantom hooves prowl and roam – a nutty-woody-resinous haunting that refuses to settle into silence. The wood whispers like morning fog, barely there; a subtle saltiness clings to the chestnut’s echo, while grey amber broods beneath it all, murky as twilight in forgotten hollows. Like those ghostly horses that never quite reach their destination, these scents circle and hover, their spectral stampede more whisper than thunder, more shadow than storm.
The Phenomena of Witchcraft (green balsam, bay leaf, fossilized amber, blackened vetiver, and clove bud cloaked in oud) The morning after a midnight revel, musty clove smoke and primordial resins mingling in the morning’s murk and morass. When witches trade their broomsticks for bar stools – all that wild green magic gone deliciously seedy, forest herbs trampled underfoot in an alley behind a dive bar, sacred incense mingling with spilled spirits. Like knocking thrice on heaven’s door and getting an answer from somewhere decidedly south.
Frau Holle (snow-covered pines, witches’ herbs, bestial musk, flax, and ethereal flowers that represent both birth and death) Sometimes, we run across a perfume that bears little resemblance to our expectations when it comes to its blueprint of notes. Such is the case with this atmosphere of bracing winter mint and bitter forest berries, scattered across the rapidly dissipating warmth of a recently vacated featherbed. The fog from the hearth is dusky and strange, like herb-steeped milk in an abandoned bowl.
Lavender Kitchen Mouse (lavender cotton candy fur and vanilla popcorn balls, sent skittering out of the kitchen with a good-natured wave of our polished wood rolling pin) For a popcorn devotee – nay, a popcorn zealot who would happily survive on nothing but perfectly popped kernels for the rest of time, dental floss bills be damned – there is nothing quite like that first hit of toasty corn. Whether it’s movie theater butter pooling in the ridges, nutritional yeast giving it that umami funk, or simply sea salt bringing out corn’s inherent sweetness (and let’s be clear: adding caramel, or indeed any form of sweetness to popcorn, is an unforgivable crime against both nature and the pure pleasure of popped corn). But here’s something entirely unexpected: that perfect salty-corny base sprinkled with lavender’s crisp, herbaceous brightness. Like finding fresh sprigs tucked between kernels, adding an aromatic sharpness that cuts through the savory warmth. It’s a weird combination and probably shouldn’t work – much like how finding a beady-eyed little mouse nibbling in your popcorn bowl as you reach for another handful would be pretty jarring – but somehow, this odd little creature has charmed its way into my heart.
Ube Sufganiyot A soft swirl of fried dough, a scant sifting of powdered sugar, and a filling that melts all its elements – white chocolate, pistachio, and coconut – into one creamy, nutty reverie. Pair this with Lavender Kitchen Mouse above for the perfect snack box curation at an all-night Wes Anderson movie marathon, where every treat is just slightly offbeat and endearingly peculiar.
Paysage (the pale moon pouring magic: Tunisian opium and mugwort with blackened bourbon vanilla, tuberose, glittering white musk, datura accord, wild plum, and tobacco absolute.) In the bottle, I know exactly what this is: my mother-in-law’s Jólakaka, all rum-soaked candied lemon peel and winter warmth. But on skin, it transforms into something far more mysterious – like a lemon icicle in one of those classic locked room mysteries where the detective finds nothing but an inexplicable puddle of water beside the body. Sharp and crystalline yet impossible to grasp, bright citrus frozen into a vanishing elegance, leaving you to question whether you really understood what you experienced at all.
Eighteenth Lash (vanillekipferl plunked in a pile of pine needles) Buttery, crumbly, melty cookies with a base of bitter, oily walnuts and a rich, caramelized shortbread bottom…baked in the steam and sap of an enchanted pine’s resinous heart, they’ve taken on the deep forest’s secrets – as if being born in the heart of an ancient conifer has imbued them with its balsamic soul. Wear this scent and imagine this treat while Chelsea Wolfe’s haunting voice carries you far over misty mountains cold, where dark things sleep in hollow halls beneath the fells.
The Human Double(a shadow-blackened fougere steeped in an uncanny, discomfiting lavender tar) Imagine if lavender went sepulchral, if coumarin turned to ash, if oakmoss grew on graves – this is the shadow-self of a classic fougère. Though we don’t know this one’s building blocks, we know its intentions: the familiar herbal notes have been submerged in something black and viscous, like catching your reflection in a darkened window at midnight and watching it linger after you’ve walked away. Doppelgangers embody pure existential horror – they violate our most fundamental sense of uniqueness through their unheimlich theft of selfhood. This is what happens when your double claims your signature scent as its own, and worse, wears it with more authority than you ever did.
Gently, Gently, They Are Timid (candied orange and pink peppercorn, sugared freesia petals, vanilla bean, and white honey) “The weird the Spirit brings,” as mentioned in the lyrics of this perfume’s inspiration is jaunty and bright, and indeed spirited. This could be the signature scent of the most gleeful parlor ghost, whose enthusiasm for the spectral life is utterly contagious. The first manifestation brings bursts of rosy spice and diaphanous flower petals before settling into its true form: a tatted lace doily holding the memory of creamed toffees and sugared meringues, all grounded in something as smooth and refined as the cream in a proper lady’s tea. The spirits probably attend her séances just to watch her elaborate table-floating mechanisms with fond amusement – they’re happy to play along with a hostess who goes to such lengths to entertain them.
Lavender Avocado Toast(a toasted slice from the middle of a springy, oaty loaf blessed with a rich green schmear and sprinkled with lemon juice and lavender sea salt) This is not the avocado toast I was expecting – but rather a delicate, floral violet-tinged lavender jam mingling with thick, cultured salted butter of such distinct creamy richness, all melting into warm, crusty golden toast that’s been dusted with what might be flower-infused sugar, might be fairy dust. This is what happens when your trendy café is secretly run by flower fairies who’ve decided to put their own enchanting spin on the brunch menu.
The Flame of the Bear (fir resin, bayberry, myrrh, mistletoe, and oak bark) When I smell The Flame of the Bear, memory catches in my throat like pine smoke: the same grandmother who brought out those crystal dishes of candy I mentioned in The Season of Ghosts had a bayberry candle whose scent is everything that Christmas is to me today, as an adult: a soft sweetness twined with delicate spice, the very essence of evergreen twilights and December promises. She would unwrap it from tissue paper with such care, as if it held more than just wax and scent – and of course it did. Some scents are time machines, and this one carries me back through winters past, when love could be captured in something as simple as candlelight and its reflection in her eyes. I can’t smell this without seeing her light it, then reaching for my hand (so I wouldn’t touch it!)
Krampus Kreme Latte(hazelnuts, almonds, and coffee beans sweetened with heavy cream froth and honey and spiced with ginger, black pepper, black cardamom, and cacao.) When I smelled this extremely robust coffee scent, I thought, “woweee, this smells like spicy Krampus coffeeshop romantasy #booktok drama!”
KRAMPUS’S FORBIDDEN GRIND
#1 in Demon Romance
(CW: coffee addiction, consensual soul bargaining)
When artisanal coffee roaster Peppers McGee* accidentally summons Krampus with her darkest, most potent brew yet, she doesn’t expect him to become her most demanding regular. The way he salaciously savors her honey-kissed foam and black pepper sprinkle makes her wonder if he’s hunting for more than just the perfect cup. Between the scorching intensity of fresh-ground beans and the sweet heat of their growing attraction, Luna must decide: keep playing it safe with her usual roasts, or risk it all on a blend that could consume her completely.
“The coffee shop demon romance I never knew I needed” – BookTok
“Finally, a Krampus who knows his way around an espresso machine” – Literal Demons Book Club
*Peppers McGee shows up in a lot of my perfume stories! See also Blue Oud by Cognoscenti and Eldritch by Pineward
Need more Yule scents? Have a peep at my Yule reviews from 2023, 2022 and 2021 and a single review for 2019 though I could swear I have several years’ worth of BPAL Yule reviews floating around that out there. And I know this because…
…PSSSST! Did you know I have collected all of my BPAL reviews into one spot? I’m about a year behind with adding new stuff to the document, but as it stands, there are over 60 PAGES of my thoughts and rambles on various limited-edition scents from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab over the years: BPAL REVIEWS BY S. ELIZABETH (PDF download)
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I know I said I was done with the navel-gazing for the year, but I was obviously mistaken. This may be the final installment in what has admittedly been a rather self-indulgent series of origin stories – explorations of the fascinations and fixations that have shaped who I am, from my love of horror to my magpie attraction to shiny things. And it seems fitting to write about my love of the kitchen and culinary experimentation as the year draws to a close; with the chilly weather and the dark nights, it’s really the coziest time of the year to be thinking about it… and aside from that, it was someone’s question about where my love of cooking came from that sparked and shaped this whole series to begin with!
Thanks to that curious commenter’s question, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to examining these threads of identity over the past year, these passions that make me uniquely me. Perhaps it’s the looming approach of my fiftieth year that spurs this relentless self-documentation, this need to understand and chronicle the specific alchemy that created this particular human consciousness. Or …perhaps I’m just really self-absorbed?
I spend a lot of time thinking about how incredibly narcissistic it is to write so extensively about oneself. To document every quirk and peculiarity, to chart the etymology of personal obsessions, to treat one’s own development like some fascinating case study worthy of extensive analysis. It’s the kind of thing that keeps me awake at night sometimes – this constant need to examine, to understand, to put into words the how and why of becoming myself. The very existence of this blog, really, is an exercise in sustained narcissism. Who am I to think my thoughts about perfume or jewelry or cooking are worth preserving? What hubris leads me to believe my personal evolution merits documentation? And yet here I am, year after year, continuing to write these missives into the void.
As I edge closer to that half-century mark, I find myself thinking often about all the humans who have existed before me and all those who will come after. We share so many commonalities, so many universal experiences and emotions – and yet each of us is uniquely ourselves in ways that will never be replicated. One day, I will cease to exist. Will anyone remember that I was here? Will it matter that I spent countless hours pondering perfume and cooking and horror stories? Perhaps not. And yet something in me insists that it does matter, that leaving some record of this particular consciousness, this specific combination of passions and proclivities, serves some purpose I can’t quite articulate but feel deeply in my bones.
For someone who spends their leisure time consuming ghost stories, fictional horror podcasts, and gruesome Reddit /no sleep threads, who decorates their home with oddities and memento mori, who gravitates toward the darkest corners of imagined experience – it might seem strange that my greatest joy comes from making the coziest, most life-affirming things. Warm loaves of bread fresh from the oven, bubbling pots of soup that steam up the windows, crocks of tangy homemade pickles lined up on shelves. But perhaps it’s not so strange after all. The same anxiety that draws me to horror – that need to process fear through stories – dissolves completely in the kitchen. I’m still the person who approaches most of life with the hesitant caution of a medieval food taster at a suspicious monarch’s table. But put me in front of a stove and suddenly I have the unearned confidence of a mediocre white man explaining your own profession to you.
mawga & little sarah
This pocket of fearlessness started in my grandmother’s kitchen. Mawga never set out to teach me anything formally – there were no stern lectures about technique, no rigid rules about measuring, no scolding over messes or mistakes. Instead, I was just allowed to exist in her space while she cooked. I’d hover by her elbow as she stirred pots of chicken and dumplings, breathing in the steam and warmth, or sit cross-legged on the linoleum while she rolled out pie crusts, the air heavy with flour and possibility. Sometimes I’d help, sometimes I’d just watch, but always I was absorbing the rhythms of how she moved through her kitchen, calm and sure.
Those lessons in confidence followed me into my twenties, even when everything else felt uncertain. In high school, with my mother’s specific brand of alcohol and mental illness-fueled chaos, everything was tumultuous and fraught. I comforted myself with a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches. In my early twenties, I shared an apartment with a flaky musician while trying to navigate community college (it took me ten years to get my associate degree; classrooms make me very anxious.) Money was tight – my fast food job barely kept the lights on – but I became surprisingly good at transforming leftovers from family dinners at my grandparents’ into completely different meals, and an impressive number of hamburgers and fries would mysteriously make their way home from my shifts, becoming the foundation for whatever inspiration struck. When you’ve successfully turned three-day-old fast food into something not only edible but actually satisfying, you start to trust your instincts in the kitchen.
any old focaccia recipe
My thirties brought a different kind of solitude. Living away from family, trapped in a toxic relationship with someone who was rarely there, the kitchen became both my refuge and my laboratory. My then-boyfriend’s picky palate and nasty temper could have made me timid, could have crushed that confidence I’d developed. Instead, in the long hours alone, I threw myself into increasingly ambitious projects. I made butter from scratch just to see if I could. I spent days perfecting homemade udon noodles, testing and adjusting until the texture was just right. Each successful experiment was a quiet rebellion, an unshackling from the cage I’d found myself in, a reminder that in the kitchen, at least, I answered to no one but myself.
Now, I find myself in a kitchen filled with laughter and appreciation, sharing my culinary adventures with someone who approaches each experimental dish with genuine enthusiasm. Yvan compliments everything I make, even my failures. He’s allowed me to edge him out of the kitchen for the most part, but he has actually taken over Christmas cookie duty – not because my cookies aren’t good, but because baking demands a precision that I can’t seem to submit to. I simply can’t be confined by exact measurements. Don’t stifle me, recipe! This works beautifully for soups and sauces, less so for baked goods and pastries that rely on proper chemistry.
The contrast kind of amazes me sometimes. The same person who lies awake rehearsing minor social interactions, who needs to gather courage just to make a phone call, who has a panic attack at the mere thought of making a left-hand turn – that person will confidently modify treasured family recipes without a second thought. For big family dinners, I’ll attempt entirely new dishes for the first time. I’ll cheerfully ignore precise measurements in baking recipes, because come on–I know what’s best, I do!
This kitchen confidence has become such a fundamental part of who I am that I sometimes forget how remarkable it is – this one space where anxiety’s grip loosens, where uncertainty doesn’t feel threatening. It’s a gift from Mawga, really, though she never explicitly set out to give it to me. By creating a space where I could simply be, where mistakes were just part of the process, and perfection wasn’t the goal, she helped shape a part of me that knows how to move through the world without fear.
As I write this final piece for the year, I have two loaves of sourdough doing their slow rise in the refrigerator. I couldn’t tell you exactly how they will turn out. They’ll do whatever they want to do, and it will be okay. I trust that whatever emerges from the oven will be, if not perfect, at least interesting. And really, isn’t that the best way to end a year? Not with rigid expectations but with the courage to try something new, the confidence to accept whatever results, and the comfort of knowing that in your own kitchen, you are exactly who you need to be.
And perhaps understanding exactly who you are and how you came to be that person sometimes requires writing neurotically detailed 5,000-word blog posts examining your curio cabinet of compulsions and preoccupations! Look forward to more of those in 2025!
All photos in this post are by me, of food I have made.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I often find myself writing these long, meandering posts on social media – you know, the kind where someone in the comments invariably responds with “ma’am, this is a Wendy’s” (or at least my brain does, after I stop and read the train wreck I’ve just posted to Facebook or whatever) and then halfway through I remember: oh right, I literally have a blog for exactly this sort of rambling introspection. You’d think after maintaining a blog for over a decade, I’d remember that’s where these thoughts belong. But no, sometimes they just spill out wherever I happen to be typing.
Like yesterday, when I posted this:
As someone constantly riddled with low-grade, persistent, and utterly nebulous anxiety, it can be hard to tell when you’re having a good day. I go about my life – writing blog posts, working full-time, cooking dinner, maintaining relationships, doing all the regular human things – and underneath it all, there’s always this dull roar of existential dread. Just constant enough to fade into the background, just loud enough to never quite forget it’s there. And sometimes I think how lovely it would be to just… fall apart. To let everything go to shit and fester in my own misery. But I can’t. Maybe it’s being the eldest child, maybe it’s generational repression, maybe it’s just how I’m wired – but I keep going. I keep functioning. Not because I’m especially resilient or brave, but because I literally don’t know how to stop.
Today was one of those days when I got to wear all of my favorite clothes, layered simultaneously. Living in Florida means these precious few cold days are especially welcome – I spend the entire month of July (the worst month for existential dread) dreaming about cardigans and turtlenecks. It might sound trivial to someone else, but those who know, know. It’s a balm that feels like both safety and joy – I guess we call these glimmers now, these tiny moments when the world feels a little more manageable. When I can finally envelop myself in the warmth and textures of this cocoon I’ve been craving, something shifts ever so slightly.
Maybe it’s the gentle pressure of layers, like a wearable weighted blanket, or the way each piece of clothing becomes another small boundary between my skin and everything else. It’s not about modesty or protection from the cold – it’s about creating space between myself and the world, building a soft fortress of fabric that helps me feel more anchored in my own body. I don’t know why I’m always searching for another layer to add, another soft barrier to wrap myself in, but I do know that on days like this, when I can finally dress the way my body craves, something inside me settles just a little bit.
The anxiety doesn’t go away – it never really does. It’s more like turning down the volume on a radio that’s been playing static in the background of your life for so long that you’ve almost forgotten it’s there. Almost, but not quite. Because even when you’ve learned to function around it and built all these little coping mechanisms and comfort rituals, you’re still aware of its presence, humming away beneath everything else. Not debilitating, not stopping you from living your life or doing your work or maintaining relationships – just there, a constant companion you’ve learned to work alongside.
This pattern of normalizing discomfort isn’t new – I wrote about it years ago when I realized I’d spent decades believing I didn’t deserve basic conveniences or comforts. It was about learning to pack snacks for long car rides or keep painkillers in my bag instead of just suffering through headaches. Just like these layers of clothes I’ve always wrapped myself in, these were all ways of coping that I didn’t even recognize as coping. The shape of the adaptations varies, but the core remains: that deep-seated belief that my discomfort isn’t quite real enough to address. I’ve never been diagnosed or medicated – not out of principle, but because every time I’ve tried to describe this constant background hum to a doctor, I find myself automatically downplaying it, making it sound manageable, bearable. Maybe it’s shame, maybe it’s habit, maybe it’s just what happens when you spend so much time trying to convince yourself that everyone probably feels this way, that it’s not really a problem if you’ve learned to function around it.
It’s strange how adaptation becomes second nature. Building elaborate systems of scaffolding around a shaky foundation becomes normal. The layers of clothing aren’t a solution – they’re just another way of existing alongside something that never quite goes away. Sometimes adapting to discomfort feels easier than figuring out why you needed all these layers in the first place.
And because I know someone will completely bypass all of this emotional excavation and existential pondering to demand “WHERE GET CLOTHES???” – yes, I’ll list the items below. Though, I have to laugh at that particular brand of comment that barrels past all the vulnerability straight to the shopping links. (To be fair, I’m also absolutely that person who will read someone’s gutting personal essay and think, “I feel you deeply in my soul… also where did you get those boots?” At least some of us have the grace or self-awareness or whatever to acknowledge both the emotional weight AND our fashion priorities.)
I suppose I should mention what prompted this particular spiral: a Patreon subscriber canceled their subscription. This isn’t the first time it’s happened and if I continue to maintain it, it won’t be the last. But what they didn’t tell me about running a Patreon is how I’d spiral with rejection and self-loathing everytime someone cancels their subscription. People’s financial circumstances (and interests) change! The economy sucks! A thousand other things unrelated to me or my writing! BUT HEAR ME OUT what if I should just crawl into a hole and give up on everything forever???
So I mean, obviously, I won’t give up on everything forever. Eldest daughter and all that – the perfectionism, the compulsive need to keep it together, the deeply ingrained belief that falling apart isn’t an option because someone has to stay functional, someone has to keep up appearances, keep the plates spinning, someone has to make sure dinner looks Instagram-worthy even when everything else is crumbling. Might as well be me.
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First, I would think of the wild geese. Not the poem—the actual birds themselves, cutting their black paths through the dawn sky, crying out to one another in voices that sound like longing. I would remember how I learned to see them differently, to hear in their calls not just noise but a fierce joy in being alive.
Osprey by Holly Fasching
I would sit with my betrayal like a stone in my throat. How many mornings had I carried her words like talismans? How many times had I pressed them into the hands of friends who were drowning in grief or doubt? The grasshopper, the swan, the lily—these were more than just images. They were keys that unlocked something vital in me, something I had forgotten how to name.
But then I would remember: the truth about teachers is that they are always human first. Their genius and their darkness flow from the same well. We drink what nourishes us and leave the rest. The greatest gift a teacher offers isn’t their perfection but their ability to illuminate the path—even if they themselves have stumbled on it.
Great Horned Owl by Kshanti Greene
So I would begin the careful work of separation, like sorting grain from chaff. I would spread out all I had learned about attention, about the sacred in the ordinary, about the weight of a single moment held up to the light. These truths remain true, regardless of their messenger. The lily still opens in its own time. The swan still curves her neck toward her reflection. The grasshopper still fills her body with the day’s sweet excess.
What we learn about beauty doesn’t become ugly just because the one who taught us was flawed. The wild geese still know their way home. They never needed anyone to write them into meaning—they carried it all along, as do we all, waiting for someone or something to teach us how to see it.
Barred Owl by Kelley Luikey
In the end, I would keep the lessons and release the teacher. I would thank her, not for being perfect, but for showing me how to look at the world with eyes hungry for wonder. And then I would go walking in the woods, watching for movement in the underbrush, listening for the sounds of small things going about their vital, ordinary lives. Like the great owl moving through darkness, its wings deadly and silent, I would learn to navigate by instinct through this tangle of meaning and messenger.
Because that’s what she taught me, after all—not to worship her, but to worship this: the unfolding miracle of each moment, whether we deserve it or not. And maybe that would be the final lesson—that beauty and truth can flow through crooked vessels, that we are all both monstrous and divine, that the world goes on offering itself to our imagination despite our failings. The wild geese still fly overhead, crying out their harsh and exciting notes, and we still have the choice to look up.
P.S. As far as I know, Mary Oliver was not a monster! But I’ve been thinking lately about what we do with beautiful things we’ve learned from flawed teachers, and how we might salvage the lessons from the borrowed lenses through which we learned to see—even if we have to leave their messenger behind
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I’ve been making a habit this year of following the fleeting strangeness of my thoughts down their winding paths. When an odd question or observation surfaces, instead of brushing it aside, I’ve been letting myself explore it fully – turning it over, examining its edges, seeing where it leads. This practice has turned into an unexpected series of bloggerly meditations, each one revealing something I hadn’t anticipated when I first began picking at the thread.
Today’s contemplation springs from a rather mundane source: my head is pounding, a dull ache that makes the glare of my laptop screen feel like a personal affront. The logical solution seems obvious: take a nap. Step away from my desk, find a quiet corner, and let consciousness slip away for just a little while. Such a simple fix, in theory.
Yet I find myself resistant, and not for the usual practical reasons – the fear of oversleeping, the worry about nighttime insomnia, or the guilt of stepping away from work. My hesitation runs deeper, rooted in a peculiar existential anxiety that has haunted my relationship with daytime sleep since childhood. In truth, I have not had a nap since September of 2014, in a tiny bedroom in our Reykjavík lodgings, after a full day of air travel.
This resistance to naps has always marked me as the odd one out in my family. Both my sisters, my late mother, and my late grandmother were all devoted practitioners of the afternoon nap. They could – and still can, in my sisters’ case – drift off contentedly at any hour, emerging refreshed and bewildered by my inability to do the same. “Are you sure we’re related?” they tease when I remind them of my napping aversion.
While nighttime sleep feels like a natural rhythm, a universal pause in the world’s turning, afternoon naps have always felt like acts of rebellion against the very fabric of social reality. Waking from a nap would leave me profoundly discombobulated, grappling with questions that went far beyond the usual sleep inertia. These brief glimpses into an alternate reality – where our carefully constructed routines dissolve – leave me wrestling with what philosopher Martin Heidegger called “thrown-ness”: that unsettling awareness that we’re thrown into existence with all these structures and routines that can suddenly feel arbitrary when disrupted. If we can simply check out of our structured reality for an unauthorized break in consciousness, what does that say about the structures themselves?
It makes sense, in a way. I’ve always been motivated by ritual, routine, and an almost visceral need to avoid “getting into trouble.” Since childhood, the prospect of breaking rules – even unspoken ones – has been enough to keep me rigidly in line. Regular sleep feels sanctioned, a shared agreement we all participate in. But naps? Naps feel like temporary anarchism, little ruptures in the social contract. Each time I’ve emerged from one, I’ve found myself questioning everything: Why do we partition time the way we do? What makes these hours “working hours” and those hours “sleeping hours”? The arbitrary nature of it all becomes suddenly, uncomfortably apparent.
René-François-Xavier Prinet, Elégante sur un canapé
So here I am with my headache, contemplating the strange choice between physical discomfort and existential disorientation. There’s something telling in the fact that I’d rather push through pain than face the void of afternoon sleep – that space where the careful constructs of daily life reveal themselves as exactly what they are: constructs.
Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe a nap is just a glorious midday escape, as my sisters would surely tell me. But what if there’s an opportunity here, buried beneath my resistance? What if I approached this age-old family divide not as a quirk to be overcome but as a window into something deeper? Perhaps in examining why I find such profound discomfort in these sanctioned moments of chaos, I might discover something about the nature of order itself – and my relationship to it.
What would happen if I treated each nap as a kind of meditation on structure and chaos? I could keep a journal of the thoughts that surface in those disorienting moments between sleep and wakefulness. Why do certain types of rest feel “legitimate” while others feel transgressive? What makes me guard so fiercely these artificial boundaries between day and night, work and rest? There’s something about voluntary unconsciousness in the middle of the day that still feels like a small betrayal of the orderly world I’ve constructed.
Maybe in deliberately crossing these self-imposed boundaries, I’d find they’re more flexible than I imagined. Or perhaps I’d discover that my resistance isn’t about rule-breaking at all, but about a deeper need to remain tethered to the waking world, even when it hurts.
As someone who delights in recalling and recounting my dreams, what different flotsam might rattle around in my brain during these contested hours? While my nighttime dreams unfold in their sanctioned space, what unique consciousness might emerge in these guerrilla afternoon sessions? It’s like having access to two different dream laboratories: the official nighttime one where the subconscious is allowed to roam free, and this rebellious afternoon version, where different rules might apply. What revelations await in these unauthorized territories of rest?
I touch my tender, throbbing temple and wonder: what might I learn by finally letting myself drift away in the forbidden afternoon light?
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The Demon of Vanity and the Coquette, from ‘Der Ritter vom Turm’, 1498. Albrecht Dürer
Earlier this week, I shared that medieval woodcut I love sharing periodically, the one where a woman is steadfastly avoiding the devil’s attempts to show her his booty hole. With the reminder that “there will be days that the devil’s gonna try and show you his butthole every chance he gets but friends, the secret is you don’t have to look.” It was meant to be gentle wisdom about protecting your peace, about not torturing yourself with election numbers.
Now, that wisdom feels hollow in my throat.
Today, what’s crushing isn’t just the devil’s same old routine – it’s watching so many Americans eagerly lining up for front-row seats to the show again, crawling right back up that hellish poopshoot even when it works against their own interests. The choreography hasn’t changed, and neither, it seems, has their appetite for it.
I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours, deleting and rewriting, trying to find words that don’t feel inadequate. Maybe that’s the point – maybe there aren’t “right” words for moments like these. Maybe all I can offer is my raw truth: I am angry. I am heartbroken. I am sitting here with fury choking my throat and tears clouding my vision because, once again, we’re watching basic human dignity being treated as debatable.
To my friends who are trans, who are queer, who are Black and brown, who are immigrants, who are disabled, who are existing every day in a world that keeps trying to legislate you out of being: I see you. I love you. I am holding space for your rage and your grief and your exhaustion. Your humanity is not up for debate. Your right to exist is not a political issue. Your lives matter infinitely more than my comfort in speaking up.
I keep thinking about how we’re all just trying to be human in a world that seems hellbent on grinding down our edges until we fit into smaller and smaller boxes. The exhaustion feels physical – a weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’m cycling through waves of rage and despair and a bone-deep weariness that comes from watching the same patterns play out again and again.
I am so disgusted, so disappointed right now that I don’t even know what to do with these feelings. It would be so easy to sink into this muck of despair, to let it swallow me whole. But even in this darkness, I see you all still shining. Still creating. Still making beauty and joy and community in the face of everything. You remind me that resistance doesn’t always look like grand gestures. Sometimes it looks like surviving. Sometimes it looks like joy. Sometimes it looks like loving each other so fiercely that it becomes its own kind of revolution.
I don’t have answers. I won’t pretend to have wisdom to offer. What I do have is my voice, my vote, my resources, and my promise to keep showing up. To keep listening. To keep learning. To keep doing the work.
Because the devil and his butthole aren’t going to banish themselves. And we’ve got work to do. Right now. Today. This minute.
If you need me, I’m here. If you need to rage, I’m here. If you need to cry, I’m here. If you need resources or support, I’m here. We get through this together, or not at all.
In my doom-scrolling over the past 24 hours, I’m seeing it all – yes, people threatening to leave the country and berating their friends and family members for voting with hate and fear in their hearts. I’m seeing the wishy-washy “we can still be friends no matter how you voted, show some compassion and empathy” posts, as if basic human rights were just a difference of opinion. But I’m also seeing people rallying, sharing resources, posting actionable items, building networks of support. And then I came across these words from Tyler Thrasher that struck me right in the chest: “nothing changes [in how we engage and show up for each other.] We continue to love. To foster community. To advocate for those in need and most importantly protect our peace.”
I know these movements, these sentiments aren’t new. Not after disappointment in 2016, not before that, not now. I’m clear-eyed enough to know things aren’t going to fundamentally change in our lifetime, or our children’s, or even our grandchildren’s. This is long work. Ancient work.
And so we keep going. Because in all this darkness, I see you persisting, nurturing each other, holding space for tenderness even now…. and somehow, in between the tears and the rage, we’re all still imagining better worlds into being.
Even in expressing all this, I still worry all the time that I don’t have the correct language or the proper words for moments like this, that no matter what I say in moments like these, someone’s going to have a problem with it. But they’re going to have a problem with my silence, too. So you might as well speak what’s in your heart and mean it. What other choice do we have?
Were you the kid who sat on the floor next to a grimy, dusty corner of a vending machine to eat lunch alone? I was. I was reminded of this in some of the opening scenes of I Saw The TV Glow. A part of me wishes that I’d had a kindred weirdo to connect with. But…not like this.
I Saw the TV Glow unfolds as a tale of two outsiders, Owen and Maddy, bond via their shared obsession with a mysterious TV show called “The Pink Opaque”. Set against the backdrop of a nondescript suburban town in the late ’90s, the film follows Owen from his introduction to the show as a shy seventh-grader through to his unfulfilling adulthood.
The Pink Opaque, a Buffy-esque series about two psychically linked girls battling supernatural forces, becomes more than just entertainment for Owen and Maddy – it’s a lifeline. When Maddy suddenly vanishes, leaving only a burning TV behind, Owen is left adrift. Years pass, and he finds himself trapped in a dreary existence, unable to move on or fully embrace who he is. The film weaves between Owen’s memories, the eerie world of The Pink Opaque, and his present-day struggles, building towards a confrontation with the truths he’s long avoided about himself and the inexplicable events of his youth.
I’m not quite sure what to think of I Saw the TV Glow, and yet even so, this strange, sad tale of outcasts searching for belonging and identity has burrowed its way into my thoughts. And sad it was. Relentlessly sad. Owen and Maddy’s journey, so intertwined with The Pink Opaque, speaks to the pain of not truly knowing yourself yet being acutely aware that the version of you the world sees isn’t authentic. Their diverging paths – one fading into an uncertain void, the other slowly suffocating in suburban purgatory – leave a hollow ache in my chest, with its heart that already carries an inexplicable emptiness all its own.
I found myself entranced by the moody soundtrack, which, according to an NPR article, was curated with a great deal of care. Featuring original songs from indie artists, the music captures what the article describes as “teenage malaise and … a ‘Ph.D. interpretation of goth.'” It perfectly complements the film’s themes of alienation, longing, and despair. Also, I want a perfume that smells like how King Woman’s brutal, howling “Psychic Wound” performance in this movie makes me feel.
Day Thirteen of 31 Days Of Horror in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021
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Sarah Baker Loudo is a fragrance that seems to exist in two separate realities on my skin. On one wrist, it’s all about comfort and nostalgia – musty, creamy expired chocolate milk powder that somehow still manages to be utterly delicious. It’s like stumbling upon a forgotten tin in the back of a childhood cupboard, the scent enveloping with a sweetness that’s both familiar and slightly off-kilter. (Probably because of the time-traveling aspect to procure it.) But turn to the other wrist, and suddenly the ground shifts wildly beneath your feet. Here, Loudo reveals its feral side – pungent and fermented, with an earthy leather primal weirdness and a smoky tang that catches in your throat. It’s as if time itself has soured and shifted, transforming innocent memories into something into something visceral and unrestrained. The contrast is jarring, yet oddly compelling. I find myself sniffing compulsively, trying to reconcile these two facets of Loudo. Is it a sweet reminder of what I was, or a glimpse into the strange beast my past has become? Perhaps it’s both, a scented reminder of how our memories ferment and mutate, leaving us with something barely recognizable yet undeniably part of us.
Le Jardin Retrouve Verveine d’Été, wherein vibrant verbena radiates with lemony green herbal brightness, its zesty wistfulness infusing the air with an energy that feels almost palpable. Yet beneath this effervescent surface lies a deeper, more enigmatic presence. Oakmoss evokes secluded corners of a vast garden, its aromatic notes of lavender bitters and musky hay adding an unexpected depth that anchors the composition. There’s a timeless quality to this fragrance; one breath brings the crisp clarity of herbs warmed by morning sun; the next envelops you in the cool shade of a venerable tree, standing sentinel over manicured paths and wild patches alike. The interplay between the soaring verbena and grounded oakmoss creates a scent that seems to breathe with you, expanding and contracting, always maintaining that lovely, delicate tension between levity and gravitas. This is only the second fragrance I’ve tried from Le Jardin Retrouvé. In contrast to Citron Boboli’s sorcery which thrives at the heart of summer, Verveine d’Été offers a more temperate enchantment, a spell for all seasons – an olfactory talisman to carry a piece of that perfect, verdant morning with you always, no matter the hour or weather.
One White Crow from Fantôme Perfumes smells like the light of the moon and the long shadows it casts along a meandering path of fern and moss in a lost landscape, a place that no longer exists or that no longer exists as it did in your memory from some time before now. A place where violets bloom in reverse in the dusky glooms just before dawn, the silence yawning hour when dreams are most vivid and reality most fragile. It’s that ancient spill of grief, an aubade lamenting the eerie honeysuckle light of a world that’s tilted just a fraction off its axis, whose sun no longer shines in a way you recognize. And while, of course, the world has changed and the sunlight does gleam from a different angle, the scent is mostly the realization that it’s you, your own heart, that has become different, estranged. Estrange, to make oneself a stranger. This is the scent of all the yous you’ve lost. That you’ll never meet again. In the sunlight or the moonlight or any landscape at all.
April Aromatics Calling All Angels is plump unearthly fruits, gorged on ancient amber nectar, hanging heavy at twilight, eventually drying and cracking in the heat of a dying sun. Silent sisters, veiled in mystery, stretch these honey-drunk orbs across a vast expanse of time littered with bone, their flesh becoming supple leather under reverent, unceasing hands. Wisps of aromatic smoke rise from flint-scattered pyres and the air crackles with the essence of aeons compressed into chips of burnished crystal, shards of petrified sunlight, and the tawny tears of grieving trees. The sisters’ nimble fingers arrange fragments of balsamic fruit-flesh and sticky sap-jewels, the assemblage of an olfactory mosaic, redolent of a hallowed sweetness entirely beyond mortality’s grasp. In this fragrance of plummy depths wreathed with leathery whispers, of resinous rituals and sacred smoke, the boundaries between plant, mineral, and devotion blur into a hazy, intoxicating mirage, an ambrosial testament to the everlasting, endless, and eternal.
The folks at Shay & Blue generously sent me a handful of travel-size perfumes to try.I think these today are generally what you might consider their best sellers, people-pleasing kinds of fragrances; while they are all generally nice–they are not necessarily what I might have chosen for myself. I actually do have a few from this brand that I have previously purchased and enjoy, and of course, I chose those with my preferences in mind. That said, let’s talk about what they sent.
Black Tulip was probably my least favorite of the bunch. A sweet, fruity, woody, musky floral, it reminded me of a less noxious Flowerbomb or less syrupy Black Opium. I name those two in particular because if you read my reviews, you know I have feelings about both of them. But I also know that a lot of people love those scents, so if that’s your thing, Black Tulip will call to you. I hadn’t read the notes beforehand, but when I checked, I saw they specifically referenced both Black Pium AND Flowerbomb–well! That was gratifying. Good to know my nose knows! Also, in my head, I keep calling this perfume Black Philip–now THAT would be an interesting one!
Melrose Apple Blossom smells exactly like its copy, which is to say full of trendy-speak. Which also means “appealing to the youths.” I’m not here to tell you anyone’s too young or too old to smell like anything, but this scent really is the olfactory equivalent of gently patting someone on the head and intoning, “Oh, you sweet summer child.”
Salt Caramel At first, I thought it was more of an abstract caramel, a sort of brown sugar sweetness through sandalwood salty sea blossom lens, but the second time I wore it, I got a vanilla cereal graininess, a hot buttery popped corn note. This is like a box of crackerjacks.
Blood Oranges is unexpectedly bracing. It was like a gin & tonic with a scarlet dollop of pulp. Herbaceous and effervescent but also quite subdued and rather fleeting.
Lilac and Gooseberries was probably my favorite of the bunch. Tart, tangy berries against a delicate floral backdrop. Even so, it’s not as sharp or bitter as I would have expected, nor interesting. It smells more like the idea of a person than a person. Like someone is describing his amazing sorceress girlfriend, and she’s so perfect and wonderful and never farts or eats onion sandwiches or draws blood or makes mistakes, and he leaves out all the nuance and complexity of what makes his beloved so intriguing. (A Yennefer-bot, if you will.) It’s like someone fed all their perfect girlfriend material into an AI machine, producing an android to their specifications, but she has no personality and hasn’t yet become self-aware. And yet…there are some days when I really need that blank slate to build myself up to be pretty and put together and definitely very normal–because this is what the world expects of me.
I am not sure how I got on Shay & Blue’s PR list, and I probably was not the target audience for these. But it’s always fun to play around with something different from what I might usually wear, so I appreciated the opportunity. I do think these would make excellent discovery scents for someone who is new in their fragrance journey and still figuring things out, or for the person who likes their perfumes on the lighter and milder side. Who just likes to smell nice. And even if that is not you (as I know it’s mostly not me) some days even ghosts and vampires and dark queens need a bit of olfactory camouflage to blend in with the daywalkers.
On The Wing from Arcana Wildcraft is an EDP flanker of their Moth Like Stars perfume oil, which I understand is meant to be a fancier, more luxurious version of the original. I haven’t tried Moth Like Stars, but I can tell you that On The Wing is a confoundingly gorgeous study in contradiction. It opens with a balsamic sheerness, a paradoxical shimmering shadow. When you think of skin scents, you probably think subtle, delicate, and intimate… but what of, say, Maleficent’s skin scent? It’s not just clean, soft, and simple. Imagine a fragrance that embraces both light and shadow, a scent that sighs and susurrates with complexity and depth, that embodies the beautiful…and the terrible. Take what you thought you knew of skin-like fragrances and remix it with the most masterful, barest glimmer of midnight glamour and gothic opulence. As it unfurls, this effervescent richness ebbs and flows – champagne bubbles rising through inky depths or the cold vapors of the void with an incandescent vein of cosmic dust. This juxtaposition of light and heavy is disorienting, an olfactory illusion that tricks the senses. You’re wearing a scent as weighty as a motheaten cloak, yet as insubstantial as mist. It’s the broken-winged beating of the hollow heart, the devastating language of wounds, the darkness that embraces everything. On The Wing rasps a silken truth: you do not have to be whole or perfect or even good to claim your own skin. Your wild darkness and your luminous scars are part of your magic, so wear it like you mean it, in all that contradictory glory.
When Scout Dixon West first came across my radar, I thought, holy hell. This is the most charismatic being I have ever seen. She’s this very groovy mix of articulate elegance, subversive weirdness, and sly humor, and she gives off this aura, the overwhelming impression of a woman who very much knows who she is and what she’s about. And that’s what strikes me immediately about these three perfumes; how, they could be from no one else but her. They are flawlessly executed compositions embodying Scout’s exceptionally cool spirit and singular vision. But of course, the thing about fragrance and perfume, the really wild and wonderful and beautiful thing, I think, is that whatever the inspiration, whatever the memories and dreams go into its creation, it’s going to be interpreted through the lens of someone else’s experiences
So, when I smell El Dorado, I’m transported not to Scout’s hometown, but to my own, in Ohio at Christmastime, circa 1980. The Christmas tree box has just come down from the attic and as it’s opened, a potpurri of memories escapes. There’s a mild, woody coniferous sweetness mingled with a bracing herbaceous note – the artificial wreath tucked inside, its plastic pine needles frosted and snowy. Nestled among the tinsel and ornaments is the bitter mossy, musty spice of bayberry candles, their green wax still bearing the imprint of fingertips from last year. It’s a wistfully aromatic winter holiday poem.
Coney Island Baby smells of the sweet mechanical buzz of machine oil and candy floss, and someone who definitely knows what you did last summer. Have I ever been to Coney Island? No. But I have seen a lot of horror movies about boardwalk park slashers, and underneath the bumper cars’ sun-warmed rubber, the ozone spark of arcade machines, the sticky salt taffy, and clouds of spun sugar, there’s a thrilling frisson of fear, a gritty underbelly that whispers of danger lurking just beyond the neon-lit facades, turning this olfactory carnival into a deliciously unsettling journey through nostalgia’s dark mirror.
I think Scout is a bit of a rascal, and this is the perfume that really drives that saucy devilry home. Incarnate offers a perversely charming, impishly, beautifully weird take on the sacred and the profane. This is a heady cocktail inspired by visions of saints nibbling rock candy and sugar crystal rosaries off of each other, the provocative sweetness spiked with a tincture of sacred wounds, infused with smoldering resins, and laced with a patina of tarnished halos. Imagine Ken Russell’s ‘The Devils’ given a Tim Burton treatment – an olfactory experience both irreverent, irresistible and irrepressibly playful, evoking fever dreams of ecstatic visions and whimsical, baroque excess.
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It struck me the other day, as I was going through my evening skincare routine, how little I know about my sisters’ daily lives. We’re all in our forties now, living far apart, each carving out our own paths. I’m the oldest of three, and there was a time when I could have told you exactly how each of my sisters started their day, what they ate for lunch, and how they unwound in the evening. Now, those details feel like distant memories, faded photographs I can’t quite bring into focus.
I have my routines, not strict by any means, but regular enough. They’re the scaffolding of my days, providing a sense of structure and comfort. But what about my sisters? One recently mentioned that she hasn’t been eating much lately, and her appetite has diminished due to stress or circumstances. The other, in a moment of self-deprecating humor, declared herself “feral,” claiming to have no routine at all. These snippets of information, casual as they were, left me feeling oddly bereft.
It’s a peculiar sort of longing, isn’t it? This desire to know the minutiae of their lives. I find myself wondering: Does my middle sister still order the blonde roast and the sous-vide egg bites, or has she succumbed to the allure of brown sugar shaken oat milk lattes? Does the youngest still stay up too late, reading Cynthia Harrod Eagles until the wee hours, or has adulting finally caught up with her sleep schedule? These may seem like trivial details, but to me, they feel like vital pieces of a puzzle I’m trying to complete.
Why does this matter so much to me? Perhaps it’s because routines are the invisible architecture of our lives. They’re the quiet rituals that shape our days and, by extension, who we are. To know someone’s routine is to hold a map to their inner world, to understand the contours of their current lives in a way that occasional phone calls and holiday gatherings can’t quite capture.
This desire to know and to share has led me to broadcast my own routines into the digital void. My blog posts and social media updates often feature snippets of my daily life – a photo of my morning reading, my latest sourdough attempt, the serum I swear by for inflamed skin. It’s a way of saying, “This is me, this is my life now.”
But here’s the irony that doesn’t escape me: my sisters rarely engage with these posts. They don’t read my blog, and their interactions with my social media are sporadic at best. I am not criticizing. It’s just a fact. I think I’m probably interesting to literally everyone but them. After all, I’m only the oldest sister they’ve known all their lives. And who am I to talk? I’m the one who won’t even pick up the phone to call them! (I hate phone calls, come on!) But seriously, if I did, I know they’d be happy to chat and we’d probably talk for hours. So I can’t be mad that they didn’t comment on my Facebook post, that’s unreasonable. There’s no one to blame here except me.
But it’s a strange paradox of modern life, isn’t it? We have more ways than ever to share our lives, yet true connection often feels more elusive. We mistake glimpses for insight, likes for understanding, and comments for conversation. I’m guilty of this too, scrolling through my sisters’ profiles, seeing one sister’s naughty dog, another sister’s pithy observations, and feeling like I’ve caught up with them–when in reality, I’ve only seen a carefully curated moment of their lives.
In the absence of shared physical space and daily interactions, these fragments of routine become almost talismanic. I cling to the few details I know, extrapolating entire days from a single data point. My middle sister shares in chat that she is coveting a particular picture frame she has seen at my house – does this mean she is coming out from under the exhaustion of the moving process and the decorating of her new house is commencing? The youngest updated her profile picture to a quirky illustration… is there some bigger meaning there, some inside joke I’m not privy to? Or is it simply a reflection of her mood that day, a small window into her current state of mind?
These small glimpses into their lives are like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle scattered across a coffee table. I find myself picking up each piece, turning it over in my hands, squinting to see how it might fit into the larger picture of their daily lives. Sometimes, I suspect I’m trying to force connections where there are none, creating patterns from random brushstrokes. It’s a habit born from years of shared history and a desire to maintain that closeness we once had, even as our lives diverge and our daily routines become mysteries to one another.
My own routines have become a form of connection, even if it’s one-sided. As I apply my nightly Juicy Calendula Cream, I wonder if my sisters are doing something similar, if they’ve found products they love, or if skincare is just another chore in their day. When I sit down to dinner with Yvan, while watching Beryl eat from around the world or Dungeon Meshi, I try to imagine my sisters’ evenings unfolding in their own spaces, but the pictures in my mind are blurry, incomplete. Are they ordering in, venturing out to a local spot, or just having a bowl of cereal? Do they have favorite shows they watch while eating? Are they reading a book? Or is their table free of distractions because they are trying to eat “mindfully?” (Ugh.) The distance between us seems to grow with each passing day, measured not in miles but in the accumulation of these small, unknown moments.
Perhaps this urge to know and share our daily rituals is a grown-up version of the secret languages and inside jokes we had as children. It’s a way of maintaining that sense of intimacy, of shared history, even as our lives diverge. Or maybe it’s simpler than that – maybe it’s just the human need to feel connected, to know that we’re not alone in our daily struggles and small victories.
As I reflect on this, I realize that my fixation on our routines stems from a deeper desire to feel connected to my sisters. It’s not really about knowing the minutiae of their days, but about finding ways to bridge the gap that time and distance have created between us. Perhaps instead of wondering about their routines, I should be creating new shared experiences, even from afar. But honestly, even as I write these words, I have no idea what that really means or how it might look.
A weekly video call? (We tried that during the pandemic, I don’t think we liked it.) Online watch-parties? A book club just for the three of us? Maybe a collaborative playlist where we each add songs that remind us of our childhood? Or a private Instagram account where we post one moment from our day, however mundane?
Yet, as soon as these ideas form, I feel a familiar dread creeping in—the dread of obligation, of carving out precious time from our already packed schedules. And I can’t help but wonder if my sisters would feel the same. There’s a certain irony in the fact that the one thing that hasn’t changed over the years is our shared, unspoken hope for a last-minute cancellation. That instant, exhilarating relief when plans fall through—it’s a feeling we all know well, a silent understanding that binds us even as it keeps us apart. How do we balance this desire for connection with our equally strong need for unstructured time? Is there a way to nurture our sisterhood without it feeling like another item on our to-do lists?
As I sit here, pondering the intricacies of our sisterhood, I’m left with just this. The truth is, our relationships have evolved. We’re no longer the little girls who played with Barbies or who fought with the neighbor kid because she didn’t play with Barbies the same way we did (she was a little fascist!). We’re not even the same people we were a dozen years ago, at Thanksgiving -a time when we’d all convene at our grandparent’s house and sleep together in the guest room together and drink too much and get rowdy but shush ourselves because we didn’t want to wake the grandparents! We’re women with our own lives, routines, and responsibilities. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s the way it was always going to be.
I don’t have a neat solution or a heartwarming conclusion to offer. Some days, I’m content with our sporadic texts and occasional calls. Other days, I long for a closeness we may never recapture. But I’m learning to find comfort in the small moments of connection we do share, fleeting as they may be.
When one sister sends me a meme that she can’t post in her feed because it’s too weird or niche, and we revel in our shared, bizarre, very grim sense of humor. When the other sister messages me about a vintage Betty Crocker cookbook we recall belonging to our grandmother, but we couldn’t remember what it was called…and she finally found it! For sale on Etsy for $16! This is what I’ve got of my sisters right now. And as small as it is, it fills me with a love too big to put into words. And I fucking treasure it.
So, I’ll continue to share my routines, to cast them out into the world. Not because I expect my sisters to read or respond, but because in doing so, I keep alive the possibility of connection. I maintain an open door, an invitation to step into my daily life whenever they choose. I’ll post about the oatmeal cookie creamer I use in my coffee, the miracle balm I tried when I found a weird rash on my butt a few weeks ago (it worked!), and my attempts at lucid dreaming, per this book. And when we meet in our dreams, I’ll tell them we are lucid dreaming and that we can do whatever we want! Which is, of course, summoning a unicorn and riding off to find 1993-era Glenn Danzig. This is a true story. I dreamed it last month.
Meanwhile, in the waking world, I’ll wonder about their days, share snippets of my own life into the digital void, and yes, feel that guilty relief when plans occasionally fall through.
And to my sisters, if by some chance you’re reading this: I miss knowing the rhythm of your days. I miss being a daily part of your lives. But more than that, I miss you. The door is always open, whether for a meme, a memory, or a middle-of-the-night lucid dream adventure. Until then, I’ll be here, living my life, sharing my routines, and always keeping a piece of my heart open for you.
Even if that piece is currently occupied by dream-Glenn Danzig.
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