Sex and the sillage - Page 6  

Ugh! Fleurine! Drawing Blood! and they say I'm a vampire! Well, I suppose, as stated below, "a chacun son gout," in this instance I can not suggest it's "mauvais" or "bon," as "gout" is such an arbitrary thing: In French we say:

Les Gouts et les Couleurs ne se discutent pas.

Which isn't to say that we'll not spend hours dissecting them. I'm afraid the mere thought of blood makes me uneasy, especially when it comes to getting a blood test, which chore I detest, and, for years, filled me with such horror that I would have to take at least 5ml of valium 45 minutes before enduring the process: You medical folk have such a cavalier attitude to such things. My sister is a doctor and she's the same: Spending her days in an hospital is her life. Me, I've merely to see one and I cringe. Ingami still holds the scarlet red ribbon of awesomeness for her hazy tale of lust, which reminds me of some of the cult films of the late 60's/early 70's: Very, very erotic in an extremely palatable way: Not at all outlandish or strange. I wonder how the twenty-somethings manage eroticism, born and raised in an era of violence and pulp sexuality? I recently saw this DELIGHTFUL film: (i may have mentioned it) Wes Anderssen's "Moonrise Kingdom." I LOVED this film. Interestingly, the intrigue takes place in 1965, and the plot revolves around a very torrid love affair between two children who run away. This being 1965, the girl brings her battery operated suitcase style record player, and a Francoise Hardy LP. I was trying to explain this bit of very understandable trivia to the (younger) friend with whom I saw the movie, who joked repeatedly about the fact that, having run away, with all worldly possessions in a satchel, the young girl brings her 5 favourite books, a record player, an LP, some make up, and that's about it. If I were running away at that age, (the boy seems to be about 10 and the girl, perhaps 11) it would have been the early 70's: I *know* I would have brought "Captain Fantastic" by Elton John, and my hard bound "The Annotated Alice," which book was studied so fervently by me as a young lad, that I can still recite whole chapters by heart from both "Alice" books. Just as my salacious sex post above has for only excuse "it was the 80's!" in the 70's, this sort of "running away gear," assuming the runners are children, makes perfect sense to me, as, then, that's just the way things were: I suppose, in reference to Ingami's observations above, that I am most lucky to have been a child at all, as, these days, by 9, the level of sophistication inherent in children is astounding: No little book will be treasured. No LP. Viewing history backwards, I can only imagine such charming simplicity of character was even more the norm: Being a child in the 60's, that must indeed have been fun: But, you know, this film: It brings its own brand of heady sophistication to its children, to wit, the fact that it was a Francoise Hardy LP speaks volumes. I recommend all readers run screaming to the nearest cinema and see this film. It is SUCH a delight: One of the best I've seen in years. When I left the cinema, I thought: "Finally! I actually saw a film where, after viewing it, I didn't exit the theatre scarred." Not only was I not scarred, I was elated, and this spell lasted many days. Here, readers, is very, very good piece of work. Would we, though, expect anything less from Wes Anderssen?

OMG!!!!!!!

Fleurine! what was that ^^^^^? SUCH a BREATHTAKING piece of work, on so many levels: My face is now all covered in tears from having watched it: I know nothing about it, have not heard of any of the details that define it: I just know--I love all of it---there is nothing about that film I don't find intoxicatingly beautiful. I relate to it in the most profound way: The visual content, as well as the score. I often feel as though I very rightfully should have joined a circus. I have been taunted enough times, especially in my youth, with precisely this directive. I wonder: Why didn't I? Already, via some unexplianed coincidence unplanned by me, I dress like the performers in that video, making a steady habit of knee breeches, frock coats, stripes, elaborate facial hair and body decoration: It all just happened, you know: Like when I went to that party and all it took was a tin of silver hair spray and I was in historic costume, fully accurate, except every single piece of clothing I wore was just already hanging in my wardrobe, in steady rotation: If you could have seen my posse all nodding to the unbelieving strangers who came to admire the results, saying in unison: No. It's true. He just dresses that way. (I love knee breeches: The seed of them was planted of course by Mick Fleetwood, (Rumours cover) but as soon as I could have a pair run up I did: I now have 16 pairs--and I've probably worn out as many over the years--I love them. They just suit me.) I love frock coats and "Sargent Pepper's" jackets with braids. Really, all I *need* is the clown make up and I'm already there. How this happened is anyone's guess. I think, it had to do with the visit I had from another plane: I may have mentioned this somewhere on this site, that, in 1989 I had a four hour time lapse intervention that in "earth time" felt like a nano second, and I was perfectly awake, reading, and on no substance whatsoever, and had thus far in my life never had any substance so it could not have been a chemical "flash back," and, besides, the experience was far too replete with knowledge and epiphanies to be anything other than it was: Something that happens, or happened at least to me, that has no name, and fills you with insight about the various planes of existence and how they are very staunchly separate and do not often mingle, yet not for as much are they not there, as was proven by this "visit," as I have come to call it, as something did come to take me. How to describe it is quite impossible, as our language, being Earthly, is not equipped. One of the infinite bits of insight I took away from it was this: We build our future planes with the loves of this one. That is: What we love will be an integral part of what we face when we leave this plane, and that all is in order on this one, and all others: It just seems chaotic to us because we can not see the sense of anything as it relates to the future, only the past as it is documented, but that the future, too, might be documented, it just isn't in the scheme of things on this plane that it should be. I *LOVE* Peter Greenaway: Put me in front of, say, Prosperro's Books, and I will be engaged for as many hours as you might care to press repeat. I *LOVE* anything that has to do with the Courts of Louis XV and Louis XVI (except the horrible miscarriage and unspeakable tragedy of the Revolution, which, I do maintain, was a mistake, and should have never happened: had it been avoided, I *TRULY* believe the world would be so vastly different today, that it would be unrecognizable to us: It would appear utopian.) I *LOVE* anything that brings a sense of wonder, like, for example, that video ^^^^ which is a kind of illustration of "the LOVES of my life." Following the logic of this "visit," my future planes will encompass all of these things, as, on this one, I LOVED them. The key here, you see, is LOVE. What, and who, you LOVE, and with what ardor, is of primordial importance to us here on Earth, as with our love, we construct our future, that is, the one we face when we leave ourselves, and our bodies behind: Bodies, Ah! the bit about bodies! It was revealed to me that Bodies....are like clothes....when we leave them, it is as if we leave behind a John Galliano bias cut beaded frock, or something: While we might miss them, we understand immediately that a body is merely a casement, and nothing more. (I'm sure I could write a book on this visit: I'm certain I never will as I prefer romances to this sort of writing) Another detail: Our LOVES are not our own doing: they are programmed into us--so that we spend our lives gathering them about us, or meditating on them. Our Loves our vestiges of past planes where we were: Not lives--just places where we happened to be--and by "we" I don't mean ourselves as we know each other now--I mean something else that has no name, but makes sublime sense: This process goes on forever, and, has been going on forever: In essence, we are always only ever in the middle of forever.

Thank you, to all of you for your kind words: As much as I'd like to, I can not watch "The Irrepressibles" again: Just thinking about it and my face is again wet with tears. This shook me up....in such a very odd way....I hadn't heard four bars of it that already I was glassy eyed: By the end of it I was a shaking mess. It seems.....to me.....to be filled with something: Something I daren't examine too closely, or, if I do, I must need proceed with caution, as having been spellbound before it I was....as possessed. I wanted to press "pause," but couldn't. Detail: I'm not even drinking just now. I've been writing all day, and my only breaks have been to examine BN, which is meant to go down any minute, according to the warning above. The break I took to watch the video, lasted at least an hour, as, having seen it, I could do nothing but lay down and put a perfumed handkerchief to my eyes (Eau du Coq). Even now, I'm still in a bit of a state: I'm afraid to watch it again. So: Fleurine--pray--what is it? Who are they? Is it a band? What's the "must have" album if it is? Where are they from? go on now: Get your clip board out and educate us........

I watched it again. Then I had to sit and sop up my eyes, which still cannot see straight and burn. We have buttons. All of us. Readers, you may be scratching your heads wondering why it is that I would be so deeply affected by something such as that, but then, I might ask the same question of you: How, for instance, would any of you waste 45 minutes of your life watching that New Jersey show? You want to laugh. Perhaps I want to cry. Who knows. We have buttons, and that short piece of work pushes so many of mine that I can't even consider watching it again: It's just too draining for me. We....have....certain universes where we live, and others where we dream, and some of us mix these two: Anybody who knows me will tell you I have no problem living in this latter mixed media mode, even making a spectacle of it: "The Visit," in 1989, it taught me that I should....embrace.....embrace all of these things for which up until then I only secretly longed, and hid, out of fear: Fear of being ridiculed. So, on that day, which, interestingly, tomorrow might be the anniversary, as it happened on the 5th or 6th of July, I was "told:" You're already being ridiculed. You've always been ridiculed. You're meant to be ridiculed. It's part of who you are to be ridiculed. It's in the scheme of things that you should be ridiculed. Fear is useless. When I came to, or shall i say, when I "blinked," because in real time it felt like a blink, except that by clock time it erased four hours, I knew this, and nobody could talk me out of it: I knew other things as well--and nobody can talk me out of them. The things I learned, nobody can impact them: No book, no person's opinions, no law, nothing: They are indelible. Some, I can not mention without provoking passions: By example--my theories regarding the "Revolutions" of the XVIIIe Centuries. These were errant. Both the American and the French. Neither should have occurred. Just don't go questioning me on this: But do please ridicule me. I'm used to it. So, our buttons: This video pushes, among countless others, my all important "Visual Identity Button." I feel as though I am witnessing here my Family Reunion of Souls, as these are my people. Somehow--OK I'm going into hysterics again now--somehow, these....these people are my race. I "am" them. I am *both* the women and the men--and if there were an army of leMdM's, aka, me, it would look like this--and it would feel like this: The strange band of walking tragedies, with painted smiles on, doing....tricks.....to amaze and entertain......all the while being broken....but, somehow, decorative. I mentioned how I juggle? How....I make a habit of juggling socialites' precious jewel encrusted lieber bags on dance floors at majestic openings and parties? They hate dancing with them--I love juggling with them--I've never dropped one--it's the danger--the spectacle--the thrill of it: The photos that come out in the press: People say "WHAT ARE YOU JUGGLING?" usually you can't tell because I'm juggling while dancing--so the pictures are always all a-blur. Everything about me is moving when I dance--the visit--it examined this as well: I came out knowing how to break into the dance place where any body movement is possible and doesn't hurt. (secret: If you truly believe it's there, you can find your way in) In the video, we have The Whole Thing: There isn't anything in there I can't speak to. "The Forgotten Circus." Don't let's start. Dr. Perfumistico, nothing you ever say or do is gauche. No questioning me on that either.

I found this on e-bay, where the CD can be purchased: there is also a DVD of videos, whence the masterpiece above. It seems as though they are from Birmingham, England.

RE: Their one and only CD: "MIRROR MIRROR"

2010 debut album. Led by composer and artist Jamie McDermott, The Irrepressibles are a 10-piece 'performance orchestra' that, through the power of their instruments, can transport and transfix, break moulds and collide worlds. Fusing European orchestration with Pop melodies and soaring cathartic vocals, Mirror Mirror is a theatrical, playful, and emotionally passionate album. From the dramatic opener 'My Friend Jo' to the galloping rhythms of 'Anvil'; from the yearning echoes of 'Forget The Past' through to the intensely intimate 'In This Shirt', Mirror Mirror is a beautifully constructed sonic exploration depicting Jamie McDermott's confessional stories of love, anger, lust and loss with a journey through The Irrepressibles' mystical and theatrical world. 12 tracks. V2.

They seem to do "performance art" concerts, as all of their "google images" are highly stylized, including the live shots of their performances, which include trapeze, pole dances and all of the beautiful things depicted in the video. I had thought at first it was "Antony and The Johnsons" (which band gives me the creeps) as Jamie McDermott's voice sounds a bit like the lead singer from this band. It seems that they are a kind of mix between pop music and Cirque du Soleil. They cite Kate Bush (surprise, surprise) as a major influence, and use mostly classical orchestral arrangements in their music, which seems very string heavy. Judging from the images I studied, the emotional content of their universe seems to verge slightly toward the homo-erotic. They clearly are not very well known in America as of yet--most of the resources where the CD might be bought come from the UK, Australia, and Germany.

Well, I wrote out perhaps the longest post this thread has ever seen, and we all know it has seen some long ones, describing as best i could my "visit," as I do believe that today would be its' 23rd anniversary....would it? 1989?.....replete with the "logic" described labouriously--as it is tremendously difficult to explain in earthly terms, THEN, when I went to colour Dr. Perfumistico's name in hot pink, which I am always wont to do to remind him never to change his avatar, the site froze, and I lost the post. I am trying to keep calm about it. It did take me about 2.5 hours to write. Again: Calm. So pleased that bell jar bottle is now in the hands our National Hero Rubegon. (Try using dish washing gloves--the thick rubber type--grasp the bottle in one hand, and twist the stopper with the other: Don't try anything else before this: It *has* been sealed for....1993.....how many years is that? and in two caves the whole time: At any rate: it's BIZARRE smelling. smells like the Catacombs. Very "cold and dead" type stillness about it: who knows, though--you "run hot." I'm *always* freezing: Could be that you're natural warmth might wake it up. To me, it smells like a corpse drawer in a morgue.) From the hands of Serge Lutens himself to those of Rubegon. Now, there's an appropriate change of hands! (I'm not as fond of the set who holds my "Rose de Nuit" that accompanied this one--I myself devoured the "Ambre Sultan." These three were given to me by SL just before they hit the boutique in Palais Royal, so they are "First Edition.) Ugh!!!!!! I'm *so upset* about losing this post!!!!! I daren't try to re-write it before these macabre warnings ^^^^^ are gone! Note: I won't try to turn Dr. Perfumistico's name hot pink on this one....

- - - Updated - - -

Fleurine, I do like your current pre-occupation with sillage and how you have pieced all of this together in such a scientific way. I'm sure I would never have this sort of thought process: It is very true that the very specific "idea" of sillage might very well play into our natural human tendency to chase things that are fleeting. This is a built in mechanism. We all have it. Dog owners: Just how many times will a dog run after a ball if you throw it? Until they die of exhaustion. Isn't that right? We're the same. We will chase and chase and chase...until....we die of exhaustion, which, ultimately, a good lot of us do: Others die other ways. Part of my "visit," a good part of it, was about dying. Since all of you seem intrigued, I will set the stage in order that I attempt to describe it, which, I'm afraid, is near impossible. However: Here are some of the details. It was exactly 23 years ago that it happened: July 05th. It was 2:45pm. I know it was 2:45pm because I heard a creek. I was reading a book, sitting in a high wing backed chair with a reading lamp adjusted to illuminate the page. All was quiet in the house, and I was alone in it: No dogs. No company. The creek I heard came from one of those tiny little ventilation windows that are often found in walk in wardrobe rooms: They usually measure about 14" high by, perhaps, 10" wide, and have hinged "doors" that open like a cabinet, and lock with a kind of slide-bar closure. Because they are so small, it would be impossible for any intruder to gain access through them, so in the summer months, these are often left open without the slide bar being fastened and locked, which in this instance was the case: A gust of wind hit the small window, which I could see looking through the open door into this wardrobe room, and the window blew open. I glanced at a clock on the wall after I surmised that the creek was merely the window blowing open. 2:45pm. Then, something came through the window: It is impossible to describe what it looked like, as it had no mass as we imagine "something" might have. Identity, though, it had, and it was twain: That is to say, there were two. The "Something" was actually two things. The closest "thing" I have ever seen that would "look" vaguely the way they did would be the twirly fine line of incense smoke that a joss stick emits, where it is stick straight for a piece, then it goes all curly in ringlets, but, in reality, it didn't "look" like anything I can describe: I thought I had something in my eyes, or I was seeing things, or something, so I blinked. When I opened my eyes from the blink, which truly was just a blink, it was 6:45pm, as, again, I looked at the clock on the wall. The "something" was gone, but I was so entirely different that I felt as if I had been infused with the most inexplicable joy--the book--it was on the floor. The thing that "happened" was just this: I was filled with knowledge. This knowledge, there is no possible way to contradict it, as it makes such perfectly round sense: However, there is also no possible way to discuss it without passions of others arising, so most often, If not always, I just keep the knowledge to myself, and draw upon it every day. For intents and purposes, that's what "happened." I remember no single detail at all of what went on during the four hour time lapse: Nothing. As I've said, I just blinked. It only "felt" like a wide awake, purposeful blink, as I was convinced something had glazed over my eyes and was causing me to see this "something," which notion caused me purposefully to blink. I know for 100% certain I did not fall asleep: I have been an insomniac my whole life, since babyhood: I can not, and do not *ever* fall asleep without the aid of a sedative. I have never "dozed." So: That's part one. Back to sillage: Did you ever consider the opposite? As in sillage that could repel? I have because there is something that I simply can not have inside of my nostrils and that is: The smoke of burning sage--the type mystics use to "smudge" atmospheres. I need get only one hint of a molecule of it and I must leave the room. My best friend who committed suicide last year used to tease me about this, as he had witnessed it many times: If there is a bunch of sage lit in my presence, the exhaust that it emits is so repulsive to me that I *can not* breathe it in--and I will immediately leave, rather than discussing it. The irony is that this type of smoke is meant to ward off "Evil Spirits" and that's why Emile would poke fun at me--he often would threaten to light some if I didn't cease and desist whatever it was I might have been doing to annoy him, as, fatally, this would work: It's not that I find it unpleasant: It's that I can't have it in my nose, or near me: The revulsion is so strong that it far surpasses merely wincing or putting a hanky to my nose, or complaining: I just must leave. The very first time I encountered the smoke of burning sage, it was in Paris, and it was apparently being burnt in a very, very evil place. That's about all I can recount concerning sage smoke: I had never smelled it, nor did I know what it was, but, being young and fearless I did tread onto some very distinctly evil territory, and that's where I first got a whiff of it, and, thankfully, I turned back--going no deeper into this place--so in reality--I never *saw* what was being conducted there: I only attempted to walk down the sweating halls to get closer. The smoke....this ungodly stench.....was potent enough for me to make an abrupt about face, and, quite literally, run away.

I don't get why people go so gaga over these bell jar relics. When it came to light that I had thrown to the wind the Rose de Nuit one, which, incidentally, smells like vampires, which fits its current owner well, I might add, I was told it was "priceless." This one above, which came with it, has just been gathering dust and it smells like DEATH. At any rate: This bottle is a point for point copy of a flacon designed by Louis Sue for Patou in the mid twenties to hold the original dark red staining body rub/oil that was "Huile de Chaldee," (I have one, and have compared them: Identical, except the marble stopper on the Louis Sue one isn't quite round) and these fragrances: Why would anyone *want * to smell like that? I can imagine the "O.M.G." if Rube held a black square sealed bottle of NOMBRE NOIR--now that--it's true--I would have to have my head examined--but these "Salon du Palais Royal" comps--granted there are a few superb ones--but mostly they are just over-done pretentious sketches: I did mention I was appalled when I smelled this "de Profundis," yes? and "Chergui"? (I was truly brought to laugh at that one.) Serge Lutens, by my take, while being one of the MOST talented and influential art directors of our time (even that superb video above owes so much to him) is hardly a perfumer: He's an artist and a visionary, and a fine one: One of the best of our age--his British Nose Pal--I don't know: I probably shouldn't go on. The two creations that changed the world coming from Serge's direction are NOMBRE NOIR, and FEMININITE DU BOIS. The rest--Give me Comme des Garcons! They're so much better! I have so many of these bell jars in the cave! I used to live in that palais royal boutique: Upstairs there's a really cool hang out where, back in the day, you could spend the afternoon sipping tea and talking to serge: Serge was (I suppose "is" -I don't know him anymore) very generous--I never left without at least one. I was so into this vibe in the '90's: Blew through bell jars by the week. That was then. To me, when I smell these SL creations, all i can think of is Kristin McMenamy parading about trashed at parties with shaved off eye brows.....so 90's!

OH: I burn so much incense it borders on irrational, not to mention that the burning of incense is integral to my culture and Faith. I have and love too many to even begin to list them, but the best come from Holy Cross Skete. These are veritable incenses made by monks from natural resins and essential oils and are also made according to Orthodox Tradition, prayers and chanting and the whole pageant. My absolute favourite would be "Shepherd's Field." There are so many different ones; the only disadvantage is that they are what the French would call "pepites" and require a coal to burn: Also, they are not at all easy to find. Here's all I can offer: Holy Cross Skete, P.O Box 2343 Wayne, West Virginia 25570 tel: (304) 849-4726. I've a friend who phoned and ordered them that way. I buy them at an Orthodox Book Store: If there is any skete near where you live, they are bound to have a dusty shop where books and icons are sold, and usually, the entire range of this incense, which is so superb, it makes joss sticks seem like toxic waste pollution. (a skete is a monastery, just in case....)
About this ISM: I suppose it is a matter of taste. I assume people rave about it because it is indeed remarkable: If you wear this, there is no way people aren't going to comment on it. It is so bizarre, steely and cold that it might only be described as alien to Earth: Nothing smells like this. Considering what "people" go in for these days, I suppose I grasp why it is that so many are fond of this, as I can think of no other perfume that would impart such an "other-worldly" aura, and people seem eager for attention, so I assume if you are a raging perfumita/o, wearing this is the nec plus ultra of chic, as, attention, it will get. Nombre Noir........how to explain just how gorgeous this was?..........Nombre Noir was a bit like Opium, except it was WHITE. It had a depth and presence and all around intoxication inducing, head-spinning beauty to it--very much like Opium, which, as recounted above, induced the thought: "This is the most beautiful scent I have ever smelled in all of my life" the very first time I whiffed it, but has no dirt or spice or weird exotic undertone: It was pure, pure white. One imagined that perhaps Heaven might smell a bit like that: What it had was that singularness that, for instance, vintage Joy parfum always had, where you just *knew* it was something extraordinary, and rare, and expensive, and DEEP. Nombre Noir was not a sheldrake comp, either: I'm not sure who created it. What was memorable about it, what set it apart from everything, was how it illustrated a depth of white previously unimaginable. I always thought its name was so terribly ironic, that, you know, something so white could be called black......I'm sure it would be impossible to recreate today: In fact it was discontinued I believe due to the sudden disappearance of a certain grade of Jasmine absolute, due to a war.....something like that.....I remember running breathless all over paris trying to get a bottle when I read in the press (I had at that time access to the internal fragrance industry press) that it's production would be stopped, and finally did find one: At Galleries Lafayette of all places! and....I sniffed this like a drug. rarely did I ever put it on: I would unstopper the bottle, and sniff at it. I believe I inhaled the entire contents of a 7ml flacon, which I still have, but is dry.....dry.....dry: Nothing at all left inside, save for a very faint lilt of scent, gone a bit off, like a rotting casa blanca lily....but, oh: What a perfume that was. A masterpiece. Truly, a work of art in every sense of the term.

I'm a wuss when it comes to those drop down warning signs that indicate your personal information may be at risk--so I've no idea what book it is: But i've a bit of a clue: I believe a friend of mine wrote the preface to it, and, no I'm sure I won't be reading it. Books on perfume annoy me no end, especially that bit of ridiculousness by the Burr fellow, Emperor of Scent--was it? which, for me, was the last straw. This whole Luca Turin/Chandler Burr cult is such stuff and nonsense, and it fascinates me how people consider them Gods. The one who wrote "the Guide," -- whichever one it is -- A friend of mine has it, and I have perused it, and I bowl over laughing each time: Such poppycock! Today is July 06th, 2012. My resolve for the day is to CLEAN MY HOUSE, so I will be smelling of "Mrs. Something or Other Clean Day" household projects and blasting my i-tunes so loud you all might just hear them wherever you are. I am counting on all of you to make, out of kindness, some kind of incantation or prayer or affirmation in my name--whatever it is you do--that might empower me to put order into this house: It is such a disaster that I now find that I fear for my health. If you see my green light on in the next 15 hours, find me, and whip me back into the hoovering/scrubbing/polishing/washing immediately: I will give in. If I don't give in, I will give up. Here goes: Wish me luck, people........

More like incessant hoovering. My sexy and fabulously glamorous holiday reduced to one word: Agoraphobia. I have scarcely left the house in five days. Rather than knocking back the mai-tais starting at 6:00am and hobnobbing incessantly with the Kona Crowd for the Fourth and beyond, I've left those Givenchy Mandels in their box, drawn the drapes and gave the dogs bones: I inhaled "Windsor I" by Creed from my majestic glass stoppered perfumer's flask, all engraved and silver leafed in Royal Warrants, and, in between re-sealing the marble in the kitchen, countertops, floor, and splashboards, which chore was only able to be performed once I washed, dried and put away two sets of china, and two and half sets of silverware, as well as whole cupboards full of cookware, all of which had been strewn on every available surface in the kitchen, and that for the last two months, and putting mounds and mounds and mounds of laundry through the washer and dryer, destroying four cashmere sweaters in the mix, I read up on the Duke and the Duchess's scabrous sex lives, making ours above look like "The Tales of Mother Goose": I thought I had read the most shocking in that tell all volume "The Secret Life" by Charles Higham, as I am in possession of the latest copy, updated with, as previously mentioned "the latest revelations," until, by sheer coincidence, I found yet another book, lost under heaps and heaps of mail, that I had tossed on the floor in the foyer: This book was given to me by one of my "Patients," who promised that I would be regaled by all of the indiscretions revealed there in, so many, that the actual book itself has been forced out of print: This book was written by a young man who, from a very early age, made a career out of innocently CENSORED with other CENSORED When WWII hit, and he was drafted, he leaves no sordid detail unrevealed about the goings on in ports of call where soldiers where let loose for whole weekends of frenetic and incessant CENSORED After the war, he lands in Hollywood, where he pumps petrol at a prominent station where all of the Movie Stars, male and female, as well as Studio glitterati came to CENSORED in a pair of trailer-mobile homes conveniently parked behind it. I was about to toss the book in the rubbish, as books such as these I seldom read, until I saw that there was an entire chapter dedicated to the famous Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Now, I had been amused while reading Higham's book, where in the Duke is followed throughout most of his life by a bosom pal, one "Fruity Metcalfe," who also, conveniently was his footman, and then later, to witness the posse enlarge to include one Jimmy Donahue, who, among other atrocities, after the war, was known to CENSORED in the Waldorf Towers in New York, tying them up, then CENSORED leaving them in a bloody mess to be disposed of by henchmen. It was purportedly a favourite perversion of the time, ceremonious CENSORED something remarked upon frequently concerning the Duke himself by various indiscrete onlookers, the Duke being ever so fond of Turkish Baths, but this was nothing compared to what is reported in this other book. In the other one, it is revealed that both the Duke and the Duchess were CENSORED: Their primary source of shared amusement being, as previously mentioned, the Duke's fondness, and the Duchess's natural inclination to flawlessly adapt, to Nursery games, where in he played the Baby and Wallis, perfectly cast, played the stern, spanking Governess: This little bit of info is contained in both books, but the second one outlines in gory detail just how the writer meets them, (the connection squares perfectly with the more serious Higham work) and proceeds to organize CENSORED for both of them: The author, being a man, actually takes part in these, and reports that the Duke had an unbridled lust, or, as he is quoted as putting it, fondness for CENSORED on an entire line up of CENSORED, preferably CENSORED in partial uniform, CENSORED, and even is reported to have licked stray bits off the floor in front of them; the writer casually adds that the Duke was "very good at it," and was tireless: In one of the CENSORED he describes, a party of CENSORED is "entertained" by the Duke, not once, but twice, thrice, as many times as they could manage. British readers familiar with the Duchess will immediately infer that she must have taught him how to persevere, for much ado has been made of her particular talents in this regard over the years and is highlighted repeatedly in the Higham book, blithely referred to as her "Chinese Techniques," which, apparently, she was taught at a young age in a brothel in Peking. All I need at this point is my head to be filled over with curlers, and a pair of pink peluche mules, as, strenuously, I scrub, hoover, dust, organize, wash, fold, and sort, a scabrous illegal book in one hand, and a feather duster in the other, all the while inhaling this perfume: An odd one, to say the least. When you apply it, the general impression is that you are lost in a field of honeysuckle: This effect proves to be the scent of the hardly-ever-used-in-perfumery "Nuits de Young" Rose, which persists throughout the composition, on a bed.....of gin! (layer this with ELO's "Secretions Magnifiques" and perhaps we would get a whiff of what the strenuously enthusiastic CENSORED Duke smelled like *after the flood.*) We know that Wallis made a signature of mixing the extracts of l'Heure Bleue and Mitsouko: Being allergic to Mitsouko, I have not been able to replicate this "private blend," but enough of Creed's famously impossible to find "Windsor I" I have to last the rest of my life, perhaps retiring (for maybe a day) on the proceeds of it, as 3.5ml (1/8 oz) vials are being sold on e-bay for $40.00US. I have not spoken to anyone, seen anyone, nor have I left the house: My phone is powered off, and, as it turns out, this holiday is the very first real one I have ever had: I've not had to dress, bathe, be charming, erudite or witty, or listen to anyone's problems or gossip for almost a week, and, even though I am as a slave to my unkempt house, now finally looking again like a home, it is most refreshing. Greetings! From the middle of the longest, and deepest and hardest earned isolation! I'm having a roaring good time!

It is quite shocking, Isn't it? The interesting bit is how this odd relationship is so clearly evident in the photos that are now our only vestige of this famous couple: Invariably, H.R.H the Duke of Windsor looks embarrassed and ashamed, and (emphatically *not,* nor ever, per Queen Mary's dying wish, H.R.H, but, "Her Grace") the Duchess of Windsor looks stern, proud, domineering, and every bit....the part. Just the number of photos that survive showing him sitting on the floor at her feet is surprising. "Eau. Mah. Gau." is, as is always served up by our impeccably erudite Dr. Perfumistico, the perfect response: I had somewhat the same, except that "Dear" replaced "Gau." And then there's this bizarre scent! (Which I've become rather prone to *somewhat* dislike, all the while finding it fascinating, but, as you all know, I am no fan of "CREED.") We all sort of already knew that "Eddy" -- *Or* -- "David," alternately "Davie" as Wallis always inexplicably called him, even in mixed company, no one seems to know why and no explanation is given, was a bit of a raging queen, and that Wallis was slightly....ehm.....severe looking, but this! At any rate: Who are we to compete with Royalty + 1? Since precious few of you seem wont to expose anything remotely scabrous, even about a perfume, I felt that *something* had to shake things up a bit: I'm sorry if it left some of you in a daze: We wouldn't want a sour taste in our.....oh, ehm....never mind.

SCORE!!!!!

Were they cute? I was about to say: "You wouldn't want those giant gold "F's" on the temples," but then I thought: "F is for Fleurine, who knew just what to do on the Beach in Peru." (Or wherever it is you are.) I do hope you remembered to re-apply immediately after bathing. People get such a kick out of my sun screen scenarios in Hawaii: I must be slathered head to foot with 100SPF (I actually prefer Banana Boat: I've tried the Lancome: Not as effective: (It's like hair product: The drugstore brands just work better) plus, they don't sell it at ABC, and as I go through a tube a day, if I can't get it at ABC, it's just not an appropriate choice.) Then, I have this long Ann Demeuelemeester cotton t-shirt jersey "coat" of sorts, and, being Ann, naturally it's black, and the sleeves are long enough so I can actually cover my hands in them, it also has a hood, and all of these "bits" hanging from it: I loved it/needed it so much, I bought two--That goes on, and all I really need after that are the appropriate sunglasses, to then not allow allow so much as a fingertip out of the shade: I've even worn it in the water(after the sun sets, of course): That's why I needed two, a wet one, and a dry one. For the sake of decency, I revised my D of W post above. After all: They were in love. On another note, I do think that I must learn that there's just no point in trying to keep local businesses alive: I actually -left my house- which, at this point, is a bit of a miracle, and spent almost an hour in what is meant to be the largest "record store" in the country, which truly is the size of a football field, and came out empty handed: Going in, all I wanted was a copy of "The Irrepressibles" CD, and a DVD of W.E.: You'd think that wouldn't be too much to ask, now, wouldn't you? But no: Were I interested in an horror film, on the other hand, it would have taken me even longer just to sift through the choices. I *almost* bought a mass of Bauhaus CD's, as, on the way, I went pants shopping, and "She's in Parties" was playing while I poked around. What did I find? Two PERFECT pairs of vintage Levi's "Movin'On" flair chords in W28 L36, which, miraculously, fit, and even more miraculously, were in perfect condition, and beyond: Cost......wait for it.....$12.00 a pop. Beats $860.00 Diors, doesn't it? (At any rate if I see another pair of "skinnies" I'll puke.) Decided against the Bauhaus Blitz because i thought I might become....disbalanced.....if I had a "Bauhaus" playlist. I can't be trusted. I'm getting a bit antsy, though: This life of seclusion.....I'm not sure I'm cut out for it. On the other hand, my house actually looks like a home now, and not the final "After the Mob" scene in "Marie Antoinette." (When "All Cats Are Grey" kicks in) The really scary bit that has been revealed is this: My cave is so full, I now have to start storing in crates on the ground: An 8' X 10' room w/8' ceiling, shelves all around, of solid perfume. I can't even get a 7ml box of extract onto the shelves anywhere, top to bottom: All of the unstored boxes I found cleaning have had to go into stackable crates on the floor. I did need to take a break, you know, because, coming to this realization, I have very seriously posed myself the following question: "Am I Mad?" My intent, you see, was to have enough Jicky etc "for the rest of my life." What I've ended up with is enough stock to fill an entire store, after I die, as I calculated that, at best, I may have another 35-40 years in me--then I took an inventory, and it seems that I can now begin using with abandon: Using "Napoleon Style," where in a 1000ml bee bottle was poured out daily. I'm afraid I'll have to take an oath that I shall never buy another bottle of perfume again, and that, forevermore, so help me God. There: You have it in writing for the entire world to see. Good thing I have no taste for wine or champagne, isn't it? Today came "Opium Pour Homme" EdP, and a 30ml Crepe de Chine extract in the most fetching screw cap bottle. According to my calculations, I have one more "Opium Pour Homme" on the way, and that, my friends, shall be it for me. I found indulging in "Opium" a very fitting "last gesture," so I can then truthfully say that I finally "kicked that nasty Opium habit." It will henceforth be code......

OUR SAVIOUR HAS ARRIVED: WELCOME, ANOMIE ET IVOIRE!!!!!! PRAISE! PRAISE! PRAISE!

Can any of you BELIEVE THIS? Ok, yes, I admit it: I had to go out, spend HOURS, find her, secretly follow her around, and then force-enshroud her in my scented comforter, which, incidentally, smells like Habanita, then INSIST that she join our pack. We NEED HER!!!!!! -SO: All of you please say hello and welcome the new FEMALE EQUIVALENT TO ME: Our very own:

ANEMONE ET IVOIRE!!!!!!!!

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A&I! A&I! A&I!

WELCOME!!!!.......TO THE PLEASUREDOME.

Why, yes: Absolutely: If I am in Hawaii, or anywhere near a beach, I 100% put Banana Boat 100spf sunscreen on my face, and everywhere. I have to: Nothing else works. (plus, they have it at ABC) Typically, I use Sisley "All Day All Year" on my face and hands, but if on a boat, or near water, this just doesn't do the job, and neither do any of the expensive ones: You have to dive into the masses and go "Coppertone," or "Neutragena," or....gasp....Banana Boat: I can say I have *NEVER* had a break out. I have, though, with Lancome as well as with La Roche-Posay. All Day All Year is a "sun shield," it does not use SPF technology. While I wear it anyway, under the full blown sunscreen, it just would never do for high radiance sun exposure. It's more for: "Limo-to-door" type exposure. (or...ehm....subway to door, as it were.) Now, I know Lillybelle isn't "here," and in reality I'm not "here" either--none of us are--as this is all a dream, remember? But as for being "here" or "there," I have surmised there's one place I'm sure I won't be very often and that is those frustrated testosterone fueled Male Fragrance Forums. What a bunch of ------- those lot are. Fill in your own blank. (It could say "Lovely Gents," you know.) Why, if it weren't for Dr. R-P, there would be no sense whatsoever to their discussions. Panty Droppers. Compliments. First Dates. No wonder these men are forever on first dates. Can you imagine entertaining the thought that your fragrance would entice anyone to drop their pants, or panties, or drop anything? (Except maybe a vod-soda-lime on your head because you reek of "Coolwater"?) I mayn't have left my house but once in two weeks but I did do some BN exploration--while it worked--of course--which wasn't often--I had to in order to find, then lure in our newest initiate Anomie et Ivoire: I was on a mission. But, do you know that of all the male posters that spend their days "on the other side" I couldn't find ONE I fancied inviting? We already have the cream of the crop on the male side of things I'm afraid. As they say, ladies, a good man is hard to find. I've yet tomorrow, Monday, to separate me from the Salt Mine of toil....Interestingly, I'm quite refreshed and my house looks perfectly in order: Tomorrow I've merely to put a final run of Hoover about the whole place and I shall officially then live in a beautiful home again and not in a storage unit with dark "formal rooms" attached that never get used and are covered in dust and spider webs. I proudly report that I changed the bag FOUR times on my Hoover: there was that much dust on the floor and everywhere else. I feel as though I am living in a palace now, as opposed to camping in some hippie commune, nesting in clothes. Do you know what the bulk of the rubbish was, other than dirty dishes, dirty clothes, and mountains of unopened mail? Boxes from e-bay with perfume in them. They were EVERYWHERE. I have made good on my vow to "use with abandon" (WE ALL SHOULD!!!!!) as, for instance, yesterday I sprayed myself lavishly with Amouage Gold Man--which by the way is divine and lasts indefinitely--and today, after a bath, I found myself dripping in English Fern, reminded of my tender youth. (This was my very first perfume.) I wanted to serve tea to my collection of teddy bears. As of Tuesday, I shall be using so much Jicky that many of you might smell a faint whiff of it mysteriously out of nowhere as I do intend to perfume the entire planet with it, merely because I have walked upon it. No more of this spritz here, spritz there nonsense: My resolution is Nuclear Strength Fire Wall of Fragrance. I don't care if people with allergies sneeze: If the hoards in front of the Irish bars can all be puffing away on their malboro Lights, I can use 250ml of Jicky in one day, and I will. On tuesday, when, out of nowhere, you turn a corner, and a faint whiff of jicky is detected on the summer wind, you'll know I've made good on my promise.

REMEMBER, READERS! USE WITH ABANDON!!!!!!!!!
(for tomorrow, we know not what cometh)

WELCOME DANNY

I suppose you've a point there, however, in the picture above, I find that, if red shoes were in order, I think I would have actually preferred something bumped up a notch: Just red pumps.....for me.....not a big deal: I would go with a more fetich-inspired style, perhaps with a high platform, and ankle-to-knee straps, with buckles: Something a bit more Vivienne Westwood. My reasoning runs thus: Given the nature of the picture, the appropriate shoes must need echo the the overall effect of the image, which, you will admit, is *slightly* O.T.T.....as it should be--but if this bird's going to wear RED SHOES with that....ehm....ensemble of smoke.....I would expect them to be more......remarkable. That is merely my opinion, of course. I do encourage red shoes in almost all instances, with the exception of ones that contain ANY OTHER DETAIL that might be red, save for lips. I do this quite often: My entire outfit is all in my signature "dun" colours, and my shoes, defying logic, just happen to be SCREAMING RED. I have a really swell pair of Pierre Hardy's that are the brightest, most impossibly red pig suede anyone might imagine and they pump up the volume when worn "as if by accident." --As long as the outfit isn't black-- Red + Black = so common. Red + Brown, on the other hand, I love. I also love Red + Dun, or even Red + Navy or violet. I just love red. Red is my absolute favourite colour of all time: No question. I have *always* been enamored with red. A friend of mine, who is a noted astrologer--quite well known in Britain--(she has a clientele including members of the Royal Family) explained to me that this squares perfectly with my astrological profile, which is....ehm.....Aries with.....something rising: I can't remember. I'm no fan of astrology. For me it's so much voodoo. I also wear a ruby signet ring on my right ring finger--a chaumet one--very simple with a ceylon pigeon blood ruby--that was my maternal uncle's: This is my *always there* "touche de rouge" which--I firmly believe in: One should always wear a tiny touch of red....no matter what. Speaking of the scarlet sin, This morning I broke my vow: I bought a bottle of knize ten. I remembered that I am presently without one--as the one I had I used up and tossed in the bin ages and ages ago, and I remembered it went well with leather biker jackets. As I was taking stock of my collection of these, I could detect a whiff of it in the lining of my brown John Galliano one. I feel somewhat sinful to have broken my vow and am compelled to rush off to confess--as I am doing now--but, don't you all agree--one should never be without at least one bottle of Knize Ten--and it's not as if I have 30 bottles in the cave! (This is how I talked myself into the gesture) There is another scent that is a DIVINE leather: That is "Rien" by Etat Libre d'Orange "RIEN." (This is the only scent in their library of oddities that appeals to me) Remember? It smells EXACTLY like that $128,000.00US elephant coloured biker jacket I tried on at Hermes, and, naturally, had to hand back to the SA, who was certain she had a live one captive in the fitting room. Why is it that when you try on these "impossible" things, they *always* fit, and you *always* want them? I remember staring at myself in it in the mirror thinking: "Why are you so perfect?" (addressing the jacket, of course) But I'm afraid I draw the line at $128,000.00 single articles of clothing: I should think I would much rather spend that sum on a pied a terre somewhere--somewhere unlikely--like, say, hmmmmm: I don't know....Bordeaux maybe?

- - - Updated - - -

OK: So it is:

ANOMIE ET IVOIRE

is "Vent Vert," by Balmain. However--Germaine Cellier would never have dared proposing Vent Vert to Monsieur Balmain had Henri Almeras not proposed Vacances to the very-soon-to-be-dead Jean Patou: This is the first of its kind of unapologetic, RAVING GREEN Jonquil-soaked chypres: Sadly, impossible to find: When I think of the....perhaps hundreds of bottles...I bought and supplied to my Aunt Marie-Helene who makes a signature of it, I could scream that I never kept even one for myself: SHE still has a stock of at least 5 to ten bottles--I have none but a collection of at least twenty empty ones with their green glass marble stopper--when one of these hits e-bay, it goes for upwards of $700.00US. The true inspiration behind "Vacances" was an unwitting Leon Blum, who was a French Jewish Socialist: First ever of either category to be President of France. One of the things he did was introduce, in 1935, obligatory "conges payes" (paid holiday) to French workers. In celebration of this monumental gesture, "Vacances" was created. (Vacances means "Vacation" in French) On a more modern note, I must try this....Pompagne.....even though I detest champagne. Got sick on it one too many times at Uni. It does sound enticing. A&I, you must read ALL of AIR MDM in order to understand this thread, which is born out of it: You may very well miraculously appear on it yet, as this thread is merely a dream I am having while on it, trapped in the on-board Hammam-turned-bath-house, originally called the "AMYTHIST MIST HAMMAM," then changed and redecorated over the course of the flight to:

MIKE

When I *finally* wake up, you may just find a FIRST CLASS boarding pass under your Borneo-scented pillow.....AIR MDM is an *by invitation only* thread.

If you read the thread, it will all make sense......

YEAH: Where IS Rubegone? Now see here, Rube: You needn't come up with some XXX-rated recounting to pop over and say hello! We all miss you. Bloody Hell--that "CREED" affair: Can you imagine? Counseling me on French History, laws, and asking "If I remember my Proust?" ("and no paragraph breaks!") I'm sure you all detected the famous MDM ire bubbling over--though--you all must admit: I *did* control myself! All of you might imagine with little difficulty what I was wont to write, rather than what I did. (I was content enough to use the term "half-baked.") Now--you know--we mustn't ever even MENTION creed. If we so much as MENTION creed--we may well be shut down and banned: That is the word on the street. At any rate--why would WE, of all people deign to waste our finger engery (other than to....ehm....never mind) to be discussing THAT? NOTE TO ALL: MDM THREADS SPECIFICALLY PROHIBIT THE MERE MENTION OF CREED FROM TODAY FORWARD. Our code word for Cre....ehm...them will be: "That Pierre Premier de Serbie Lot," this way, we'll escape the BN Cre....ehm...them....monitoring which entails banishment to nether regions if the subject is even brought up. Mods: We are *NOT* discussing it. (Again: WHY would we?) On another note, Inga, that video posted above by our new National Heroine ANOMIE ET IVOIRE, reminded me of......YOU! Was it not the very reminiscence of your getting ready for that party we had on AIR MDM, remember? -minus the Galliano Feather Head Dress I sent over, of course.-- Now: Was I right? HOW DIVINE IS THAT NEW HABANITA?!?! We have here PROOF that a re-form can actually IMPROVE upon the original--and as I have said before--THAT, my Dears, was *not just any original.* I have a feeling I know why we haven't heard from Rubegon: As I understand it, Aphrodite has gone wild with HABANITA, and is now.....USING WIH ABANDON.....so what would any fine red-blooded male be doing in an instance such as that? Pondering on panty droppers? I think not.....

OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! SOMEONE GOT ALL HOT AND HEAVY IN PERU!

Vent Vert is something of a mystery: It is a Germaine Cellier scent, and all of her comps are challenging. It was a kind of signature she had. *the only* time she was kept very distinctly under control was when she did two scents for Nina Ricci--fille d'eve and coeur-joie: We know what that gave: EXTREME DREAMINESS. Now--extreme dreaminess sounds good--but, Fleurine--you know as well as I what I mean here by *extreme.* The dreaminess approaches Lewis Carrollonian proportions in these two contexts. If your bottle of Vent Vert is square, it's a reformulated/re-created/re-worked "version" that got launched around....ehm....I want to say in the early nineties. It *sort* of resembles the original--but the original is packaged exactly like the old "Miss Balmain" and "Jolie Madame" were, (except: Surprise! it's GREEN!) -all Germaine Cellier comps- and it is exceedingly hard to find: It's Galbanum that you are smelling in Vent Vert--not oakmoss. Galbanum is a very "metallic" green scent--almost like cut grass--it's quite, ehm, aggressive. I would imagine "Childhood Services," as portrayed by Tilda Swinton in MOONRISE KINGDOM smelled a bit like this: Or else--SOMEONE DID--I agree with you: Not really sexy, Baby. The original, mind, was almost "You Tarzan. Me Jane." It was a bit "funkier." When they re-launched it, they removed a very noticeable bed of castoreum--beaver musk--which had for effect precisely the same as would occur if you took the civet--cat musk--out of Jicky: It made it slightly twee and bordering on "prell concentrate shampoo." A sexier "green" scent--perfect on a blond-- is Chamade. Even in its current wasser water incarnation, it still holds up. One step deeper, you have "Sous le Vent." Deeper still, you have the sultry "Vol de Nuit," So you see here you go from a romp in an English Forest all the way to a plain crash in a remote island in the Bermuda triangle (Vol de Nuit) Thin skin *does not* like heavy resins, and sirupy woods: These are HUGE molecules that have nowhere to go on thin skin, so they sit and wander around and speak to each other, all asking directions, while they die a slow death. The latest "Oud" craze? So not for thin skin: Oud, and pretty much all wood oil based scents, are just not happy campers on paperwhite skins--there's no depth--to the skin I mean--so there's nowhere for these GIANT molecules to hide out: Exposed to the air, they die an agonizing death and seem to scream "I'M MELTING!" while doing it. I, for example, *will not* be spraying my bottle of Knize ten on my body: It goes in the cotton linings of my biker jackets, and on the leather cushions on the floor in my home. I would *never* put something like that on my skin. You can spray your "Vent Vert" on a bit of fake chinese silk Ivy, or something.......