Woodsmoke
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Burn Pile 2022 Perfume Oil
Add to cart‘Tis bitter-sweet, when winter nights are long,
To watch, beside the flames which smoke and twist,
The distant memories which slowly throng,
Brought by the chime soft-singing through the mist.
– Charles Baudelaire, translated by Jack Collings SquireTime to throw it all on the pile: the past year’s hardships, inadequacies, misgivings. The brightly-wrapped expectations and the dull cardboard that our dreams came packaged in. Thwarted desires, grief that outlasted its purpose. Lost objects that resurfaced too late, ghosts of squandered opportunities. Poor judgment. Obligation. Waste.
We’re burning them as fuel to propel us toward the future, a merry glow in the wilderness of Still Trying.
Let it all burn: woodsmoke, burning paper, pink and black peppercorn, and resin tears.
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Gokugetsu Perfume Oil
Out of StockDeep red musk, oakmoss, white mint, tuberose, woodsmoke, and brocade chypre.
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Harvest Moon 2020 Perfume Oil
Out of StockHarvest Moon is celebrated in almost every culture, and the bounty of the season is marked in a myriad of ways. Harvest Moon touches the Equinox, the festival of Janus, the culmination of Homowo, the “crying of the neck” in Cornwall, and the Women’s Festival of the Moon. This is a day that celebrates abundance and beauty, fertility and progress, and the light of this full moon blesses new undertakings and reunites lost loves.
The Harvest Moon, by definition, is the Full Moon that falls closest to the Autumnal Equinox, and thus, it shares some of that Sabbat’s characteristics. This Full Moon was thus named because it rises within half an hour of the sun’s setting, in the Northern Hemisphere, and at this time farmers are able to work longer into the night by the light of this Moon. As the year draws to a close, the Full Moon rises an average of fifty minutes later each night, with the exception of a few nights surrounding the Harvest Moon, which only rises 10-30 minutes later. This moon is also, to the human eye, the fullest and largest of the year’s Moons, hanging gloriously huge, yellow and low in the night sky, and many lunar illusions play tricks our eyes at this time.
The Harvest ushers in many celebrations, including the Equinox and the Festival of Janus, God of Doors. Janus is the Roman Lord of Gateways, beginnings and endings, and transitions. Thus, the Harvest Moon is a time for blessing new ventures, the onset of new and progressive phases in one’s life, and rites of passage into adulthood. This time of year also marks one of the Festivals of Dionysus, Lord of Ecstasy and the Vine.
This Harvest lunacy combines the autumnal scents of dry leaves, mulling spices, balsam fir, pine needles, cedar, juniper berry, clove, saffron, damson plum, white sage, yarrow, and lily twined with Dionysus’ sacred grapes and ivy, a bounty of apple, black fig, and pumpkin, and the amaranth and lingum aloes of Janus, all touched by a gentle breath of festival woodsmoke and sweet wine
The accompanying Lunacy Tee can be found here!
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Harvest Moon 2022 Perfume Oil
Out of StockThis Harvest lunacy combines the autumnal scents of dry leaves, mulling spices, balsam fir, pine needles, cedar, juniper berry, clove, saffron, damson plum, white sage, yarrow, and lily twined with Dionysus’ sacred grapes and ivy, a bounty of apple, black fig, and pumpkin, and the amaranth and lingum aloes of Janus, all touched by a gentle breath of festival woodsmoke and sweet wine.
Art by Drew Rausch!
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Leaf Moon 2021 Perfume Oil
Out of StockThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
– Samuel Taylor ColeridgeJust a leaf – one single red leaf dancing, twirling in a red musk breeze, touched by patchouli and woodsmoke.
Art by Drew Rausch!
The accompanying Lunacy Tee can be found here!
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Songs of Autumn II Perfume Oil
Out of StockInspired by the terrifying red skies in the Jambi province, caused by the smoke haze resulting from rampant slash-and-burn: red musk, burning leaves, palm oil, soot, and woodsmoke.
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The Buffalo Man Perfume Oil
Add to cartDarkness; a sensation of falling—as if he were tumbling down a great hole, like Alice. He fell for a hundred years into darkness. Faces passed him, swimming out of the black, then each face was ripped up and away before he could touch it . . .
Abruptly, and without transition, he was not falling. Now he was in a cave, and he was no longer alone. Shadow stared into familiar eyes: huge, liquid black eyes. They blinked.
Under the earth: yes. He remembered this place. The stink of wet cow. Firelight flickered on the wet cave walls, illuminating the buffalo head, the man’s body, skin the color of brick clay.
“Can’t you people leave me be?” asked Shadow. “I just want to sleep.”
The buffalo man nodded, slowly. His lips did not move, but a voice in Shadow’s head said, “Where are you going, Shadow?”
“Cairo.”
“Why?”
“Where else have I got to go? It’s where Wednesday wants me to go. I drank his mead.” In Shadow’s dream, with the power of dream logic behind it, the obligation seemed unarguable: he drank Wednesday’s mead three times, and sealed the pact—what other choice of action did he have?
The buffalo-headed man reached a hand into the fire, stirring the embers and the broken branches into a blaze. “The storm is coming,” he said. Now there was ash on his hands, and he wiped it onto his hairless chest, leaving soot-black streaks.
“So you people keep telling me. Can I ask you a question?”
There was a pause. A fly settled on the furry forehead. The buffalo man flicked it away. “Ask.”
“Is this true? Are these people really gods? It’s all so . . .” He paused. Then he said, “impossible,” which was not exactly the word he had been going for but seemed to be the best he could do.
“What are gods?” asked the buffalo man.
“I don’t know,” said Shadow.
Warm dark brown musk, woodsmoke, and deep pools of labdanum.
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The Empty House Perfume Oil
Out of StockSee this house, how dark it is
Beneath its vast-boughed trees!
Not one trembling leaflet cries
To that Watcher in the skies-
‘Remove, remove thy searching gaze,
Innocent of heaven’s ways,
Brood not, Moon, so wildly bright,
On secrets hidden from sight.’‘Secrets,’ sighs the night-wind,
‘Vacancy is all I find;
Every keyhole I have made
Wails a summons, faint and sad,
No voice ever answers me,
Only vacancy.’
‘Once, once …’ the cricket shrills,
And far and near the quiet fills
With its tiny voice, and then
Hush falls again.Mute shadows creeping slow
Mark how the hours go.
Every stone is mouldering slow.
And the least winds that blow
Some minutest atom shake,
Some fretting ruin make
In roof and walls. How black it is
Beneath these thick boughed trees!
– Walter De La MareBlack oud, woodsmoke, mahogany, pine pitch, and blackened pumpkin.