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  Tavern of Hell Perfume Oil

  Sometimes I would venture from my sepulchre to the jazz of night Paris, where having gathered the colours, I would think them over in front of the fire. I could be seen walking through a funeral corridor of my house and descending down a black spiral of steep stairs; rushing underground to Montmartre, all impatience to see the fiery rubies of the Moulin Rouge cross. I wondered thereabouts, then bought a ticket to watch frenzied delirium of feathers, vulgar painted lips and eyelashes of black and blue.

  Naked feet, and thighs, and arms, and breasts were being flung on me from bloody-red foam of translucent clothes. The tuxedoed goatees and crooked noses in white vests and toppers would line the hall, with their hands posed on canes. Then I found myself in a pub, where the liqueurs were served on a coffin (not a table) by the nickering devil: “Drink it, you wretched!” Having drunk, I returned under the black sky split by the flaming vanes, which the radiant needles of my eyelashes cross-hatched. In front of my nose a stream of bowler hats and black veils was still pulsing, foamy with bluish green and warm orange of feathers worn by the night beauties: to me they were all one, as I had to narrow my eyes for insupportable radiance of electric lamps, whose hectic fires would be dancing beneath my nervous eyelids for many a night to come.

  White gardenia, ambergris bouquet, lavender fougere, orange blossom, melissa, tobacco flower, coriander, ebony wood, ylang ylang, absinthe and aged whiskey.

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  On Houses Perfume Oil

  Then a mason came forth and said, Speak to us of Houses.

       And he answered and said:

       Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.

       For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.

       Your house is your larger body.

       It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? and dreaming, leave the city for a grove or hill-top?

   

       Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.

       Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

       But these things are not yet to be.

       In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.

   

       And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

       Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

       Have you rememberances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

       Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

       Tell me, have you these in your houses?

       Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

   

       Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

       Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

       It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

       It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

       Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

   

       But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.

       Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

       It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.

       You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.

       You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.

       And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

       For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

  
  Morning mist and the songs and the silences of night: a soft, hazy nocturne of moonflower, dew-touched lavender buds, rose hips, and night-blooming jasmine.
  

  The sales from April’s scents from the Prophet series benefits Lutheran Settlement House, who provides food access, homelessness services, domestic violence services, senior care, and educational resources to Philadelphia’s communities.

   

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  Goose Moon: Nag Champa Smoke and White Gardenia Perfume Oil

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  Wooden Dragon Perfume Oil

  A new year’s blessing! Peony, China’s national flower, with bamboo for flexibility, plum blossom for perseverance, courage, and hope, tangerine for wealth, orange for happiness, lychee for household peace, pine resin for constancy, golden kumquat and quince for prosperity, narcissus and King mandarin for good fortune, and peach blossom for longevity, with a splash of blazing red of dragon’s blood to help you scare away the rampaging Nian.
  
  Art by Zhou Xun

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