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  The Day Burned White Perfume Oil

  Using the door, which was centrally placed in the wall like a mouth, the artists had sprayed a single, vast head onto the stripped plaster. The painting was more adroit than most she had seen, rife with detail that lent the image an unsettling veracity. The cheekbones jutting through skin the color of buttermilk; the teeth, sharpened to irregular points, all converging on the door. The sitter’s eyes were, owing to the room’s low ceiling, set mere inches above the upper lip, but this physical adjustment only lent force to the image, giving the impression that he had thrown his head back. Knotted strands of his hair snaked from his scalp across the ceiling. Was it a portrait? There was something naggingly specific in the details of the brows and the lines around the wide mouth; in the careful picturing of those vicious teeth. A nightmare certainly: a facsimile, perhaps, of something from a heroin fugue. Whatever its origins, it was potent. Even the illusion of door-as-mouth worked. The short passageway between living room and bedroom offered a passable throat, with a tattered lamp in lieu of tonsils. Beyond the gullet, the day burned white in the nightmare’s belly. The whole effect brought to mind a ghost train painting. The same heroic deformity, the same unashamed intention to scare. And it worked; she stood in the bedroom almost stupefied by the picture, its red-rimmed eyes fixing her mercilessly.

  Plaster and spraypaint, mottled with buttermilk – sweet, chalky, and edging on sickly. White and golden amber beams of daylight pour through the belly of the scent, while oakmoss and Spanish moss add a touch of decay.

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• 

  I Voted Sticker

  Elections impact so much of our daily lives, from the taxes we pay to the rights we possess. Elections determine the quality of the air that we breathe, the extent of our bodily autonomy, who can or cannot get married, whether our roads are paved, whether we have water we can drink. There is nothing in our lives that isn’t touched by politics, and for many of us the act of simply being alive is a political act.

  Sometimes it may feel like your vote doesn’t matter, but it does. If it didn’t matter, there wouldn’t be such a powerful effort to suppress the vote. Your vote is your voice; it is an opportunity to shape the world that you live in. It is a vital step in ensuring the safety, security, and health of your community, your loved ones, and yourself.

  Vote in every election, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem. Yeah, the Presidential elections are exciting and world-shaking, but in many ways it’s the downballot races and propositions that have a more immediate effect on your life. Vote, encourage your network to vote. If enough of us use our power for good, there is nothing that can stop us from making the world a kinder, brighter, more compassionate place for all.

  3″ round hologram sticker, artwork by Aristotle Pramagioulis.

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• 

  Jazz Funeral Perfume Oil

  Considered a great honor, this is one of the most distinguished aspects of New Orleans culture. Its roots lie in the customs of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people, and is a celebration of both the person’s life and the beauty and solemnity of their death. The procession is lead by the Grand Marshal, resplendent in his black tuxedo, white gloves and black hat in hand; almost a vision of the great Baron Samedi himself. The music begins with solemn, tolling dirges, moves into hymns of sorrow, loss and redemption. When the burial site is reached, a two-note preparatory riff is sounded, and the drummers start the second-line beat, heralding the switch in music to joyous, upbeat songs, dancing, and the unfurling of richly decorated umbrellas by the ‘second line’ friends, family, loved ones and stray celebrants. Strutting, bouncing, and festive dance accompanies the upbeat ragtime music that sends the departed soul onto its next journey.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  His feet was in the market place
  his head was in the street
  Lady pass him by, said
  look at the market meat
  He grabbed her pocket book
  and said I wish you well
  She pulled out a forty-five
  said I’m head of personnel.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  He slipped into the cat house
  made love to the stable
  Madam caught him cold
  said I’ll pay you when I be able
  Six months had passed
  and she stood all she could stand
  She said buddy when I’m through with you
  Ole groundhog gonna be shakin yo’ hand.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  I said he rambled
  lord
  … ’till the butcher shot him down.

  Bittersweet bay rum, bourbon, and a host of funeral flowers with a touch of graveyard dirt, magnolia and Spanish Moss.

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  No Man is an Island Perfume Oil

  No man is an island,
  Entire of itself,
  Every man is a piece of the continent,
  A part of the main.
  If a clod be washed away by the sea,
  Europe is the less.
  As well as if a promontory were.
  As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
  Or of thine own were:
  Any man’s death diminishes me,
  Because I am involved in mankind,
  And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
  It tolls for thee.
  – John Donne

  Warm, dark patchouli, hazelnut cream, coffee bean, cassis, tonka bean, purple sage, and bourbon vanilla.

  Proceeds from the sale of this oil will be donated to the Los Angeles Food Bank so we can do our part to prevent and ameliorate food scarcity in the community.

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