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  Tomie Perfume Oil

  “What’s so precious about a monster?”

  A seductive and deceptively delicate blend of rose-tinted white sandalwood, ethereal white amber, voluptuous almond blossom, coeur de jasmin, and a gasp of bourbon vanilla.

  5ml of hand-blended perfume oil presented in an amber apothecary bottle.

  This product not for sale in the following countries:
  Brunei, Myanmar (Burma), Cambodia, Timor-Leste, Indonesia, Laos, Malaysia, the Philippines, Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, China, Hong Kong, Sri Lanka, Japan, Macau, Mongolia, North Korea, South Korea, and Taiwan

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• 

  Queen Alice Perfume Oil

  At this moment the door was flung open, and a shrill voice was heard singing: 

  ‘To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said
  “I’ve a sceptre in hand, I’ve a crown on my head.
  Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be
  Come and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”‘
  And hundreds of voices joined in the chorus: 
  ‘Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,
  And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:
  Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea —
  And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!’

  Then followed a confused noise of cheering, and Alice thought to herself `Thirty times three makes ninety. I wonder if any one’s counting?’ In a minute there was silence again, and the same shrill voice sang another verse: 

  ‘”O Looking-Glass creatures,” quoth Alice, “draw near!
  ‘Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear:
  ‘Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea
  Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”‘
  Then came the chorus again: 
  ‘Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink,
  Or anything else that is pleasant to drink:
  Mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine —
  And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!’

  Carnation, posies, and white amber with a hint of inky treacle, sandy cider, and wooly wine.

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• 

  O Beautiful White Mother Death Perfume Oil

  This Spiritualism is the nepenthe which the ancient philosophers sought, to prolong life for ever; you cast off your bodies like an old garment. The pathway of this new science is as clear to the spirit as the names of the constellations are to the astronomer. In the great realm of the spirit there is no room for death to abide ; he has gone out with the ignorance, and blindness, and prejudice of the past, and life, only life, remains as your inheritance.
  
  Mrs. Tappan then paused. After a moment’s silence she delivered the following inspirational poem:—
  
  O beautiful white mother Death,
  Thou silent and shadowy soul,
  Thou mystical, magical soul,
  How soothing and cooling thy breath!
  Ere the morning stars sang in their spheres,
  Thou didst dwell in the spirit of things,
  Brooding there with thy wonderful wings,
  Incubating the germs of the years.
  Coeval with Time and with Space,
  Thy sisters are Silence and Sleep ;
  Three sisters—Death, Silence, and Sleep,
  How strange and how still is thy face!
  In the marriage of matter to soul,”
  Thou wert wedded to young fiery Time,
  The now weary and hoary-haired Time,
  With him thou hast shared earth’s control.
  O beautiful spirit of Death,
  Thy brothers are Winter and Night;
  Stern Winter and shadowy Night,
  They bear thy still image and breath.
  Summer buds fall asleep in thy arms,
  ’Neath the fleecy and soft-footed snow,
  The silent, pure, beautiful snow;
  And the earth their new life-being warms.
  All the world is endowed with thy breath,
  Summer splendours and purple of wine
  Flow out of this magic of thine,
  O beautiful angel of Death
  What wonders in silence we see
  The lily grows pale in thy sight;
  The rose thro’ the long summer night
  Sighs its life out in fragrance to thee.
  O beautiful angel of Death,
  The beloved are thine, all are thine !
  They have drunk the nepenthe divine,
  They have felt the full flow of thy breath.
  Out into thy realm they are gone,
  Like the incense that greeteth the morn,
  On the wings of thy might they’re up-borne,
  As bright birds to thy Paradise flown.
  They are folded and safe in thy sight,
  Thro’ thy portals they pass from earth’s prison;
  From the cold clod of clay they have risen,
  To dwell in thy temple of light.
  O beautiful Angel of Life,
  Germs feel thee and burst into bloom,
  Souls see thee and rise from the tomb,
  With beauty and loveliness rife.
  On earth thou art named cold Death,
  Dim, dark, dismal, dire, dreadful Death,
  In heaven thou art “Angel of Life.”
  We are one with thy spirit, O Death ;
  We spring to thy arms unafraid,
  One with thee are our glad spirits made.
  We are born when we drink thy cold breath,—
  Oh, Angel of Life, lovely Death.

   

  The concluding hymn was then sung, after which Mrs. Tappan uttered the following benediction—“ May the peace of the loving spirit of the Heavenly Father and His angels abide with you, and the life that knows no death bear you on to the immortal world.”

  
  The Spiritualist, Oct. 15, 1873
  Poem by Cora L.V. Richmond
  
  The lily grows pale in thy sight; the rose, through the long summer night, sighs its life out in fragrance to thee.

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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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