It has been almost a year of perfume on the Black Narcissus, but also my life. Strangely, you have been privy to it. The extremities. The pain. The pleasure. It has been like a diary. Have you felt voyeuristic? Put upon?
I near the end of term. Just two more working days next week with the odd lessons here and there but now the evaluations are over -I GOT THROUGH IT, people!- I have retreated into total dreaminess and cutoffness. Any infringement on my utterly willing loping off to my spaced out inner world feels like a cut through a membrane I really want intact.
I am wearing more perfume to work than I should be. Fuck it. I am wearing it. Nuit De Cellophane. So perfect right now but I made it even MORE perfect: crisp, clean, the clasp of the mind-imagined mandarin made more air-slicing and contemptuous, lovely, with my new hand perfume. A jar of new vaseline filtered with 25mls of pure essential oil: blood orange, Chinese mandarin, and Japanese iiyokan ( the most fragrant of peels); a salve that will infuse further as the winter progresses,become more potent and cleansing, and which I will deport into little transparent containers and give away as gifts. The heart of the Orange. The three, complementary oranges that swirl and fuse with each other and embellish and farther the perfume to delicious effect.
In these times, when antagonistic and inflammatory actions endanger our civilization for transparent and selfish, hollow victories, and the world feels like it is sliding towards World War III, I require my protections, my vitaminized disappearance into sensory delights. Farce, Tragedy, Lyrical Poetry, these were the oranges of Prokofiev’s peculiar opera, a story of romance and trickery and hypochondria.
I need my wits about me.