The weekend is upon us.
Above is our ransacked junk and costume cupboard after an afternoon of preparation for what is certain to be an uproarious weekend of filming ; nuns, paparazzi, children and a smorgasboard of weirdos in the D’s grotesqueroona script.
We are on the train up to the Shinagawa Prince Hotel. Tonight is a friend’s birthday karaoke in Shinjuku; early tomorrow morning, sharp, gather the film crew and actors.
For perfume I am wearing what has been a recent weekend fetish ; Kenzo Pour Homme stick deodorant ( gorgeously saline and marine ) as well as the limited edition Kenzo Pour Homme Fresh edt from a few years ago sprayed lightly on my clothes.
On the wrists : vintage Paloma Picasso edp, which I adore for its pantherine, dark, ferality, and fuck you nightclub glamour; and on the chest, a couple of squirts of Montale Aromatic Lime – – deliciously long lasting and with a saturnine sillage and ribbed, erotic density that protects and projects, the unifying factor being, obviously, patchouli.
Patchouli would be so verboten in the workplace the students would gag: it is therefore my Saturday assertion, my vernacular riposte : the earth, the depth, the display of the id – a release – but concealed under ostensible freshness