Our landlords and ‘Japanese parents’ had their vaccinations yesterday at a specially designated centre in Kamakura. At 80+ they were prioritized, and ours are a long way off despite the encroaching Olympics, but our neighbour to the other side is about to get her shot too, and this opened a fissure of clarity and hope into the fog of suppressed hysteria that embodies everything here, conjecture crystallizing to reality. I am happy and relieved they are protected.
I have been quite tired recently from work and the amassing of everything in my veins : not especially creative or perfume minded, more in the mood to absorb passively. I watched the Halston miniseries and read a painful autobiography – a brilliant, if very bruising book called Once In A House On Fire by Andrea Ashworth that D handed over solemnly once he had finished it. The tears started flowing when I reached the end of it myself yesterday evening, and continued when I was cooking, listening to Side 3 of my record of Bjork’s Vulinicura Live, which I think is one of the most beautiful things I have ever bought. These tears felt cathartic, fresh, cleansing – there was buildup.
On Saturday morning I suddenly found myself craving something chypric, with patchouli, and sprayed on some Orion by Terenzi; sharply aromatic with a pineapple top note I rather enjoy, although the final note of oudish white musk on my skin left me dissatisfied. Not so on clothes ; the next morning I smelled what I had been wearing the day before and had that thrilled feeling when you know you really want to EMIT that precise smell when you go out.
I ended up reeking. When we walked to the shops to buy vegetables for dinner, bumping into the Mitomis on their way back from their injections, I was wearing some Rose De Siwa, sprayed on a sweater; on me it is flamboyant and a bit too pansyish perchance, but it formed an interesting contrast with Orion. I had a little Histoires De Parfums Noir Patchouli sprayed on my trousers, and some Spirit Of Dubai Majalis – a Turkish rose glinting aromatic, as well as another – Ajmal? – that was rich with dates, cinnamon and labdanum. If it was all a bit much, I didn’t think so, even if, as I teared up uncontrollably to Bjork’s ode to willing unravelling, Undo, it occurred to me that in the later stages of all these perfumes, though nice, enjoyable, and perfect for an unseasonably cold misty day( and D had complimented the assemblage as a whole), something wasn’t entirely right. Close —- but no cigar.