Peppermint is essential. Where would toothpaste be without it ? ( hello spearmint ).
The best toilet cleaner in Japan was a simple mint that smelled lovely and did the trick. It has been gone for the shelves for about half a year. I smelled a tres pepperminty spray in the ‘restroom’ of the rehabilitation centre yesterday that was so good I spritzed a little extra in the air so that a few blessed droplets would alight on my person – I wanted to ask the receptionist where they got it — I still might.
At the big convenience store today I saw that the one I always use – there are guests coming round tonight for a mini halloweenish shindig – that the Mint Thing was back, so I bought a big bag of it
But bleurrgjh
—– are we now at the point where toilet cleaners are also getting reformulated ?
I cleaned and applied … but Big Bird Of Legoland this smells like vomit in a 90’s nightclub. I am genuinely embarrassed those coming tonight for a bit of costuming and records and a quick trip to the izakaya one minute away might think I wanted the toilet to smell like this.
Mint is good for you. And cheap.
so Why would they take that essential ingredient out of the mix. Is there some kind of IFRA ((JIFRA?)) edict on the mint species ?
I gasped in the Chinese eatery post-physio when D suddenly produced a plastic bag full o scent he had picked up for ten dollars : a sealed Mitsouko parfum; the most beautiful bottle of Bal A Versailles cologne ; a Tuscany per Donna – when you run out of Samsara it makes a pretty good substitute ! and a leaked Guy Laroche Fidji parfum which is assailing my senses alluringly like a Parisian Tahitian siren — but it was this unheard of perfume, with the cretinously chosen title ‘Enchanting Dance’ that has most captured my diamond shaped heart.
Ooh missi. This is a straight rip-off of Ungaro Diva – but possibly improved. A classic 80’s spiced rosa all’italiana – eBay tells me it can go from the extortionate to the very affordable – but for anyone who still loves that genre as I do, mama mia this ticks all the boxes.
Thanks D – your name is even written on the carton !
Shiseido’s Tsubaki range, which I would say is one of the National Fragrances Of Japan – red and floral camellia with a lustrous green apple top accord, I am greeted with its familiar scent on students, their mothers; friends, is now a firmly entrenched mega hit. I find it very pleasing when a person’s conditioner infuses their hair after drying and becomes their Perfume (: a stinking, greasy scalp pit is the opposite, meriting swift decapitation with the shiniest samurai sword) but thankfully, most people wash their everyday in this country and Tsubaki; not cheap, it is a popular prestige Shiseido product after all – is among the most ubiquitous.
the camellia in our front garden; now budding
Sadly, Tsubaki is the worst possible shampoo for my wispier Caucasian hair ( Japanese barbers and hair stylists often use thinning scissors for their J clients, the follicles so thick and bountiful they are like gardeners chasing topiaries with secaturs) and I need all the strands I can keep at this age, so although it is quite easy to simply ask to not be trimmed with the scissors in question , i usually trim one’s barnet by oneself rather than come out the hairdressers looking a fluffed up chemo-gosling dredged through the hedge backwards.
The right shampoo can maintain things nicely – the cheap camellia shampoo you see on the right side of the photograph above my hair wash of choice now. Floral fresh but not too perfumed, it leaves just the right balance of lightness and moisture and does not overly interfere with my scent choices.
A few weeks ago when d was out on yet another of my demanding cycle out shopping lists – I am determined to do this myself very soon but am still trying to strike the right balance between the right level of exercise and not overdoing it- HE MIXED UP THE DARNED CAMELLIAS ( is it time to head to the divorce courts ? ) and I learned again, firsthand, how important it is to get this right
I knew the Shiseido wasn’t suitable for my particular needs, having bought it and rejected it in the past, but I don’t want to keep being the shrieking harpy every time he gets an ‘order wrong’ — he is doing enough for me as it is….., but lordy : this deep oleaginous formula suited perfectly to the indigenous hair perhaps but so not to my own not only felt deeply vaselinic, but also made it look as if I had placed a beef tallow dipped toupee on the front of my head and actually committed follicide. I swear I have lost quite a lot of hair from just the three or four times I tried using it – they just kind of … fell out. This may suit the tens of millions of individuals who use it across the archipelago, but I shall henceforth be avoiding Shiseido Tsubaki like the plague.
The wrong champù can not only make you look like Wurzel Gummidge but also smell quite offputting (I always find the Luxes and Pantènes a little too sofa showroom in their creamy white pongs; the Timoteis a little too artificially green meadow frolicking; my sister’s Aussie Moist too squealing of sour strawberries; so many others too mariney or toilet ducky or sports locker roomy: unperfumed ones smell of hippified flax sheep; the Vosenes and other medicateds like rough toilet rolls and moustachioed military majors ,and so on and so forth. Japan has just as many overly perfumed wrong’uns: women here really do fragrance themselves primarily with their hair products and many do smell sublime as they sashay past – they are just not for me. I am pleased, therefore, that the one I know I do like – clearly a blatant Shiseido rip-off in concept, just without the cormorant-caught-in-an-oil-slick tanker disaster – is, at ¥150, the very cheapest shampoo on the market.
I went to see the (currently intensely raved about and) future Oscar contender ‘ One Battle After Another’ with a friend last night. The film, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, whose films I have sometimes liked but never loved, was exhilarating in parts, if ultimately disappointing – far too simplistic and clobberistically hammered home for a film supposedly deliciously satirizing the current political mood – – but at least I smelled gorgeous in the cinema.
We had an endless summer – I wanted it never to finish- and were then plunged into a cold rainy early winter. With a constantly aching leg, and possibly a trapped nerve (should I do the right knee as well on November 27th as scheduled? An existential dilemma), the chilling damp exacerbates the pain. So did sitting in a cinema in Yokohama for three hours unable to find a comfortable position, stretching out the leg onto the seat in front like the bad gaijin I am – the country is obsessed with how terrible foreigners are at the moment, and you do feel a bit of a pariah the second you step out the door. Melanie and I couldn’t help making comments throughout the film, though, and even laughed – gasp! keep your emotions to yourself! don’t laugh out loud in a Japanese cinema! – self control is always the key, didn’tcha knew? – because the film was hilarious in parts; Leonardo Di Caprio’s best role ever I would say, and because I have always been something of a noisy fidget who can’t keep its trap shut.
In colder weather I predictably switch to the ambery. And all year I have been layering; it seems impossible to wear just one perfume. I get more pleasure from constantly comparing and melanging. Right now, while stocks last! – the divine combination is Laura Mercier’s Ambre Lumière – a more wearable Obsession, gorgeous actually- and Guccy Envy For Men – a delicious gingery amber that it seems I was born to wear and which the d loves on me: the Ambre Lumiere, down to its last dregs – (both are of course discontinued and phosphorically expensive on ebay – 100, 000 for the Gucci, what? as only the best perfumes always are, so I should be sparingly stingeing my way through the remaining juices but naturally I do the opposite: spray them on the shoulders under a Uniqlo light undershirt; the Envy on the beard and behind the ears and on the clothing, and on the wrists, and goodness did it smell lovely all blended together last night. Bliss. I love that cozy warm undernuzzle, when, even if what is transpiring on the screen is insulting to the intelligence, as it often was – M and I groaning and eyerolling quite often when the caricatured lefties and righties uttered their ludicrousnesses – the rightwing racist c*&^%s as hateable as you wanted them to be; the wokeistas often equally irritating (probably Paul Thomas Anderson’s point – it’s all a load of fucking bullshit even if I know what side I am ultimately on): when your own body is emitting such fragrant heaven though – M was wearing Matiere Premiere’s Encens Suave which I gave her a decant of and might be her future signature – Somalian frankincense, vanilla, coffee, she is in love – it worked great with my own bundle.
I am all for spiced ambers. A particular fave is the original Guerlain Heritage Eau De Parfum – piquant black pepper melting into one of the best balsamic drydowns I have ever experienced – where can I get a bottle? – and I must say that the new ‘Above Us, Steorra’ (?) reminded me a little of the Guerlain at times when I tried it the other day at the new Aesop store in Kamakura – The Elephant Man out perfume testing.
I love cardamom, even if I have never been satisfied by its usage in perfumery – no one ever uses enough (only the one perfume I ever made by myself, Java by The Black Narcissus, fulfilled the cardamomonic quotient). In the shop, on first spray I said, ah yes, frankincense – I was told: no, amber and pink pepper, but of course I was right – obviously there is a lot of olibanum in this you fool – over vanilla and labdanum….quite a nice, physically hot and spicy new release even if ultimately there was a hint of sports fragrance somewhere in the subliminal mix that put me off. I wouldn’t mind retrying it though nor having this on a casual passerby – at least isn’t yet another Baccarat Rouge copycat. Aesop perfumes are not entirely my bag (are they yours? ) : nice enough; some decent ingredients, but to paraphrase Madonna, they don’t quite take me there. Too…pressed down inside themselves in interior pulverization withno room to breathe and never a lick of humour. Very popular in Japan though; with all the sandalwood and rosy spice recognizably leaking out from the doorsteps of each premises, they have become the new Lush.
The only Aesop perfume I actually have in my collection in Hywl, given to me as a birthday present many years ago but which I would rather die than wear (thanks Denise, in any case). This is one of those uberserious forest scents with some properly hard-assed woods (my god, Sean Penn, excellent granite thighs aside, was ridiculous in that film last night, such a caricature- meaning, of course, that he is guaranteed to win an Academy Ward); cedar, hinoki, vetiver, oakmoss with no sweetening mitigation whatsoever; on my own skin it makes me smell like the very worst kind of Neanderthal Idiot and pick up an Uzi myself and go a bit postal: it is a wrongness I can’t exaggerate in words.. I truly do hate it. So does D.
And yet. I have had two distinct experiences where women smelled so beguiling in Hywl that it almost derailed my senses and I had to do total double takes. This was quite a big lesson for me. The film was perfectly right to mock gender politics – they had become fascistic and oppressive and something was obviously going to give – but I still deeply believe that in perfume terms, though I probably sound like a broken record, bridging the so-called divide between the can sometimes lead to beauteous results.
The first experience of Hywl-On-A-Laday was with my friend Sarah, a British entrepreneur from Liverpool who I have become closer to this year: wild and hilarious and a bit on the neurodivergent tip like me – oh god, I sound like someone satirizing oversensitive asparagus tips like myself in ‘One Battle’ last night – but it is true; we both get oversaturated very quickly psychically in social situations so will just say after a couple of hours together, ok that was great, I am going back now – without drawing it all out for the sake of politesse and we both love that fact; on one memorable occasion singing Prince songs for two hours in a cheap Italian restaurant, whole albums all the way through, to the point of considering even doing a performing tribute band called Bendy and Risa – then saying right, let’s go . Her Hwyl gave her a gorgeous, sultry and unplaceable edge that both accentuated and counteracted her powerful personality. I kept inhaling.
As I did with a young translator I met for the first time either this year, was it or last …recently, anyway – now when was it, kin ell, am I disintegrating ? – I have no idea (time has become meaningless with all the painkillers and and god knows what else…, operations, so much time alone sometimes I just feel that I am going into a twilight zone and actually want to just get back to work and have a more stringent lifestyle if my shite skeletal system will let me ; to get on a more even keel.
Anyway, we met the lovely Helen at a local institution we call ‘The Brown Bar’ down at Kitakamakura station because of its nicotine stained walls and smeary atmosphere though it is actually called – Wabisuke – a slightly cold and unwelcoming, but very bohemian and conducive place we nevertheless sometimes go to because it has great ambience, music and lighting for those local drinkers who like a bit of tango or jazz and to chat quietly and drink themselves to death in the low lights.
I am always slightly nervous in such situations with newcomers. One thing that has re-emerged as an obvious things from this year is d and i’s great difference in social interactions. As I write this, he is at a new writer’s workshop he has organized for poets just down the road at our friend Simon’s – a journalist and poet from New Zealand. The congregated are going to read poetry, give feedback; walk around the haunted lake and write on spec. I am delighted they are doing it but I could never – I would feel so squeamish though I might meet up for a drink with some of them at the local izakaya one minute from here a bit later in the evening once I have finished writing this. Physically I just couldn’t do it right now, anyway (I feel this knee replacement has done something to my whole skeleton, so out of balance I feel like like a de-backboned python ) nor mentally – I like my interactions one on one. D, as I am sure I have written before, is a social butterfly with no hang ups in that regard and will meet anyone. He simply doesn’t have my (osteo) porosity. He likes new people.
Which is how we ended up spending one evening with a lovely English girl from Kendall – I knew she was from there because my previous partner, a certain Nick Chapman I was with for six months at Cambridge many many moons ago – had exactly the same mint cake burr specific to that area in the north. She was very cool, and had just released her first English translation of a novel by Izumi Suzuki, ‘Set My Heart On Fire’, a nihilistic exploration of a woman in the 1970’s Yokohama groupie scene I had happened to have already read a review of in The Japan Times the day before; I envied her young confidence and unforced charm; we kind of hit it off.
Her perfume though: I could never have personally identified it as Hywl; I was just so transfixed by the atmosphere she was giving off I eventually had to ask her. Like a picture with the ideal frame, it set her off perfectly; self-containing her inner confidence, a girl who had recently spent months just ‘being’ in Chile because she liked all the space and the mountains of Santiago and the Atacama desert and thought she would pick up another language while she was at it, and she had a distance about her – a quiet magnetism- that the perfume brought out succinctly. The chypricity of Hywl on her skin – honestly fascinating- was set at precisely the right volume – and brought out a backdrop of intelligence and ‘you will never know me unless I let you’.
I suppose I could do with trying to be more subtle myself in this Helenish way . People might have been coughing on the bus with my ambry spiceness last night (they actually were). Sorry but I couldn’t help it and am going to wear the same combo tonight. I very carefully took my paces out in the rain last night (I can walk without a stick when I want to impress friends with my progress), but I was loving the vibe my own unidentifiable sillage was giving off – certainly not immediately categorizable at any rate (unlike the characters in that film last night, who were either machine gun toting pregnant revolutionaries or repellent smelling white supremacists – Leo himself clearly stinking in his filthy plaid dressing gown and greasy hair – there was no subtlety in that film overall whatsoever and it eventually grated the goat. Which I know is probably precisely the point intended. Sometimes satire needs to paint the picture in very broad strokes so that the audience at large – they are hoping to fill out the multiplexes and teach them a lesson – can ‘get it’. To understand the message (that We Are Living In Dangerous Times, Baby – oh really? I hadn’t noticed. ). And it was funny: the action packed, brilliantly choreographed second of the third hours having me on the edge of my seat thinking wow this is like 70’s Scorcese – so beautifully filmed and propulsive. Quite entertaining. Still, the ending was, for me at least, too moronically basic. Which is also how I don’t want perfume to be. I need complexity. I need resonance, style, subversion even – Hywl had that,on both of the women described above. Why not put a few intuitively felt plot twists into your own life story to escape the obvious and boring we are so surrounded with on a daily basis, wear what is not expected; not resorting to what is typical and prescribed and deathly dull. No: give me something to think about. Immerse me in ambiguity.
I sometimes feel there is a poltergeist here. Yes, I know I am clumsy. But recently things have got a little strange. The other morning I was standing bleary eyed about to make a cup of earl grey – and when I poured in some hot water to heat up the standard IKEA glass vessel – I don’t do tepid – it actually EXPLODED. Not cracked, but like a bomb had gone off. The fragments were everywhere and looked like tiny pieces of ice.
It was good that I had my glasses on — I could have been Eyeless St Claire. Which I don’t need right now : it is bad enough moving around as it is without turning into a Thelma from Scooby Doo.
I think I just gasped when it happened – and then burst out laughing. As I did earlier when my cardamom rooibos fused with my Prive Eclat de Jasmin – making them both unusable – but a bit Marcel Duchamp.
Other oddities have been happening : things tossing themselves off supermarket shelves as I approach, various weird (tele)kinesis – but let’s not forget that Brian De Palma’s Carrie is easily my favourite film of all time and that as a young adolescent I taped the audio of Tobe Hooper’s Poltergeist and learned every word of it off by heart. Am I Carole-Anne about to be sucked into the television ?
I have been out of hospital for a few weeks now, trying to manage on this peg leg with its excruciatingly tight tendons and muscles and to get on with daily life; walking the block on my cracklesticks pretending it isn’t as painful as it actually is and deeply missing being able to ride my bike. It’s a good job I do like being at home, even if the solitude gets to me sometimes and beers cannot avoid being cracked open on the balcony to at least escape into a reverie. I have done lots of work on my Japan book, which is starting to shape up into something even if there is still a very long way to go.
Because of the allergic rash I developed back in the deepest swelters of August – it was still boiling even yesterday even if it has (sadly) started to cool off into temperatures that normal people would prefer – I haven’t been able to wear deodorant, at least not in the left pit. I tried it once or twice, but it stang sharply and the spots rushed back in a jiffy, which means that I am left with a tang of B.O in that area that probably isn’t suitable for polite society :the right one I am using a natural ‘Salt Of The Earth’ stick a friend of mine gave me, which I can also use in small amounts on the left as well as long as I use an anti-histamine before going out -to physio (oh yes, this is the thing; contradictory advice from different doctors and rehabilitation therapists – walk, don’t walk, rest, be active; one of them rattles my patellas about like glass marbles in a bag – others would never touch it – it’s all so confusing).
That said, from the outside, at least cosmetically, on a good day it all looks perfectly fine and my friends have been astounded by my progress – I probably should not have gone to karaoke on Saturday night though, nor danced – what the hell was I thinking? – the joint is more like a basted Sunday roast now than a leg, and I ice it as I write this.
But back to armpits. I don’t intrinsically hate the smell, I must say – it is manly, full bodied, not sour or ill smelling, and I discovered that wearing an ‘old’ perfume from 2018, Keahia by Sarah Ireland, compliments it quite perfectly. You will probably be surprised to see me writing positively about wood scents as I do usually hate them – especially synthetic ambers, obviously, but Keahia is a cleverly blended melange of musky vetiver, cedar – though it smells like sandalwood – and a rounding of oud, but in the warm, animal way, not the cheap nastiness that calls itself that and streaks through virtually every contemporary perfume now. There is a floral cushioning of iris and osmanthus as well, but essentially Keahia is an extremely robust, yet gentle offering that has suited this rather feral smelling era of my life down to the ground. With good incense burning in the house, I admit to finding it all rather intoxicating.
After a hospital check up one day (‘You are are doing great! Look at how the scar is healing! Look at your flexibility and leg straightening capacity!) – “Thanks’, he says, as he crunches his malignant oak tree out the door and back to the station – I decided to have a quick sniff at some perfumes to launch myself back into society a bit and to have something to write about except the horrors of stiffening orthopaedica. Some terribly dull new Tom Fords, or new for me – Rose Exposed, Oud Voyager, which were fine in the top but whose bases were banal beyond measure (give me Keahia any day!) : the eyebrowless peroxided assistant at Nose Shop with a million piercings led me to Underground Vibes – ‘try this, this is interesting’ – and watched me simultaneously eye widen and take a couple of steps back.
Ah, I see. This is a full on marijuana perfume, with a touch of synthetically created B.O in the mix, just like the rank goaty smells that would naturally be emanating from some underground joint in Berlin. Clever, Mr Antoine Lie : dirtier than what I normally associate with that perfumer, and quite convincing. Though I would rather die than wear this personally, having a visceral dislike of that herb on every level – you sometimes even smell it rebelliously sneaking out of some invisible space in Japan despite its extreme illegality and I wonder why anyone would even bother risking it- in other countries it is far more ubiquitous I know but the scent goes straight to the pit of my stomach and makes me feel sick at quite a strong, needling level. Still, it works- I can imagine the tiniest soupcons of this perfume on a fashionable young individual striking an intriguing aura in the air around them – even if I find the name – so lame, so literal! – to be unbearably gauche. ‘Underground Vibes’? I much prefer the smell of my one man dungeon at home .
In many ways this a revolting fragrance. It still gives me the pit of the stomach jitters – the lychee/ cassis cat peed on my saturday night costumevibe.
But I have developed something of an obsession with it. So knowing the rarity – and that I could secure a couple of bottles cheaply, hamstrings tautened like about to break violas notwithstanding — my visiting friend and I went to secure a stash.
