The Black Narcissus

Japan knows how to put on a festival. By rights, we would usually be hearing the familiar patterns of the taiko drumming local children practicing hard for the O-Bon local festival usually held on the first weekend of August. With the arid drone of grasshoppers, crickets and flittering cicadas, this sound forms a natural part of summer. Like last year, and like many unique and often spectacular ancient festivals celebrated across the country, this year’s has been cancelled.

I think I would have really enjoyed the Tokyo 2020 Olympics. It was exciting to be back in the UK during the summer nine years ago for London 2012 – there was a special, celebratory, upbeat and positive atmosphere that was palpable. I was home for Rio 2016 and enjoyed that too. Although not a sport person, there is still something about watching athletes at the top of their game and the meticulous obsession with the medal tables that is undeniably rousing. I know that Japan would have gone all out: Fujisawa, where the sailing starts this weekend, Yokohama, Tokyo, everywhere would have be in full everyone out-at-the -food stalls, drinking beer and fanning themselves in the sunshine mode: visitors would have explored and hugely enjoyed all that traditional and contemporary Japanese culture has to offer (Tokyo and Yokohama are fantastic cites ); the economy would have been given a boost; like 1964 it would surely have been a very memorable, even exultant and jubilant, event.

Instead, the coronavirus happened. And is happening. We can’t change that. But the conservative Japanese government could, I am sure, have expedited the vaccine approval process. That the inoculations came about six months after other countries, simply due to overcaution and what I consider to be a xenophobic exceptionalism regarding the Japanese population and ‘foreign vaccines’, has left the games spectatorless and with embarrassingly flimsy safety protocols ( I am not usually much of a fan of the fascistic, but here we could have done with rules that are far more draconian : : : no vaccine, no participation on any level); a huge money loss except for the corporations with broadcasting rights : a skeleton in the place of full flesh and blood exhilaration.

I have no doubt that, lax disease control aside, the Olympics will be a general organizational success. The televised events will bring excitement and pleasure to their intended audience. Winners will rejoice; losers be unconsoled. And realistically, given the pandemic situation globally, overseas spectators could never have attended : it would simply have been too dangerous. Locals, however, could have thronged the stadiums, and would have, with infectious enthusiasm. Japanese people are famously good hosts: it could have been amazing.

But because of ossified, bureaucratic incompetence, entrenched bias, and logistical failures, right now the Olympics are a behemoth – a nuisance – that hardly anyone here actually wants. To some they even seem like an existential threat.

At least, I suppose, we have Tokyo, a new ( delayed?) release by popular domestic brand Sabon to remind us what might have been- a grassy, pear and lemon raspberry-jasmine clean musk shampoo confection that encapsulates exactly how young people here want to smell; fresh, fruity, dynamic; fashionable. Not great perfumery, but certainly attractive; likeable. This would have been the scent of the air-conditioned trains in the metropolis, fans gathering in groups to make a day and night of it; visitors from other countries – participants and their entourages, handlers, journalists, not restricted to their cabins but venturing out into the neon-lit labyrinths, who might have strayed into a Sabon shop by chance and bought bottles of this perfume as a special memento : a souvenir.

Anyway. Imagine how nice it must be to have Thierry Wasser’s job: keys to the vaults to revive old recipes ( aside the commercial pressures to come up with jolie fille hits like Ma Petite Robe Noire and Mon Guerlain). A sunny July afternoon spent in a chilly dungeon – I imagine lit tallow candles, yellowing manuscripts : Aime and Jacques’ secret perfume anatomy; meetings a trois with fellow Guerlaineurs and Guerlaineuses on which of the long disappeared perfumes to bring back for the eternally novelty-craving manic parfum collectors.

Will a reconstruction be a lithe Frankenstein, slightly ‘off’ as I imagine reconstitutions of ye olde formulae to be? How could we mere mortals ever know what the original was actually like?

Whatever the new Kadine is like – soft; spicy;

– courtesy of Parfumo: too tired and lazy to type it all out myself –

-I can’t deny it would be lovely to saunter down the Champs Elysees and pick up a telephone reserved bottle just for the hell of it: had I 690 euros available to shell out at my caprice. It does sound nice. Anything of the L’Heure Bleue genus is fine with me.

With Delta in the air!

Note windows : aggressively opened by me.

There are students going down with Covid now in D’s school. The teachers there are all unvaccinated. Thank God that he, at least, has had the first one…

Happy Wednesday !

The smell of dirty, unwashed hair is repellent. The smell of frolicking, freshly shampooed hair can also be overwhelming if the product is overscented, as many conditioners, ‘treatments’ and shampoos do tend to be these days. I find all the Pantenes, Luxes, the Doves and wimpy Timoteis quite often to be too much*. Sometimes these perfumed hair soaps eat the air all around them, destroying perfume in their wake. At other times, the ‘sillage’ is enough in itself, as individuals swish by, and you smile at the cozy, blowdried breeze from a mane that seems to be somehow emanating, as the bloodstream pulses under the skin, the person deeper within.

Today I used a special ‘men’s shampoo and conditioner set, ‘Clear’, that made my crummy barnet look slightly fuller; more wavy Mediterranean. I liked the visuals – the sweller texture; a ‘because it gives me confidence’ kind of sensation : even ten hours later I can tell my locks are giving good scent – I smell clean as old Lizzy. At the same time, the whole Clairol aurora makes me feel like an impostor. That I’m not wearing my hair, but that my hair is wearing me.

As perfume lovers, do you also consider these things; how scent and the shampoo and hair products you use will inevitably mix ? (I quickly realized this afternoon that there was no point being perfumed, the scent of this ‘scalp soap’ being so potent): or do you just bathe, in the overall general blend, twirling your haircurtain like Chewbacca in L’Oreal ?

*I miss the lemony citrus, grease-stripping Boots shampoos my mother used to use in the seventies……absolute bath time bliss.

So clean you could hear your hair squeak.

Two hot sunny days; blue skies; heavenly. Just sitting and listening to music and drinking cava on the balcony, losing ourselves in that summer happiness feeling.

I have just been on a long bike ride around the area we live and I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed and carefree. Flowers everywhere – like this lily I picked illegally from the roadside ( but they are in such abundance it would be morally wrong not to); spotted orange lilies; orchids; it’s so lush.

I realized as I was riding along – drenched in Lush’s bizarre Sappho, which to me smells like salty lilies but is in fact apparently a jasmine tobacco vanilla iris that I am really enjoying today; it feels plush and pinkly aromatic, cushioned with absolutes and yet almost blaringly fresh – – and some intuitively, anti-intuitively applied Jasmin-Lilas,by Jean Jacques Brosseau, intensely floral, which all bifurcated beautifully with all the yellow and blue of the air around me– – that I have been in an olfactory straitjacket of my own making; nothing but citrus, green tea and vetiver for god knows how long; (a year?): nice, it has worked – I bought another bottle of the excellent Jo Malone for Zara Vetiver Pamplemousse the other day which suits me to perfection – but it wasn’t until today when I suddenly felt like flourishing and stamening outwards (I nearly added some Tom Ford Tubereuse Nue to boot, today,that flower also nudging its way inexorably into my flower conscious – a few days ago I was l semi-delirious – literally – when wearing Meo Fusciuni’s heavy, leather tuberose Odor 93 on a tumultuously grey muggy day…it was so hypnotic and pleasureable it was like autosuggestion – gorgeous); presumably all of this tied in to the newer freedoms that hopefully await: a sense of coming out of a long, very horrible, dark tunnel.

I want all the flowers. Ylang ylang, tiare, Indian jasmine. Maybe some gardenia. It’s been a while since I have felt like this. I suppose you suppress certain desires during more difficult periods; sometimes, admittedly, I have come home at night and after a shower felt like a 90’s sandalwood floral showstopper such as Ferre De Ferre just as an uninhibited, thick-waisted contrast to the day, but right now I am in fully perfumed effulgent mode, for daytime as well; the scent of Coppertone suntan lotion melding with tropical white flowers. That saline sun-kiss feeling on the skin. Sweating flower oils. Yes. This is what we want.

With the season already upon us, it will also soon be time to go to the sea. There are several options: the beaches at Kamakura, more commercial; younger in scope, and those near the Emperor’s Summer House in Hayama, Zushi; a more beautiful stretch of coastline, if a little more difficult to reach. It’s always worth it though. I can’t wait to just dive into the water and then fry on the sand.

If I do, a perfume that will be perfect for such an occasion will be Bain De Midi, a recent tropical flower perfume I discovered by a brand I was unfamiliar with – Parfum Matine – until I smelled it the other day at Nose Shop in Yokohama. This was definitely Pleasure At First Sniff. Catherine, have you smelled this one? Ooh mama. For those who love a good ylang ylang note, the way we do, this is delightful -a trio of coconut, tiare flower, and undulant, creamy ylang; all glandular goodness, teenage simplicity, and very natural, ocean-side happiness. I am going to go back and try this again from beginning to end, to make sure there are no bloopers in the mix – it seemed woodier in the fade out on paper, and I must check for these things; but I really was quite smitten with the beginning. I might need it. With the lessening of constriction, I am ready – with gorgeous, mood-enhancing carefreenesses like this – to just spray……… . and let go.

Yesterday it was so dark, dank, rainy and gloomy it was difficult to speak. In fact no one was speaking at work, just lost in their own worlds. The humidity must have been at 100% : absolute saturation.

In the crowded hell that was Yokohama station, negotiating my bags and umbrella and self into the freezing air conditioned space of the main new department store, I went up quickly to the Kungyokudo incense shop to grab some sandalwood. The conversation on patchouli incense the other day got me craving some byakudan; drying and grounding when it seems that the damp and the fungal pall will last at least another week ( our house is a mould box right now; not visibly, but you can feel it); the supermarkets all promoting kyabikyilla – mould killing sprays as the rain continues, although sun is forecast tomorrow and from Friday so maybe it’s the end of the rainy season soon: the start of the hot searing sun.

Nice though it is, this incense – nothing but sandalwood , it would seem, is a tad perfunctory, and not really worth the ¥3000 that I paid for it. I will certainly use it, and I liked how it temporarily masked the smells I wanted to mask, but I think I would need to have a proper mooch around my local Buddhist shop in Fujisawa to get a more soulful and nuanced sandalwood blend at some other time.

Right now I am too busy. The summer seminar is coming soon, and I heard on Wednesday that my book is getting a second printing so am in the process of doing corrections of typos and repetitions (any glaring ones please let me know : I have until tonight). Our belated applications for the vaccine from Kamakura City Office arrived this morning:; I am glad that ours are already in the bag ( we are having our second ones together on July the 25th). Delighted, also, that the announcement has just been made that there will be no spectators at the Olympic Games.

Finally, some common sense.

Every few months or so I buy a box of Seiun incense. A simple, every day ‘family shrine’ incense blend of benzoin, camphor and patchouli, far less expensive than the more upscale artistanal temple incense featuring sandalwood or agar, I then have a ritual, at night, of dripping patchouli essential oil, drop by drop, onto the sticks, covering as much as possible (my favourites are the ones that are completely black: one day I will buy many bottles at once and make a threnody of the substance, as patchoulish as a witch).

When lit, the effect as the smoke hangs in the air, is pure patchouli. I know from trial and experimentation that this process doesn’t work with vetiver, cedarwood, vanilla, or any number of other essential oils I have tried – the scent becomes altered and unpleasant. With patchouli, though, it is almost as if the material were designed for this very use, the effect mind altering; pungently dark and earthy, twisty and sinuous, an arid, soil-like purification of the air that is more than a match for the current gloom of the moist, malingering rainy season where all is damp; green, almost constantly raining; humid and overgrown (see our ‘hydrangea bower’ in the top picture where we sit on the street and drink coffee watching people passing by on sunny days). On occasion, over the years, in small packages I have sent some of this double bind of patchouli of mine through to people – to Tora, to Pissara in Paris, D’s mum, Helen (Georgia, I think you definitely need some) – patchouli lovers lover it: it lingers in a room, dry and mitigating like a beautiful cold accusation.

Currently, we are also in a suspended state. The rain dampens everything, and yet I find myself partially in the mood for it. Waiting for this period to be over, while also wanting to live it. The Olympics are soon to be held, even as the Delta variant of the coronavirus is starting to spread; some athletes already taking it with them to the training villages that they are staying in and infecting local inhabitants. I feel like staying in as much as possible. We have been immersed in an eerie film we are making, in which I drown like Ophelia in the painting by Millais: weekends are spent in filming and editing; not really straying from the house; I lost my sense of smell and taste temporarily, but this was from being submerged in the bath surrounded by flowers and foliage ripped from the front garden rather than from a Covid diagnosis. Mad as this probably sounds, we need some artistic catharsis from all the accumulated stress and are absolutely in our element. The results are exciting. Thursday, though, with biting reality, I got a message from D at school: “Bad news. Our vaccinations have been cancelled due to a lack of supply”: an alarming turn of events that is now, in fact, transpiring across much of Japan as local authorities are forced to say no even to people in the 60-65 age bracket due to logistical mismanagement and a failure to secure enough doses by the hapless central government, who are about to let 90,000 people from abroad into the country with very few restrictions on their movement (the word that always gets used in this situation, in our household anyway, is pathetic. My god it’s pathetic‘.) P A T H E T I C, and also potentially lethal.

At any rate, the fact that the teachers in his school were asked instead to ‘try and get a vaccine somehow over the August summer break’ set my pulse racing on Friday. Fend for yourself, basically. It was all set in my mind that even though it was a bit close to the edge, he was set to get his first Moderna jab on July 24th, the day after the Opening Ceremony, and then we would proceed from there, seven months after our families had their injections back in the UK: to thus have the rug pulled from under your feet in this way is not very pleasant. It is not even that either of us is cowardly, afraid of getting the flu, or flu-like symptoms. Staying in bed for a few days with hot aches can almost be pleasurable in a sick kind of way; you just sleep it off and then feel rejuvenated afterwards. It is the extremities, your hands and feet, shrivelling and turning black as you die from lack of oxygen, the organ failure; the ventilators – plastic contraptions forced into your lungs which, even if you manage to survive, cause so much damage to the surrounding tissue that you have to have rehabilitation just for that. The brain fog. The stomach cramps. The debilitation. A friend sent me an email yesterday saying that a friend of hers has already had Covid once and now – he didn’t get vaccinated – has got horrible swollen glands like golf balls in his neck from having tested positive for Delta. NO THANKYOU. I will do anything to avoid being in this situation.

In kinetic, rational, fully proactive mode, at work the next day on Friday, I set about trying to get D onto my work vaccination program – still in progress – as next of kin. No problem. No issue – I was impressed with the modernity of the situation; D was considered a spouse, and one of my Japanese colleagues did his absolute best to see if there was a place on the waiting list for cancellations – every day there are three or four (some teachers are put off by the reports of some of the aches in your arm that you get from the injection (hello? compare that to liver failure or your muscle tissue atrophying in your legs or not being able to breathe); others are abiding by the rule that if you are feeling under par, you shouldn’t have the vaccination on that day. All the more for us then.

Jubilation. Yes! It turned out that there was a spot the very next day, on Saturday. So off we went to the centre of Yokohama, to the place where they were doing the jabs – there wasn’t even a line; we were in and out; vaccinated, it had happened, and then we wandered around the city in a happy weekend daze until we came across a building where a decade or so ago we had held a couple of dance parties, a place that had now turned into a Nepalese restaurant, where we sat on the rooftop garden, just the two of us, breathing many sighs of relief over a slow and delicious lunch. We will both have had the second vaccination – we have been guaranteed a set of two – by the end of July. Two weeks after that, we will potentially be able to feel protected enough to even go on a short trip; to some seaside town, maybe; though we are not going to be taking any chances. Though nothing like the situation in Brazil and Peru and elsewhere, with the ‘Olympics’ threatening to cause superspreader events, this is still definitely the time to be quite vigilant (“probably, a maximum of 5,000 people will allowed into some of the venues!” the organizers tell us! (though last week it was “10,000”! ) Also; no one is legally required to have had the vaccine…..What? Duncan gets furious whenever he talks about this: It is all a form of total insanity that plenty of my friends here, enraged that profits for broadcasting rights and sponsorship deals are taking priority over the lives of the people in the country, are ranting and raving about like you wouldn’t imagine; people I know scrambling desperately to find somewhere they can get the injections before the virus is delivered to every corner of suburbia on the trains that go from the heart of Tokyo like arteries and veins into the surrounding cities, towns, and districts; one friend of mine fortunately lucky enough to have had a contact who got him in at the Swedish embassy even though he is Canadian. All quite shambolic and dangerous.

Anyway. I have tried. I like to think I am not an entirely selfish person. I have attempted to open windows on buses and trains wherever I can: I make sure my students are always wearing masks and as spaced out as is feasible, and I do worry about the populations at large, here, and back home in England and everywhere else as well. But there is only so much I can do. Right now, I am looking after my own household. I am concerned, but am just going to hold tight. Alone. I just want to sit here in silence, with the rain outside of my window; the pall of water and mist hanging over everything, and sit, with my slowly billowing patchouli incense.

I have lost my sample of this perfume. On the day it arrived, I was anything but in a state of luxe, calme and volupté. So I thought I would save it instead for the weekend, putting it aside in some now forgotten place. Prior to this scurrying away, however (my curiosity getting the better of me, as it always does), I had sprayed semi-voluptuous amounts of the scent vial onto some of the crepe tissue paper that accompanied the package; and secreted those away in a box.

On the dark rainy day in question, getting ready for work, in stark, rational mode of mind, slow, insinuous trails of Francesca Bianchi’s newest scent kept finding their way to me through the room like sweating, erotic tendrils.: I was aroused, distracted. This perfumer really thinks long and hard about her base accords – unusual in these olfactory times of shallow superficiality – which are unusually rich and long-lasting on skin; addictive.

The new Baudelairean episode – a poem taken from the nineteenth century poet’s langoruous anthology Les Fleurs Du Mal, is presumably provoked by a much longed for (and needed) sinking into the self; the pleasures of the senses and interiority, the privacy of sex, after all the haemorrhaging neuroticism and angst of this last year in which we bled out like water into the cold realities of the greater world. A refuge in sensuality and the re-discovery of the body, Luxe is an opoponax-sandalwood kissed through with benzoin and iris, sungolden ylang; vetiver, and tropical fruit; the frank carnality of the blend, in its later stages, taking me back to some of the the 80’s and 90’s amber/resinous white flower divas such as Jean Patou Sublime, or the original Moschino Moschino : : buttery temptresses arranged on white furs.

I was ‘troubled’ the very second I first smelled this blend – even though I was ironing my shirt at the time and thinking about grammar. Something about it goes straight – simplistically – to the pleasure centres – even if the prolonged and dusty bitter hiss of the green tangerine/ galbanum and hyacinth opening accord, which I was less keen on – vines of cold fire reminiscent of the harsh, petrolic ginger notes in some mid-period Goutals such as Un Matin D’Orage, will prove jarring for some. Bianchi seems to really be urging you to settle in with this one; breathe in the full vista; the dawn vapours of a tropical island, steam rising up from the poisonous undergrowth – – she wants us to take our time.

As I said, I haven’t yet tried this on skin – because I can’t find the perfume. But I have my instincts about these things, and I have no doubt that on many people, especially certain women, this rich and dense luscious scent will – due to, or in spite of, the glaring tropes of its sun-tanned, dangling gold/white-open bloused femme fatalisms – prove sexually irresistible.