
Just packing up the suitcase for mine and D’s costumes for tonight’s Marc Almond concert at Billboard Tokyo. The scent is going to be a velenous mix of Vintage Dior Poison and flower of death, Flos Mortis by Rogue. Say Hello, Wave Goodbye.


Just packing up the suitcase for mine and D’s costumes for tonight’s Marc Almond concert at Billboard Tokyo. The scent is going to be a velenous mix of Vintage Dior Poison and flower of death, Flos Mortis by Rogue. Say Hello, Wave Goodbye.

Filed under Faux Toxic, Floriental, Last Sunday in Tokyo, MY FUNNY VALENTINE, Tuberose

Quite delighted that Perfume is now being sold at the Lush Perfume Library/ Megastore in London, Oxford Street alongside the likes of Persolaise, Luca Turin, Mandy Aftel, and a whole bibliotheque of olfactory treasure written troves and apothecary essential oil ephemera.
Quite pleased, also, to be stocked directly in close proximity to such a weird, subversive / divisive, attractant / repellent erotic classic …….. ….Breath Of God.
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I love perfumes like this.
Packing up Z’s collection (they are driving down now as we speak from Tokyo and I am going to take them out to lunch), I am trying a few last things before all the precious fragrances are carted away forever. I vaguely remember reading about Or Noir – Black Gold – in the original Luca Turin Le Guide, and it is a lovely, delicate, lucent floral teetering on the edge of chypre : may rose fuelled by narcissus, muguet and ylang; a quiet shine of oakmoss and a hint of clove, with a dry allegation of vanilla (and possibly patchouli); so flawlessly understated and blended and put together ; so elegant.
(sigh)
Filed under Chypre

I had promised myself I wouldn’t write anything today as I am feeling mind-wiped, but seeing this just-out-in-Nippon release in Takashimaya ( a take no prisoners, self confidently fresh and sharp mandarin tuberose neroli that she would never wear in a million years though I might ), I am simply putting this up to pique the amusement of my best friend Helen – who is anything but heartless

– though she can be severe and cut to the core and tell it like it is because she seems to understand me better than possibly anybody else: a soul twin, telepathic understanding that, though we speak far too little ( as we are both lazy and crap ) we know, as long as we remain intact, we will always have.
( the picture above is H giving me a pep talk before my Perfume Lovers London talk of 2014 ….. god how time so quickly flies……)
Helen has talked me through many a difficult situation: like my mother (in the earthquake, my operation, both were amazing ) they tell me just the right combination of reality and boost. A hotwire to my sensibility; fraternal umbilical straight to my fevered, potholed brain.

We are also both hypochondriacs. So god knows how she would feel being here where I am today, in Yokohama,; the biggest China Town in all of Asia, where a cruise ship is quarantined off shore walking distance from where I have lessons with passengers coming down like flies with the coronavirus, and where, as you can see, masks are selling out and there is a very uneasy feel in the air – as there is globally – as people are wondering what to believe, and whether they are over or underreacting; where being on packed trains feels unpleasant and dangerous, and where tempers get frayed —
– —- my ragged own, especially ( I had an argument with my closest Japanese male friend on the bus earlier this afternoon. about a common colleague who was espousing theories the other day about only the ‘weak’ being in danger of contracting the virus and being very arrogantly ‘unconcerned’ about the illness – —- so would that include me, then? having had very serious pneumonia in my left lung twice before ; I didn’t like the almost Nietzschean Ubermensch implications of what he was saying (and what of the immune stressed sleep deprived students, just before the most important exams of their lives ?); my friend said it was a linguistic misunderstanding: I responded with something below the belt about the man’s appearance…., oh when I get on the defensive I can be very venomous ; bile slips from my tongue with slippered ease.,.. …. never mind Heartless Helen; it is more like Noxious Neil (so should I wear the partner in the set, then : the devilish and dastardly woody tobacco scent, Terrible Ted? )
No : I think Helen would suit me much better : we need proud nosegays in these pestilential times; bright flowers (Penhaligons calls this a ‘fearless conquistador’), and everybody knows that I love oranges. don’t think about it, H would say, rationalize, hone in to the very best perspective; reverse or brake my hysteria —- ———- or at the very least, just try and steer me towards a more pacified lucidity





Filed under art and politics, autobiography, B0RN TO BE TROPICAL, Bitch, Flowers, FUCK EVERYTHING, I really do have a bad feeling about all of this, incomplete perfume reviews, inexplicable happenings, Japan, JAPAN PHOTOGRAPHY, LUXURIANCE, Neroli, neurotic meltdowns, occasionally sickening scents, PERFUME AND PERFORMANCE, postcards from the edge, pretentious aesthetes, Psychodrama, Rare, religious hatred and death, SCANDAL, SELF-OBSESSION, this is not a perfume review, Tuberose, Uncategorized, Urine, Vietnam travelogue, when an artist spins in his grave, Writing

Spotted yesterday. Delectably sweet, fragrant strawberries wrapped in plastic, contained in a plastic, pre-giftable box, at ¥500 yen a pop ( for ONE : approximately five dollars ). A small punnet was ¥2700; a papaya for the day, ¥1500.
I have written about exorbitant fruit prices before in my Neela Vermeire Bombay Bling review ( behold, the ¥5000 mangoes !): a Yubari melon can reach up to a million.
Meticulouslly cultivated; blemish-free, the fruit fetishized equivalent of Kobe Beef.
Filed under Flowers

Guerlain is more gorgeous, Chanel more chic, but there are few – if any – perfume houses more elegant than Hermès.
While I have long enjoyed the beauteous Calèche, it was only a couple of years ago that I first came to know that perfume’s similarly well bred, but slightly more brooding and restless alter ego, Amazone, both of which, in eau de toilette (pictured) I picked up in Tokyo after an exquisite afternoon of listening to koto music at a 1920’s tea house in Shibamata.
Amazone’s uniqueness, I have come to understand, having encountered this DELIGHTFUL vintage eau de parfum lent to me by Z ( a warmer, mossier pulse that goes straighter to the heart, the edt greener and matinal) and which I will admit I wore a little of today for a much needed day out with the D in the big city, is in its curious tension between a coy green chamois vetiver and oakmoss; sandalwood; contained; sweet, aldehydic – with a hint of the outdoors and a blushing rebellion; freshened with a piercing hyacinth, galbanum, jonquil, black currant bud and narcissus; questioningly erotic and refined.
Filed under Floral Aldehydic Chypres





As I work my way prodigiously through Z’s vintage perfume collection I discover new (but old) things. One such essence is Elizabeth Taylor’s legendary White Diamonds, which I smelled in vintage extrait for the first time last night, pouched in its little black felt coochy bag, resplendent as a Fabergé egg. My eyes widened with desire as I carefully

unstoppered the bottle to smell a scintillating liquid containing everything : as though Ysatis were a minted American tourist travelling in Versailles.

The thing is gorgeous.
Full, rounded (‘Egyptian tuberose’, narcissus, jasmine, all the flowers, you name them, over woods and musks and aldehydes and violets and sandalwood and amber and musks),

‘ the fragrance dreams are made of’.

At least initially.









Soon, though still beautifully constructed by Carlos Benaim (Carolina Herrera, Red Door, Flowerbomb); a familiarly smug and soignée presence emerges: that of the self-satisfied woman of a certain age without a glimmer of doubt, not a hair’s breadth, of who she will be voting for come November’s election. You hear her slam her SUV shut; lock the big white gate behind her. Lights out.





AT THIS POINT WHITE DIAMONDS MAKES ME WANT TO SCREAM.







I cannot hear the word Possession and not think of the electrifying film by Andrzej Żuławski from 1981 in which Isabelle Adjani and Sam Neill brilliantly out-Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton themselves as a married couple plummeting into psychosis in Cold War Berlin, an extended allegory on the fury of love; an apotheosis. It is a film once seen, never forgotten, the pivotal scene where Adjani torments into full throttled hysteria in a train tunnel jaw-dropping to behold, the conclusion agonizing.



The very idea of possession is terrifying. Not only demonic, but also romantic. Being ‘possessed’ by someone. I always find songs about lovers not wanting to breathe or sleep, or be away from their beloveds for even one second extraordinarily creepy – Aerosmith’s Don’t Want To Miss A Thing being the worst contender : “I Don’t want to close my eyes…….”; the idea of another person staying up all night watching you; people ‘making love’ all night long, wearing each other out, it could almost make you yearn for a Gwyneth unconscious uncoupling (and let’s not begin a conversation about her erotic candle).
Fortunately, Possession the perfume is not excessively possessive nor will require you to dial up the local exorcist, but is rather a very clingy floral aldehyde in the manner of all of those perfumes like Lanvin’s My Sin and any other Ernst Beaux doppelgängers that inherit the earth like zombies somnambulating across the perfumed landscape wide-eyed in search of the original Chanel No 5, which this is quite obviously emulating. Sweet, precious, this perfume is very heartfelt and lovely; musky and floral, but
SORRY I NEED SOME FRESH AIR


