krememaster

[sunlightmurdock]

AETERNA | One

PROLOGUE | MASTERLIST

SYNOPSIS: TROUBLE COMES TO TOWN.

WARNINGS: smoking; the fic takes place in the 70s and so 70s era things will happen; smoking weed; mentions of sw as a joke; this fic has mature themes and is intended for adults, minors pls dni. spooky stuff. word count: 6312.

The summer in Atwood, Georgia, began as all summers in Atwood always had. Slow. Creeping in through the remaining breezes, blooms and spring showers. Fitting itself into the days so unsuspectingly. It never feels like it’s really summer until the sweat is already beading down your back and the girls’ skirts are an inch shorter than they were a year before.

There’s a spot around the back of Creekside Pines Retirement Village, covered by the shade of those namesake pines, where the girls who work there go to smoke. The Pines has been around longer than any of the residents currently in it; the Church started it decades ago and they made sure to keep it going.

Tucked under the shade of those thick, green pine trees, the branches provide a respite from the approaching early summer sun and also from your dirtbag boss, Conrad Wheelan.

Olive and you, you and Olive. Since Conrad hired you last September, the two of you have become quite the dynamic duo. Candy-striped partners in crime, experts at avoiding old guy sponge bath time. Smokers of cheap, gas station cigarettes. Gossipers of a truly impressive standard.

You’re sitting on opposite sides of the brick walls that bracket the stairs to the back door, your foot beside her hip and hers beside yours, your knees bent and a Marlboro between your index and middle.

“But anyway, I think she’s just jealous. He broke up with her for a reason.” Her face is veiled for a moment by tendrils of swirling cigarette smoke before the midday sun beams once again on her freckled face. She’s talking about a boy she has been fooling around with. He’s older, and he called off his engagement two months ago.

His ex really has it out for Olive. She’s a pretty little nurse at the local hospital. Her daddy went after the poor guy with a gun when the engagement broke. The ex went after Olive in the middle of Herb’s Wholefoods, shoved her right into the display of tinned peaches. But hey, your Mom got six dented tins for the price of one. Silver linings and all that jazz.

Your break was over twenty minutes ago, but the AC is broken and you’ve spent the morning choking on the smell of Eau de Old Lady — the smell of magnolias in bloom and Marlboros on fire are a much welcome change in pace.

Besides, your best friend is in crisis. She’s got a bruise the size of a not-tinned, regular ol’ peach in the middle of her back, a shattered ego, and apparently a new step-kid on the way.

“So, what’s he going to do about it?” You ask her, your face towards the sun, cigarette ash on the wall beside you.

“The baby? — I don’t know. She didn’t even want the kid until he told her he was leaving, now she’s suddenly Mother Theresa.” Olive says with a wistful sigh. Her older boyfriend got that girl in trouble and ran for the hills, but apparently he treats Olive like a princess. Your mother says she’s trouble, but you like her.

Girls like Olive will always pick the wrong kind of man. It’s that kind of No Man’s Land where human nature and fate come to make out — and that’s not Olive’s fault — she’s just at their will; like a puppet. Or a hamster on a wheel.

“You know, I think you’d make a pretty boss step-mommy.” You tell her, cocking your head the way that you do when you know you’re dancing right along her nerve endings. A smile creeps across your coral- glossed lips, revealing the coral-glossed ring they have left around the butt of the cigarette.

“Oh, bite me. You know I’d rather swap places with Hughie Marshall than get stuck raising her kid.” Olive scoffs out, flicking at the cigarette with a red painted nail and bending her bruised knees. That’s quite a thing to say around here.

You didn’t know Hughie, before. Not really. His dad was the principal of your high school, but you knew him after Hughie was already back.

Apparently before his accident, Hughie was a real stud. All-American with dark hair and a bright future. Then he stepped on a landmine in Cambodia; he wasn’t even supposed to be there by the official military statement. But he was.

He doesn’t leave the house anymore. His brain’s all mashed together and he’s got a metal plate in the left side of his head. One arm and no right foot, but worse than that — no jaw. Folks say it was taken clean off in the blast. They sent him out to California for a whole bunch of surgeries, but he still looks like a guy who has been pieced back together.

But Olive’s only kidding about wanting to be in his place. No one wants to be in Hughie’s place, especially not Hughie.

Her joke isn’t the kind of thing that needs to be laughed at, your polite exhale of amusement mixes with the soft rustle of leaves, a fleeting moment of rebellion against Dictator Wheelan and his reign of terror. Each smoky exhale carries whispers of things that would make your mothers shiver, but such is the way for two girls on the cusp of freedom.

In this hidden sanctuary, on the cusp of the woods, the two of you are a united front against the elderly residents of The Pines. Rather than the bell that signaled the end of your freedom in your school days, nowadays it’s the sound of heavy leather shoes on the linoleum that signal the end of your stolen respite.

“Shit.”

“Shit.” The two of you agree, stubbing out your cigarettes and leaping up from the walls, throwing the butts into the mess of fallen foliage at the side of the building.

And at once, Conrad swings open the fire escape door and finds the two of you standing there in your candy-striped aprons, white stockings and pristinely white shoes. Like butter wouldn’t fucking melt.

He’s a towering man, maybe six foot five in his prime, but he hunches a bit from his constant slouching at his desk. He was a red- head once, but now his hair has thinned to the point of scarcity, and he’s usually got a razor rash on his neck from shaving a bit too hastily in the mornings. He knows damn well that the two of you were out here slacking.

“Ladies,” He tries, his smile tight-lipped and half frozen, like a salesman who couldn’t quite make himself look human enough to get the job. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Halbert and Mrs. Knight could use some help in the dining room.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Wheelan.” Olive hits him back with a smile that comes much more naturally, and a cool shrug of her shoulders. She’s a real girl-next-door type. It’s why the wrong kind of guy likes her so much. You’re halfway certain that her killer smile and her long legs are the only reason that Conrad hasn’t fired her yet.

“Yes, sir.” You follow suit.

He allows the both of you to dip around him and just like that, you’re locked back in with the living dead. Old folks who seem just as confused as you about how they’re still hanging on. Oh, that’s mean, really — they aren’t so bad. They’re nice to you. You listen to them.

“I like it when you wear your hair like that,” Mrs. Knight tells you, sitting back uncomfortably. Her green eyes study you, her fingers curled around a shivering china teacup. “Much better than when it's down.”

You’ve learned by now that most of the compliments in this place come with a backhand. Your chin propped up on your palm, you answer her with an amused smile.

“Maybe you could do my hair like yours one day, June,” You suggest, stacking together the remnants of her lunch so that it’ll be easier to porter back to the kitchen. She used to own her own salon down on Mayfair Lane, your mother got her first haircut from June Knight. You shoot a look across the room at Arnie Knight, who is watching you care for his wife. “Teach me how to land a guy like Arnie.”

“Oh, honey — you know my Arnie’s one of a kind.” She giggles. Your mouth twists back into a grin. He sure is. He stormed the beaches in Normandy and still found it in himself to father seven kids once he made it back. In his day, Arnie sounds like he was a stud.

There aren’t too many studs left in Atwood these days. Those boys are either wandering hallowed halls, meat-heads that will be here forever or settled six feet under. Anyone more than four years older than you is either a war hero, or they’re like Hughie Marshall.

The ones that still wake up in Cole County aren’t the kind of boys you’ll be sharing your golden years with, anyway. No, you’ve got much bigger plans for your retirement.

Napa Valley, a sprawling house with burnt orange tile overlooking a vineyard withthat your silver-fox husband who tends to you while you enjoy the fruits of his labour and spend your afternoons tipsy, waiting for the party to start that evening. Far, far from the shade of the trees that line Marsh’s Creek, beside Creekside Pines Retirement Village.

That’s one day, though. For today, the excitement stretches as far as letting Billy Cline pick you up in his true blue 1965 Chevy short bed pickup. Just like most of the guys your age that are in this town, you’ve known Billy for a long time. Your mother still thinks of him as the sweet little boy with blonde curls and overalls.

He still wears overalls, but his blonde curls are now straighter, slicked back with a generous helping of pomade. He came right from work, the auto shop in town, to pick you up.

You change shamelessly in the passenger seat of his truck as he speeds along the old road out towards the Cole County airport, shoving your uniform into your bag and wriggling into the clothing you had smuggled past your mother.

“I’m not driving you home wearing that,” Billy chortles, eyes wide and already shaking his head as you pull the knitted halter neck over your chest, your lips pursed in concentration as you fasten the tie behind your neck. “I’ll stop at the Post Office and you can walk from there.”

Exhaling and kicking the bag into the footwell, you tug open the glovebox and start to root for the sunglasses you left in here last time.

“What? You don’t dig the orange?”

You know full well that Billy’s concerns about your outfit don’t start or end with the burnt orange color of your hot pants. He scoffs loudly beside you to agree as your fingers stumble across the little plastic baggie at the back of his glovebox.

“I don’t dig that your old man threatened to slash my tires last time he saw me rollin’ with you.”

That makes you laugh. You pluck the green from the glovebox and melt back into the blue suede seats Billy had spent all of last summer fixing up.

“Fred wouldn’t hurt you.” Your father talks a big talk sometimes, maybe that’s where you can get it from, but he likes Billy and he’s not the kind of father that spends his time worrying about which boy you’re messing around with. “Might trick you into doing some yard work for him, though.”

Straight, empty road for miles ahead, Bill turns his head and looks at the bag caught between your index and middle fingers, dangling toward him like the forbidden fruit itself.

“Great, so I’ll take you home high as a kite and dressed like a hooker and he’ll invite me to water his gardenias.” He hums, reaching out and snatching the bag from you. He still has every intention of lighting up, but he knows there’s a pothole about a mile ahead and the last time he let you roll up along this road wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Come on, Bill — now,” Your white canvas sneakers are still discarded in the footwell, you kick your bare feet up onto the dash. “That’s no way to talk to your best chance at ever getting laid, is it?”

There’s a fondness in the way he rolls those steely-blue eyes at you. There’s no real destination at the end of this long, empty stretch of road. There are one of four possible spots for the two of you to pick from.

Just far enough from Conrad Wheelan, and your father’s gardenias, and the Cole County sheriff's department for the two of you to crawl into the bed of the truck, light up and wait for time to pass.

It’s no way to spend summer, really. But this is the last May that your afternoons will look like this. Next May, you’ll be thinking about Olive and Billy from the Paramount Pictures backlot. Maybe Warner Brothers, you’re not in a position to be too picky.

As a kid, you had sworn that you would pack your things and head for the hills the day that you turned eighteen. Things hadn’t worked out quite that way, but now, you’ll be sitting in the Malibu sunshine before you turn twenty-three.

“Who the fuck is that?”

You drop the bag onto the bench and follow Billy’s eyes towards the rearviewrear view mirror, fully prepared to see your Uncle Paul’s police cruiser coming up behind you. Instead, you’re met with the picture of a very small heavy hauler. Cherry-red, coming over the hill like hell on wheels. It’s illegal to drive that fast, even out here. Especially in something that big.

The house that you pass on the left has two young kids who live there, and the Whistler family let those kids play in that unfenced yard all day long. A big, red truck coming along this country road that fast… bye, bye Whistler family.

“Fuckin’ maniacs.” Billy mutters, frowning and shaking his head. It almost makes you smile. William Cline, slipping back into the weepy little boy he had once been, a stickler for the rules back then. But you don’t have time to smile.

Your knees push up onto the suede, your palm flattening against the back window, sticking to the glass with a squeak as you slide it open. That cherry red truck is a lot clearer without the filter of dust and dirt between you, and a lot less small now that it’s getting closer.

“Probably late for a delivery or something. It’s gonna try to pass you.” You realise, resting your arms over the back of the bench. Billy almost forgets why that’s important as he glances across at the way those burnt orange shorts flex around your ass.

He swallows, checks the rear-view mirror and remembers the sharp bend coming up. There aren’t any signs and it kind of comes out of nowhere, and if this jerk tries to overtake him on it, his truck is going to wind up in a ditch.

He eases his foot onto the break and considers just stopping all together, biting the inside of his cheek. Out of towners. The truck grows bigger and bigger, the engine rumbling like a growl, until it’s close enough that you can see the man behind the wheel. His hair is longish and feathery, jet-black and his face is half covered by a pair of green lensed sunglasses.

By his side is a kid, already looking at you. She has long blonde hair tied back in two braids, and a strange look on her face. Like she is excited to see you. She sits forwards in her seat and cocks her head sharply to the side, her eyes tracking you as the truck whizzes by. The sharp motion makes you pull back swiftly from the window.

Her head twists to follow until she’s out of your view and you’re blinking at the painted trailer being hauled by the truck. Maverick’s Cabinet of Mysteries. A circus. Red and white stripes and a big, shining yellow font.

“Did you see that kid?” The words spill from your lips as you brace one hand against the dashboard, watching the rest of the truck whizzes by, trying to blink that awful, jerky, movement of her neck from your mind.

“What? — No, I saw that jackass almost take my side view mirror with him.” Billy huffs out angrily, putting his foot back on the gas the second that giant trailer is past him.

It’s not the only one. Right behind the first, is another truck that appears identical. You don’t get a look at the driver, just the red and white stripes and Maverick’s Cabinet of Mysteries in that shiny red and gold font.

“Who even goes to the frickin’ circus anymore?” Billy’s care for his truck spills out in bitterness as he steadies the wheel and watches the second truck be succeeded by a third. All three of them, red and gold and white death traps, growling as they speed along the road ahead of you.

The cold feeling from the first truck has passed by, now you’re at the mercy of the sun being at its highest point, casting out heat like a blanket, warming the cab of the truck like a greenhouse.

Twisting in your seat, your lips twitch as you find that the three cargo trucks aren’t unaccompanied. Behind them is a string of vehicles, lead by a pretty far-out Chevy camper with rad burnt orange racer stripes along the side.

You look back at Billy over your shoulder. “We could.”

It’s not like there is much else to do around this place. Beats the regular Friday tune of heading down to the Empire movie theatre by Lane Street and sipping at a sugary, fizzing coke while watching a Western.

As the camper draws closer, your gaze locks on to the two people sitting in the front. A dark haired woman, her lips red and round, sucking on a lollipop with her bare feet kicked up onto the dash. Her sunglasses hide her eyes, but you know she’s looking at you.

It’s almost at the speed limit, not quite at the same terrifying speed as the trucks ahead but still warranting a ticket. In the driver’s seat is a real stone fox, broad and tanned with sunkissed brown caramel-curls and a real Burt-Reynolds-in-100-Rifles kind of moustache.

They’re driving with the windows down, cooled by the breeze in their hair like they aren’t icy enough already. Her sunglasses are round and plastic-framed, with orange lenses. So cool— so California. And him too.

Even with his more standard gold-framed caravans, his barely buttoned blue short sleeve and the equally caramel coloured dusting of chest hair spilling out, he looks like a movie star.

You’re barely aware of Billy crushing your idea beside you. “Me? — Nah. Sorry, sister, no way — lame, lame, lame.”

Doesn’t matter, you’ll be going with or without him if Mr. Movie Star is going to be there.

His white camper with the orange stripes gets close enough for you to realise that it’s not just her looking at you, he is too. It’s a little narcissistic to assume that it’s for any reason other than the way you’re already staring at them, but the thought of the two of them liking what they see — thinking maybe you could look like them — makes your coral lips stretch.

Up close, you can hear the blaring sound of their radio. A guitar riff that you remember from somewhere deep in the back of your mind, something you know you’ve heard many times before but just can’t place.

You follow them, magnetized by the draw of their eyes, planting a palm right between Billy's greased overall thighs and leaning across the bench to keep staring through the rolled-down driver’s side window.

The raven-haired woman pushes the lollipop into the hollow of her cheek and tells him something. You can’t hear it over the sound of their radio blaring out. He responds with a just-can’t-help-it kind of grinning chuckle, turning his head to look across at you.

The door was open, and the wind appeared.

The candles blew, and then disappeared.

The curtains flew, and then he appeared.

Sayin’ “Don’t be afraid.”

On all fours, looking at him like he’s the new guy at the zoo.

Come on, baby (and she had no fear).

And she ran to him (then they started to fly).

They looked backward and said goodbye (she had become like they are).

Heat gathered across your skin, that knitted late summer sunset coloured halter stretched tight across your chest, scandalous by the standards of Atwood — downright foxy if you ventured further west.

Your hair has been freed from the tidy updo that Conrad Wheelan prefers it to be in while you’re working, but not quite tamed after that. Wild and free, as the wind whips through it.

As if to try to contain your grin, you sink your teeth into the coral of your bottom lip, beaming at him anyway. Then, you lift the hand that isn’t settled between Billy’s thighs, and wiggle your fingers at him in greeting.

“What the hell are you doin’? — I can’t even see the road!” Billy complains.

Mr. Movie Star couldn’t have heard him, but he shoots a look at the complaining driver anyway. Then, his attention is yours again. Still smiling that amused smile, he lifts a tanned arm from its perch against the open window ledge, and throws up a loose peace sign across the stretch of road between you. His passenger laughs around her lollipop.

”Sayin’ hello. It’s polite.” You tell him back.

Between his obnoxious music, the wind whipping between the cars, and the equally polite indoor voice you had spoken in, there’s no way that Mr. Movie Star could have possibly heard you. He laughs like he had.

With that, the camper passes by. It takes the song and the blaring guitar with it, the rhythmic picking carrying across the flat stretches of road. It’s got tinted windows all around the sides and back. A real pussy wagon, you bet. Mr. Movie Star has probably seen a lot of action in the back of that van. Queue the wistful sigh from you. If you could just stop from grinning.

“Get off. C’mon, put your seatbelt on or something.”

“He was really something, don’t ya think?” You say, still grinning dumbly as you retreat back to the designated passenger’s spot, tracking the camper along the old stretch of Airport Road.

“Yeah, yeah — mellow out before you ruin my seats.” Billy grumbles, frowning at his side-view mirror. Six more vehicles to go; none of them drive quite as wild as those first couple of big trucks.

“How long d’you think they’re in town for?” You prop one elbow against the side of the door and plant your chin atop your palm, staring after the camper as you kick your feet across Billy’s lap. “You think it’s like an all- summer deal or just a couple of weekends?”

Billy shoots a steely look across the cab.

Sure, he was kind of a weedy kid. Small for his age, with a mom who was rarely more than a stone’s throw away. He’s not bad looking. Stick thin with a long, straight nose but pretty blue eyes. There’s usually motor oil in his blonde hair these days.

Either way, he hadn’t always exactly been the pick of the litter but with the war and stuff, he’s not such a bad option these days.

And still, you’ve had him benched in the friend zone since freshman year. Both of you know that it’ll just take an especially dry season for you to finally do him, and you are good company, he likes having you around.

He doesn’t like the douchebag with the ‘stache moving in on the closest thing he has to a girlfriend.

“They might stop by The Pines — you know, like those folks from the fair did, that one time.” you’re really talking to yourself at this point.

Billy looks across, unimpressed as he’s overtaken by a 1959 Ford F-100, painted a faded shade of light green.

Three people are crammed into the cab, and as it slips in front of you, you find that the bed of the truck is also occupied.

Two girls and one hell of a guy. He’s sitting with his back to the cab, shirtless and golden all over with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a hand of cards held to his chest.

The two girls are wearing little tanks and coloured hot pants, conferring with each other while he watches, cool as ice.

He’s grinning, a smooth talker even when you can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s not money that he’s talking those poor girls out of either, that’s why one of them proudly has his t-shirt balled up in her lap.

“Mrs. Cavendish would have a cow if—“ your rambling trails and your smile spreads as Golden Boy looks up from his poker game and finds you watching. “Whoa. Where are they finding these dudes?”

“Probably jail,” Billy mumbles, begrudging the topless wonder in the back of the truck. “Or a register of some kind, if you catch my drift.”

Golden Boy’s lips stretch thin around his hand-rolled cigarette, his grin dimpling his cheeks. Totally jiving with the way you’re staring at him, stretching his already broad shoulders like a peacock would with its feathers.

He’s a sandy kind of blonde and maybe even more of a movie-star looker than his buddy had been.

He tips his chin and graces you with a nod of acknowledgement. Then, he looks down at the hand of cards and closes his lips around the cigarette, inhaling deeply.

With a cool shrug, he cocks an eyebrow and seems to dare his two lady companions to put their money where their mouths are.

Billy glances down at the bag of green still on the bench between the two of you, practically starting a mental countdown until the two of you are out by the Falls, high as kites. Far from tanned, muscled carnie folk.

The trucks and cars pass by and head for the horizon, and Billy’s blue Chevy hugs the curves of winding country roads all the way out past Route Thirteen. Past Airport Road, there’s no sign of your two new objects of affection — given the heat of the late afternoon, you’re starting to wonder if all of them were a mirage or something.

That’s what the boys who come back from war tell you they saw out there. Apparitions in the jungle, like ghosts, but nice. Tommy Holdman says he thought he had died out there, laying flat on his back after he lost his leg, and all he could see was miles and miles of coastline. A perfect, pretty beach. His own idea of heaven.

Yours, apparently, is something far different.

The Falls isn’t really a waterfall. It’s maybe a ten- foot slow incline in the river bend. It’s shitty enough to not draw too many visitors, unlike the much more popular swimming spot out where the old quarry is. That place would be packed on an afternoon like this.

Your spot is on the far end of the county, nestled a while back off the road but not too far into the woods. It’s a spot to cool off without having to commit to really swimming, and it’s the only spot you know where the fuzz wouldn’t come poking around at the smell of skunk.

No one comes out here, not even the cops.

The afternoon is all yours, right through into the evening. It didn’t take Billy long to get over his mood, he’s grinning when he drops you off, right by your front door.

There’s no way he would make you walk all the way from the Post Office, not really. Everyone’s heard those stories of girls going missing in small towns like this, and through all of her faults, Betty Cline had raised a pretty stand-up young man.

“See ya Tuesday, I’ll call you!” You wave to him as you jog up the front steps onto the porch of your parents’ home.

He waves back from the driver’s side of his truck, and drives home to his mother’s roast chicken the same way he always does. She still packs his lunches too.

Fred looks up from Hawaii Five-O, in all of its multicoloured, static-fuzz glory as the screen door rattles to an abrupt shut. He flinches as the heavier, wood front door slams behind it.

“Look at that, she is alive.” He calls from the living room, for your ears more than anyone else’s.

“Hi, Papa Bear. You worrying about me again?” You coo, kicking your shoes off by the door and strolling across the hardwood, bracing yourself on the doorframe as you swing widely into the parlour, where Fred sits in his recliner, staring at his prized possession — the color TV set he bought after the new year.

“Worryin’ about you is like worryin’ the fox might hurt itself on its way out of the coop.”

You don’t much mind the image of yourself, the sly fox, prowling around town and making all of those chicken-shit boys cry for help. Your mouth almost twitches at the thought as you plonk yourself down on the carpeted floor and turn your attention towards Steve McGarrett saving the day.

Clearly at some point after you have nestled onto the carpet with your back to him, Fred clocks the outfit you have wandered home in.

“Now, where’d the hell did you even buy somethin’ like that?” You can hear the wrinkled frown on his aging face. He’s only in his fifties now, but with deep wrinkles and freckles from years working outside.

“Church-sale, I think.” You answer back, wondering if your mother is still up. She goes to bed early on weeknights so that she can be up early for her work at the grocery store in the mornings.

Fred lost his sense of smell when he worked in the mines in his late teens — he couldn’t tell the difference if you smelled like Mary-Jane or magnolias.

“You were with that kid from the auto shop again?” Fred puffs on cigarettes like a chimney. It turns the white ceilings brown occasionally, but your Mom has always been ready with a tin of cloud-coloured paint to fix that.

“Uh-huh. You know Billy.”

“Yeah.” He decides. There are worse boys you could be running around with than that teary-eyed fella.

“Saw a bunch of vans out by Airport Road today. Setting up a circus somewhere near here.” You tell him absently, both of you watching the television set as you pick at the carpet.

“Heard somethin’ about that. Gus O’Malley’s renting his south pasture out for something like that, I think.”

“I was thinking I could maybe borrow the car Saturday. Take Georgie.”

Georgie is an accident; an anniversary celebration turned rambunctious fifth grader with a knack for messing with your stuff while you’re at work. But he’s a cute kid, you’ll give him that. The little booger is fun to be around sometimes.

With Georgie around, there’s something to do other than head out of town and drink or smoke or spend the money that’s supposed to get you to California. If you take Georgie, Fred usually sponsors the trip.

“This Saturday?”

“Yeah. Figured they’d be running by then.” You lean your palms back into the rug, worn velvet under them. It doesn’t bother you that Fred barely turns his head from the television — before that, it had been the sports highlights in the paper.

“If you’re going to get him all hopped up on sugar, do me a favor and drop him off at Grandma’s on the way back.” Fred chortles, mostly to himself, as he brings a half-warm Budweiser to his mouth.

You smile at that, remembering the days Fred threatened to do the same to you. You grab at the knee of his faded blue jeans to push yourself up from the ground.

“Thought I might drop him off by the interstate, set him free. Like God intended.” You tell the house, headed for the hallway with the end goal being your bedroom on the second floor of the humble blue craftsman.

“I-59, not I-75. Can’t have him finding his way home.” Fred calls as you take the first step out onto the stairs, your fingers trailing your work bag, discarded onto the chipped wooden post that ends the railing.

“Now where in God’s name did you find those shorts?” Oh, she’s awake. Your mother’s voice is behind you, and if you had to guess you would imagine that her head is poking around the doorway into the kitchen and gawking at your fashion choices. She is.

“You went out wearing those?”

You stand, frozen on the stairs for a second, stuck in a moment of consideration. Fred’s pretending not to hear all this, he prefers not to get involved. Joan’s not so forgiving.

Turning around will mean a certain lecture.

“Gotta be up early, I won’t wear ‘em again.” You decide, hastening up the stairs before she can call you on your lie. Your bare feet hit the landing and slip a bit on the loose runner your dad swears he’s going to remember to buy underlay for one of these days.

As you steady, the door to your right creeks open and Georgie stumbles out of his cowboy-covered bedroom, rubbing uncaringly at his eye socket.

“Hey.” He yawns, heading for the bathroom, his hand-me-down pyjamas hanging down over the tops of his feet as he shuffles for the bathroom.

“Hey. Wanna do something with me Saturday?” You ask him, already headed for your own room. He stops and turns his head, eyes no longer heavy with sleep but wide open with curiosity.

“Yeah. What?”

“It’s a surprise.” You decide, twisting the handle and letting the door creak open wide as muscle-memory guides your hand to the lightswitch and illuminates your bedroom. It’s not really a surprise, but he won’t go back to bed if you tell him now. “Night, Georgie.”

“Goodnight!” He calls back, closing the bathroom door almost all the way. The light bulb’s still out and he’s still scared of the dark.

You close your bedroom door, shutting all of them out and immediately reaching for the ties of your halter top. They fall loose and you shimmy out of the fabric, then the shorts.

Flowered paper on the walls, hardwood floors, this room is filled with the remnants of the little girl you once were in here. The shag rug and the Janis Joplin print above the bed are evidence of the newer, cooler woman who now occupies the space. The two of you coexist in this little space just fine most days.

Next comes the quest for a shirt to sleep in — sleeping in the nude doesn’t work when you have a Mom like Joan. She means well, you’re grateful for her. She’s the first person you’ll thank when you get your first award. Even though she still comes in without knocking.

Shirt acquired, you hear Georgie’s door click shut down the hallway as you scan the room for the book you discarded last night.

The window in your room faces miles of fields. In the far distance, you’ve never really noticed that you can see the O’Malley farm. Well, kind of. Ahead of that, there’s a small dusting of forest that hinders your view.

Your search for the book comes to a brief stop as you turn towards the open window and look out over the view. More specifically, of the red and white glint of weatherproof canvas that comes to a sharp point, dazzled with lightbulbs.

“Did you see what your daughter came home in?” Joan asks, shaking her head from her seat at the sewing machine. It whirs impolitely over the conversation, seeing blue thread through the hole in the knee of Georgie’s blue jeans.

“Sure did.” Fred drops his beer into the trash with a clang and rolls his shoulders back. He turns towards her, already expecting the worried frown he sees.

“People’ll talk.”

“Let ‘em,” Fred shrugs. He considers another Budweiser, but knows he’s got to be up early to get to the factory in the morning. “She’s a smart girl, she’s not out causing any trouble.”

Joan stops the machine and hums in consideration.

“Besides, I’m sure it’s a right of passage — wearing stuff that makes your folks’ blood pressure go crazy.”

She smiles, pushing up from the chair. Her socks pad across the green and yellow linoleum until she reaches her husband, her head tucking into the crook of his neck.

“You’re right. But I don’t like those shorts.” Joan decides as her husband takes her into his arms, smoky smelling and familiar.

Behind them, the morning’s paper sits discarded with only the sports section disrupted. Printed in an appropriately black ink, is the freckled face of Audrey Weiss. Her large-round glasses are still sitting on the bridge of her nose, her shoulders are angled and she’s beaming, looking front and centre. Above her portrait, the word MISSING is in the same shade of mourning-appropriate black ink.

That was a school photo. It’s old, her bangs have grown out already. Her round glasses are all torn up now, shattered and mangled — about 200 yards from her broken body, which is yet to be discovered in an empty stretch of red-dirt land off of a highway in southern Arizona.

NEXT CHAPTER

TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT

tags: tags: @sunflowercharlie13 @spinning-away @eloquentdreamer @a-reader-and-a-writer @breezyweazybeezy @mel119g @blaircharlotte @hersuitisbanana @aragorn-02 @one-sweet-gubler @chrysalismuh @xzyzycxdd @atarmychick007 @ximehs @ah9242 @gleefulleve @nnatel @topherwrites @princesskreator @seitmai @d0main-expansion @yepyeahuhhuh @cherrycola27 @ohtobeleah @roosterbruiser

[twistedapple]

On cherry and musk

EDIT 28/10/2023: Part two of the Perfume Rant is bout, about Astarion this time! + added a correction regarding the sulfur part.

EDIT 3/11/2023: Part three of the Perfume Rant is up, this time I talk about my OC, Nuria.

EDIT 28/11/2023: I kept forgetting to make that edit but I added a comment regarding the cherry and how its sickly sweet tone is usually used in perfumes to express death.

Hello hello.

Because Raphael's perfume, according to Yurgir, is exactly the type of scent that makes me lose my mind while being quite uncommon for men perfumes IRL, I've decided to go on a bit of perfume rant because I really like perfume in general (which is funny considering my autistic ass easily goes in sensory overload, especially atm with my state of autistic burnout).

To introduce the topic, I'd like to present some generalities about perfumes, so you know what I mean once I start losing my mind about why Raphael's scent would drive me crazy IRL (someone at Larian knows their shit about perfumes).

Perfumes are, most commonly, made with an alcoholic base (the Middle East also has an oil base), because the ingredients used to create the scents are more soluble in alcohol than water. There are distinctions in the types of perfumes once can find, based on the concentration of scented molecules:

Perfumed mists: less than 3% of scented molecules, low duration over time;

Colognes: the weakest concentration in perfumes as we usually know and use them. It has a long history as well, and was first worn by men;

Eau de toilette (here, understand that it's a perfume associated with cleanliness): count between 5% and 15% of scented molecules;

Eau de parfum (lit. "perfume water"): count between 10% and 20% of scented molecules. These perfumes are more expensive because they're more concentrated, however nowadays they're still commonly found in stores;

Extrait de parfum (perfume extract - pure perfume): count between 15% and 40% of scented molecules, the high concentration means it has to be used with care.

Now, why do we wear perfume? Everything around us as a scent: the soap used to wash our clothes, the food we cook, the deodorant we use... Our own skin has a natural scent. Wearing perfume is a way to control our scent and define our olfactive identity as part of our self-expression and sense of fashion. With hormones at play, not every perfume works with anybody - for example, Hesperide-type perfumes don't suit me, but work wonderfully well on my mother -, so the way a perfume sits and ages on one's skin is just as important as one's personal preferences in term of scents. Interestingly, for some decades now the most common perfumes tend to have a "clean" scent, which matches with Western standards of cleanliness. However, the goal of perfumes being self-expression, they also tend to tell a story based on the way the notes develop and work together.

We have various categories for perfumes, which involve the styles based on the families of notes, the time of the day and the seasons.

The main families of perfume are Floral (self-explanatory), Chypre (woody scents), Oriental (spiced scents), Hesperide (citrus scents) and Aquatic (water-like scents). These families can be mixed in the scale of notes to obtain a more complex scent. For example, Floral scents tend to work well with Oriental and Hesperide tones, Hesperide tones work well with Aquatic ones, Oriental and Chypre scents can be associated to create heady perfumes...

The times of the day are either Daytime or Nighttime. Daytime perfumes tend to be lighter, while Nighttime perfumes, often worn during events or at clubs, will be stronger since they compete with other stronger scents.

Seasons also influence perfumes, some molecules won't last as well in Summer as they do in Winter for example. On the other hand, some molecules will have a harder time expressing themselves in the cold of Winter, so heavier scents may be needed.

A perfume is organised in three layers to unfold its story:

Top notes: the very first notes, which usually don't last much but open the impression of the perfume;

Heart notes: the core scents of the perfume, around which the story is built;

Base notes: the lasting notes of the perfume, which close the story.

There is also two ways a perfume works:

Sillage: the trail left by a perfume;

Projection: the perimeter in whih a perfume can be felt.

Feminine and Masculine perfumes tend to be quite different as well. Feminine perfumes tend to lean on floral and fruity scents, while masculine perfumes will be more in the Aquatic and Oriental family with leather and musk tones. This is where I start my rant on Raphael's likely amazing perfume.

Fruits are rarely used for masculine perfume, to the point I'd say it's a grossly ignored scent family for men. Some years ago, I crossed path with a man in the metro who had the most amazing perfume, with raspberry in distinctive top note, unfolding into a warm woody scent. This is what got me into perfumes, because I had to find out what perfume it was - the most likely candidate is One Million by Paco Rabane, but even then I am not sure. This is a very specific and striking scent, precisely because it's so uncommon for a man to wear. With that in mind, let's remember what Yurgir said Raphael's scent is: cherries, musk and sulfur. I suspect we can take these notes in the proper top-heart-base notes, because they'd make sense that way both in term of perfume composition and as a mean to tell Raphael's personal story.

Cherries make for a sweet, enticing top note, perfect to express Raphael's ability to charm his victims clients. Cherries' sweetness is also often associated with the sickly sweet smell of death, and is used for that purpose in perfumes following that theme. Considering what signing a devil's contract entails, it's quite fitting.

Musk is a common note both for masculine and feminine perfumes, but it tends to be used as a base note. This time, however, it'd make sense to have it in heart note for at least two fantastic reasons: to draw people further in with a warm and sensual note, and because the base note serves to close the story better than musk.

Sulfur as base note would be extremely smart. One might ask me "but Crow, doesn't sulfur smell like rotten egg?" And that would be a pertinent question. It wouldn't be the first time a strange ingredient is used to complete a perfume by providing unexpected results. Here, we're not just talking sulfur, we're talking brimstone. Mixed with the other notes, however, it creates a smoky scent that serves to hint at Raphael's nature as a devil (gotta smell like Avernus!), and also provides a strong support for the sensual musk by adding depth to it.

We also have Raphael's boudoir invitation described as having his perfume: palmarosa and pepper. These scents tend to be heart notes, to compose a refreshing spicy floral: palmarosa is a floral scent with a citrus tone, pepper is what it says on the tin and is considered an aphrodisiac scent. Fitting the boudoir invite, considering the presence of a certain incubus... This addition in the heart notes would counter-balance the musk nicely and contribute to a layer of complexity with a surprisingly feminine tone: floral oriental notes are rarely used in masculine perfumes. However, here I think it serves to express refinement through complexity - something people often associate with Raphael, who presents as a noble (and is, by the Nine Hells' standards, a noble in his quality as Mephistopheles' son), as well as frames himself as an agreeable host who can offer many pleasures to his guests and clients (as long as they have something to provide in exchange - cue the sulfur as base note to remind of Raphael's diabolical nature).

Yurgir describes Tav as bearing Raphael's scent. Raphael was near Tav, which makes me think his perfume has projection rather than sillage. It'd make sense for Raphael to have a perfume more oriented towards projection than sillage: he'd want to let people know he's here, and it's a subtle way to dominate the scene as well in a magnetic manner - and we know Raphael has an imperious tendency, even in his handwriting, so having it expressed in his perfume as well would make sense.

To conclude, Raphael has fantastic taste in perfume in my totally biased opinion (this sort of perfume is a shortcut to make me swoon IRL), and what has been confirmed as being his scent/perfume serves to subtly support his characterisation and tell a story both to us players and the people he deals with in the story.

[foxufortunes]

So like, I was gonna add this onto my post about the Raven's win percentage and how that compared to lacrosse with NCAA Exy and NCAA Lacrosse being about the same age, but I figured I'd put it here so everyone can see, because this is what I mean about the exy timeline being complicated and why zero losses makes sense over 30 years.

And yes, I know AFTG is not aiming for hyper realism grounded in reality, but I like figuring out a cohesive timeline for things like fics it's TRC all over again. Also I just like to think way too deep about this things, and if I'm descending into madness over these things you're coming with me.

That said, the timeline of exy and Evermore as much as I can make sense of it:

So, the exy/Evermore timeline in kind of a mess and a great example of how adding more makes something make less sense. What we're going to do is take the books at their most concrete fact and say that Tetsuji and Kayleigh invented exy 30 years pre-canon, and for ease of timeline we'll call it exactly 30years. So, here we go:

So our base line in 1976 (for the record NCAA Lacrosse was formed 1971, this is what I mean when I say they're roughly the same age). Tetsuji and Kayleigh were in university and in Japan, but it's not clear at what point in their studies they were and how long they had left to go at university.

Nora's EC says that Tetsuji was reaching out to the NCAA before he graduated. During his last semester he was reaching out promising funding and himself as a coach. So this is, at most a few years after exy was created unless Tetsuji had the slowest university career ever.

The next fall semester NCAA Exy officially starts with Ravens vs Trojans at Castle Evermore. So, as I've said before, the Big 3 were in on the ground floor. This is why they're so dominant, but that they started with the Ravens means they should be more competitive. The Raven's won the first match 13-12 and if it's that close at the start, the idea that the Raven's undefeated 20year+ streak is because they've been around longer loses all ground.

Evermore was the first stadium completed, followed by the Golden Court for the Trojans and Pride Court for Penn State Lions (which is such a cute name, I want a book on them please Nora). Pride Court was delayed but Penn State kept up training, while USC and EAU had their courts built at impossible speed. For reference, building a sports stadium, from first plans to completion is at speed roughly an 18month endeavour, if everything goes right, but depending on how you read the point above this could be just a few months. Either way, it's very fast. Other universities had pop up stadiums or played at the bigger stadiums of the Big 3 or local stadiums until theirs were complete. Ironically, given his apparent treatment of his female players, a lot of Tetsuji's funding came from getting women on board, promoting how co-ed the sport was.

The first pro teams were formed around the first graduates from the NCAA league. So 5 years after Evermore and we get a professional league.

And the US Court 2 years after. So 7 years from the start of the NCAA competition and we get a national team.

Then exy is in the Olympics the next year. So 8 years from the first NCAA game for exy to be Olympic recognised (a generous estimate makes that 1988, 1992 at a push, 14-18 years pre-canon and roughly a decade pre-foundation of the Foxes).

The problem with all this, of course, being that the book in only chapter 2 of TFC says that Kevin (born in 1986) and Riko were around with Tetsuji when Evemore was still in the blueprint stage.

Now, there's a couple of way I can think to maybe square this all. Firstly, obviously the 30years is a rough but that should mean closer to 30 than anything else, but to be generous either way, we're looking at between '71 (35years pre-canon) and '81 (25years pre-canon) and the later timeline can square a little better. It's also possible our Castle Evermore is a new stadium and the first Castle Evermore is an old one they've knocked down and replaced at the new one is the one Kevin and Riko were around for. It's also possible to be more generous with Tetsuji's university career: say he was in his first year in 1976, did a longer/postgrad course and stayed for say 7 years giving us 1983 for his graduation, then be generous and say "next fall semester" actually means '84 (which is still fast for a stadium) for Evermore's completion and the NCAA starting, which gives us the '92 Olympics.

So, let's work backwards instead. For Evermore to be being built while Kevin and Riko "already had custom racquets" we'll be generous and lowball age 2? So, we'll work with Evermore opening around '88. Even working with the most generous estimate of when exy was invented (1981, 25years rather than 30) that means, assuming Tetsuji spent his freshman year in Japan, he was in university for 6 or 7 years (depending on how you read next fall). Putting us at the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta and making NCAA exy 20ish years old.

[ghostly-hitch-hiker]

Puberty Speedrun (pt 1)

For some reason @stealingyourbones ‘s DPxDC Prompt 492 was the one that finally galled me into writing action, but have some aged up Danny! He’s not in Gotham yet, but oh Boy does he end up there (if I actually keep writing, that is). It’s not all that long, but I’m adding a keep reading line anyway.

Chapter 1: Part 1 (you are here!), Part 2, Part 3

He wasn’t sure how it had happened. Perhaps, this is what he gets for taking advantage of Clockwork too much. Maybe it’s just another side effect of slipping in and out of the time stream unaffected for too long (how long has it been anyway? Has he actually lived long enough in those time out moments to have aged this much?) For once, it wasn’t his parents. 

Of all the changes he’s been through, this one had been the most peaceful. He’d woken up with his feet sticking off the edge of his childhood bed and his head smushed against the headboard. Pajamas that he’d actually managed to shrug into for once instead of falling into bed fully clothed were far too tight and too torn all of a sudden.

Danny rolled out of bed with a louder than normal thud and struggled to get his too long limbs in order. He rubbed hand up the side of his face and froze when he felt stubble. Oh, Ancients, had he seriously speedrun puberty? Danny’s body finally obeyed him in his mad rush to the bathroom before freezing when he caught his reflection in the mirror.

Damn, that’s a no to speedrunning puberty, then. Or was it really a no? Because the man that looked back at Danny from the mirror definitely wasn’t fifteen. He wasn’t even a teenager. “Fuck,” he muttered, and he shuddered when his voice sounded exactly like Dan’s. Danny blinked, and so did the man in the mirror. He stepped closer, so did his reflection. His shoulders were broad, far broader than his fifteen year old frame had ever given any indication they could be. He was a good six inches or so taller than he had been the previous night, but that still only put him around 5’10”. Probably. (Jazz was already that tall. They’d have to compare heights. Oh Fuck, Jazz. Nope. Not yet. Still processing mirror shenanigans).

He thought he looked how an unghostly Dan might’ve looked, but the longer he stared, the more he could see how too much eau de Vlad had influenced Dan’s appearance. His hair was shortish still, and most importantly, not made of flames, but still the same hair texture it had always been. His eyes were significantly less red and evil looking. They were the same blue as ever, as a human at least, and if he focused on them, he could still pretend he looked fifteen. His nose was larger than it had been, and it looked even more like a cross between his parents than it had before. Rounded ears. Normalish incisors. The dark circles under his eyes still looked like he was a chronic insomniac rather than Dan’s bad eyeliner choices. Rubbing a hand once more along the stubble of his jaw, a jaw that was much more defined than it had been, Danny decided he looked like Danny… just older. Sighing, Danny brushed his bangs out of his eyes and winced as his pajama shirt tore further with the motion.

Alright, mental to do list time: 1. Steal clothes from dad, 2. Call himself out of school, 3. Liquor store (KIDDING, JAZZ!), 4. Actually maybe talk to Jazz about what has happened and also definitely Sam and Tucker, 5. Fight Clockwork and undo the instant aging.

Danny was only fifteen, dammit! He wasn’t ready to be twenty-five!

------------

If I keep going, the course of events would go as follows. Danny’s parents don’t recognize him, and after fighting talking to Clockwork, it becomes apparent that there isn’t any way to undo this anytime soon—at least, not in Amity Park. So Danny leaves. His parents don’t recognize him, his friends and his sister are almost a full decade younger than him. He doesn’t want to miss out on ten years of life with the people he cares about, so he’d better find some way to undo the aging bs.

The problem with leaving Amity is that everywhere else in the US is a hell of a lot further ahead technologically, so it’s harder to fake an identity than he thought. Sam, Jazz, and Tucker help, but they’re really all teenagers and his new ID really wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny. So Danny makes his base of operations Gotham. The police don’t care about some slightly wonky paperwork, and neither does his landlord. He’s pretty sure he can stay clear of the bats while he’s in the city anyway (courtesy of ghost powers), and he’ll be spending most of his time around the continental US trying to figure out what the hell even happened to him. It’s as foolproof of a plan as it could be. He totally won’t get into any trouble living in the world’s greatest detective’s hometown!

He does not account for it also being Bruce Wayne and his family’s hometown...

[aguamarinee]

...𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 &𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬. (𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝.)

[ This is strictly based on my opinion and thoughts, none of these have been confirmed by any member, staff, or anyone else! ]

𝐀/𝐍.: However if any of these would actually turn out to be true in the future — kinda doubt it but still — I will declare myself as a professional manifester lmao. And I will have my 'called it' moment too.

; 𝐒𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭!

[𝐊!]

TOP PICK • Dior Eau Sauvage; Truly the best of Dior, this fits K like a glove! Best-loved fragrance by far, and it has so much in it, so versatile, a bit of everything intriguing; vanilla, bergamot, amber, and of course, woods. The scent depends on what you want it to smell like, at certain times of the day. K would wear this with great elegance and confidence. This perfume is such an all-rounder, a pleaser for everyone included, he would totally enamor any crowd and audience with this!

HONORABLE MENTION • Chanel Bleu de Chanel; a fan-favorite oldsport scent but it would be a shame to call it grandfatherly — it's anything but that! It delicately embraces masculinity with a fresh, clear, green, woodsy aroma before turning it into a bright burst of citruses, empowering one's confidence. It stays on for quite long, not even a sweaty dance practice can make it go away! Entrust this to K as a second choice, he would greatly wear it for a cooler autumn day to show off his charm!

[𝐅𝐔𝐌𝐀!]

TOP PICK • Ralph Lauren Polo by Ralph Lauren Cologne for Men; This is a classic, sleek, smooth, and has been a favorite for decades around men, rightfully so. It has a lot of spin-offs, true, but nothing compares to the original mix of wood, tobacco, and leather feel. They say it comes with a tinge of American nostalgia but let the wearer decide that. It's a strong scent for Fuma every day, but when you come to realize how much it suits him you'll miss the aroma tickling your nose whenever you're near him, so anyone who asks him to change his cologne probably hasn't been around him for long enough. But luckily Fuma trusts his judgement and knows this is a killer combo!

HONORABLE MENTION • D.S. & Durga Bowmakers; It was hard to choose between these two which matches Fuma better, but it came down to this. I'd say this is better for special occasions, in the end, this combination can be too extra for ordinary days, sometimes you just wouldn't be able to handle it, just like Fuma himself! It's outdoorsy, woody, with hints of maple, cedar, even cypress, and mahogany... which makes me remember a lumberjack but it's a pleasant scent nonetheless! Maybe during a walk outside it can lift the mood, but definitely not inside.

[𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐒!]

TOP PICK • Aramis Eau De Toilette; One of the longest-lasting ones on the list, but it's to be expected from Nicholas. But this staying time is because of strong fragrance notes, such as; starting with bergamot, then myrtle, sage, and pepper so it can morph into a spicy, musky intoxicating aroma packed further with clove bud and patchouli too. If Nicholas is on the line, it has to be extra and demanding, attention-demanding and he does it so well, honestly. The base has a bit of sandalwood, as well as vetiver and oakmoss, so all-in-all this perfume boasts such a presence behind it that projects self-confidence at all times.

HONORABLE MENTION • Le Labo AnOther 13 Eau de Parfum; If it's about Nicholas he has to go for it hard, again, overdoing and provoking everyone's expectations with a scent like this because no one will compare to this perfume! It's intoxicating in a good way, you want nothing else just to smell it until it's gone to try and decipher the cologne's components. Mysterious, but loud and clear! Putting heavy emphasis on the musky feeling here, mixed with traces of jasmine, a feeling of moss from the woods — you just want to feel it, touch it, devour this crazy combination! It will have you coming back very soon; either for Nicholas himself, or just another spritz from the perfume bottle.

[𝐄𝐉!]

TOP PICK • Gucci Guilty Pour Homme; Don't judge a book by its cover! The bottle is very simple and sophisticated but the scent can bring some surprises. Very citrusy, fruity, and sweet-smelling with the lavender and orange blossom additions! A perfect combination of comfort and adventure in just one sniff. EJ is the sweetest in all aspects so it felt right giving him something like this! You feel like you're in a beautiful flower field while enjoying some rare tropical fruits, a never-ending sugary feeling flows through you and the only thing left from the picture is Euijoo himself. He would wear this with great confidence!

HONORABLE MENTION • BOUTONNIÈRE NO. 7; Living and thriving proof that floral scent on men can be good, especially for EJ! True gardenia being the main element of flowers set against a strong string of citruses and lavender, this cologne is a walking garden of surprises. Instead of allergies, it brings clearness and joy, and of course, Euijoo! Perhaps he would be hesitant at first, wouldn't even think about discovering something like this on the perfume aisle but make him believe in the sheer magic of men wearing strong floral scents with a fancy shirt, it's a sight to look at!

[𝐘𝐔𝐌𝐀!]

TOP PICK • Burberry Mr. Burberry Indigo; It's bold, it basically speaks for Yuma! I honestly think this is my best match-up, I don't know why, but I'm just really feeling the vibes with this one. It has such a wild range of audiences for admiration; because of its crispness, and evergreen combination of strong citrus at first, then dying down to a pleasant blend of rosemary, violet, and some amber it's an extraordinary choice for everyday use. But Yuma would love this!

HONORABLE MENTION • Hermès Terre d'Hermès Eau Intense Vétiver; I admit this choice may differ from the first one a bit too much but I can imagine this on Yuma on a late night out, attracting stares and looks, left and right with this captivating perfume. It's an interesting combo; very verdant, delicate orange-scented original, then it takes it up a notch with a harsh punch of Sichuan pepper! Too spicy for everyday use, this is more of a once-in-a-while-scented bottle of surprise, with the exciting fruitfulness of a new adventure on the horizon! Yuma would rock this on his own, I'm sure!

[𝐉𝐎!]

TOP PICK • Heretic Dirty Grass Eau de Parfum; The name is a bit weird but it's an absolute natural, earthy, green scent with a dash of oil in it, and some juicy lemon to add a smidge of flavor and interest to the wearer, but otherwise it's perfect for business-casual, and all-time-casual occasions. You might only smell it if you're very close to Jo, and even then you feel like questioning your senses, but it makes you embark on a bigger, longer journey on finding out Jo's secret, so it's definitely a win. You'll surely want to taste more than just a spritz of the cologne!

HONORABLE MENTION • Acqua Di Gio From Giorgio Armani; Great for the daytime in any hot weather! Incredibly natural scented light perfume; its watery, citrusy, and even more mysterious aroma makes you question if anything's present on your body while wearing it. Far from fancy, it brings out the best when one wants to seem effortlessly put-together and this inoffensive scent is the icing on the cake for Jo's laid-back persona!

[𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐀!]

TOP PICK • Jo Malone Black Cedarwood & Juniper Cologne; This is a polished, perfected, deep scent. It's cool, makes the wearer calm and collected with its earthy cedar — you already know this is a reoccurring theme —, juniper berry to ease the mind, and a touch of cumin and surprisingly, chili! Perhaps a bit spicier in the end than you would like, but surely unforgettable and outstanding, matching Harua's talent and visuals!

HONORABLE MENTIONS • Tiffany & Co Tiffany & Love Eau de Toilette for Him; the definition of fresh, cool, and airy smell, very light and natural by carrying both the refreshing scent of woods and the sky together. Combined with a couple of intricate fruits and blue sequoia — which can be found in Tiffany & Love for Her, basically the perfect pair for this cologne! All in all, it's a perfect second choice for Harua and his calm, collected, and endearing persona!

[𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈!]

TOP PICK • Acqua di Parma Blu Mediterraneo Cipresso di Toscana; This was one of the hardest that I had to look after the most, but now I'm confident! This screams holidays, fun, and the fresh feeling of seawater with a bit of salty aftertaste. Cypress, balsam, and pine blend all with bitter orange and lavender, creating a refreshing repackage of an Italian countryside! It felt so right for Taki, it just made me remember his bright smile, so summer crush feels it is!

HONORABLE MENTION • Editions de Parfums Frédéric Malle Bigrade Concentrée Parfum Spray; transparent and fresh but nothing like an ordinary scent! Zesty and delicious with orange and light traces of rose, but down-to-earth mixed with spice by the additional taste of hay and cardamom. Adds such an unforgettable extra flavor, the way you'll never miss Taki's outstanding skills and personality in any video-filmed content!

[𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈!]

TOP PICK • Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille; It radiates warmth and calmness, a spark of sympathy, without being outdated — this scent is forever! This is another one where you'll probably want to go back to have another sniff from the perfume bottle but Maki's got you! When he's covered in this — most days — a hug is sure to come your way any time during the day! It's spicy, but not in a heavy way, just the right amount! And if you stick around too much, maybe another hug is bound to find you!

HONORABLE MENTION • Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue Pour Homme; Another sunny scent, for another sunshine of the group! A lot of citrus notes; mandarin, bergamot, and grapefruit but still a bit earth-bound with a whiff of rosewood and musk, maybe a tinge of juniper in there. It's that feeling when you're on holiday and you're in your hotel, away from the sea, but you can still feel it on you; yet you're surrounded by a man-made environment. Also, I can totally imagine these slightly stronger, woodier scents for Maki, I think it would make him stand out even more!

[ I spent too much time on this, but it was fun! Also, try to pass by my weird edits, I just wanted to include them in a way so everybody can see them and matches the aesthetic of my profile. They look funny, but it gets the job done! ]

➪ 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 【𝐌 𝐀 𝐒 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 𝐋 𝐈 𝐒 𝐓】 !

[whileiamdying]

Bon Iver Is Searching for the Truth

The artist Justin Vernon discusses his new EP, “SABLE,” the dream of a happy adulthood, and his worry that he’s purposely repeating a “cycle of sorrow.”

By Amanda Petrusich October 16, 2024

Bon Iver is the alias of Justin Vernon, a singer, songwriter, and producer from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Since 2007, when Vernon released “For Emma, Forever Ago,” his début LP as Bon Iver, he has been making formally experimental but gorgeously tender music that seems to take equal inspiration from Bruce Hornsby and the Indigo Girls, Arthur Russell and Aphex Twin. (The project name—a version of the French phrase “Bon hiver,” or “Good winter”—was borrowed from an episode of the television series “Northern Exposure,” a deep and formative work in Vernon’s life.) This week, Bon Iver will release “SABLE,” a three-song EP and the band’s first new music since 2019’s “i,i.” “SABLE,” is only a little more than twelve minutes long, but it feels revelatory, expansive, and raw. Vernon has a couple of different voices—a spectral falsetto; a deeper, throatier bellow—but it’s hard for me to think of another contemporary singer whose vocals carry quite as much pure, unmediated feeling.

Outside of Bon Iver, Vernon remains a wildly in-demand collaborator. He has a track on the newly remixed version of Charli XCX’s “brat” (he described the decision to participate as “a no-brainer,” saying “the art and the music, its aggression, its power, its pop-ness—it’s just amazing”), and he worked with Kanye West on “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” (2010) and “Yeezus” (2013), two of the most acclaimed rap albums of the past few decades. He also appeared on Taylor Swift’s “folklore” and “evermore,” both from 2020; because of the pandemic, Vernon and Swift didn’t meet in person until long after “folklore” was released. “I wasn’t starstruck,” Vernon told me. “I was, like, ‘Wow, you’re somebody that I would have been very close friends with in high school. You’re real and you’re here.’ To see what she’s been up to, the propulsion, the expansion . . . I don’t know, it’s just unlike anything anyone’s ever seen. And yet there she was, this person who made a lot of sense to me.”

I previously spoke with Vernon at The New Yorker Festival in 2019. Earlier this month, we sat down again to record an episode of The New Yorker Radio Hour, and continued our conversation after we left the studio. This interview, a composite of both encounters, has been condensed and edited.

Justin, it’s so good to see you.

It’s great to see you, too, Amanda. I was pacing around my room today, like, “I’m anxious! Shit.” I haven’t talked to anyone about music in any official capacity since our last conversation, probably. It’s been five years. I was, like, “Oh, that’s why.” Your nervous system’s kinda keyed up, and you have to have a CBD gummy, take a breath. Walk around the block, do some push-ups.

Five years is a very civilized pace, I think, and you’ve hardly been silent during that time. But do you feel any internal or external pressure to produce work on a certain schedule?

Nope, not at all. This one really came from personal necessity. It was just time. Some of these songs have been bubbling for five years.

“SABLE,” is just twelve minutes of music, but, for me, it feels a lot bigger than that. I wanted to ask you about the grouping of these three songs, in particular. You mentioned that they were written at different times, but I hear a very legible arc—a closed circle, almost. I hear the story—and this is quite relatable, to be honest—of a person trying, and then a person failing, and then a person finding some peace with their limitations.

Are you me? [Laughs.] That feels right. They feel like an equidistant triangle, a triptych. It’s three, and it couldn’t be longer. It runs the gamut from accepting anxiety to accepting guilt to accepting hope. Those three things in a row. There’s no room for a prologue or an epilogue at that point. Because that’s it—that’s what everything is.

From a place of guilt and anxiety, how vast is the distance to hope?

My friend Erinn Springer, who made the videos for “SABLE,” was telling me that with [the track] “AWARDS SEASON,” the word for her was “almost.” Time and time again, I’ve been sitting at that feeling of almost: we’re almost there, or we’re just about to get there, I can feel or dream of a place that’s coming soon. And I guess that’s what the song is talking about—change, and how we’re always partaking in it.

This is maybe an incredibly personal question, but—

[Laughs.] That’s good.

When you get to the place of almost—the thing is in reach, you can see it, you can feel it, it’s really close—is that when you panic? Because that’s when I panic.

I think that’s when I have to push further. These songs, they’re personal, of course, but the need to share them is also very personal. These are songs with truth that I’ve located, or been a vehicle for. But they’re true. And I was, like, These have to be shared.

The public piece is complicated. It also seems possible that your relationship to fame might change; maybe you want it one year and the next year you don’t.

I remember there was this moment during the pandemic where I was, like, I could stop doing all of this. I was driving my little A.T.V. around. I needed that—knowing I could stop. But getting back on the road there’s all this excitement, and then, so quickly, the anguish and weariness and impossibility of it set back in.

Do you think you’ll pull back from touring?

I’ll share a pretty vulnerable moment. I knew that we were gonna be taking some time off. It was the beginning of our last run. I was in Duluth. My family was there. I was so happy to be with everyone, but I was really suffering under the weight of everything. I was playing “[715] CRΣΣKS”—there’s no accompaniment. It’s really a crusher to do. It burns a lot of gas. I was scanning the crowd. I was just having a tough month. I was getting ready to start saying goodbye to the last sixteen years, in a way. There were six or seven thousand people out there, and I became overwhelmed with anxiety and sadness. I got choked up and started to weep. My bandmates were all up on the stage, leaning down, because it’s too short of a song for them to leave and come back. I lock eyes with Waz [Jenn Wasner], I can see Michael Lewis looking at me. And I’m crying—like, hard. Shoulders-heaving crying. And I feel unsafe, like this is not an O.K. place for someone to be. And the crowd is going wild, you know? I’m not mad at them. I would also be cheering for encouragement. But I was thinking, They wantthis. Or this is making sense to them. It wasn’t all negative—

But it felt like there was blood in the water?

The rest of the show, I could barely function. If I could do that same touring setup and have somebody else sing the songs, that would be a little easier. But that whole night in, night out, let’s excavate Justin—I’m not built for it. When I say it like that, I think, How is anybody? But, that’s just me, I can’t.

Well, there’s so little distance in your work. I don’t know, maybe Bon Iver doesn’t need to be a road show.

When I used to go to shows, for me, they were excavations. They were explosions, they were unique. They were a band playing four new songs they made up last weekend, at an all-ages venue in Eau Claire. Or seeing Melt-Banana open for Mr. Bungle in, like, ’95—I’m watching something rip me open. And of course they were all also touring and doing the thing and everything, but just . . . I did it a lot, and I’m extremely proud of that achievement. I’m extremely proud of the team. When we were at Barclays, Yo La fuckin’ Tengo opened the show, and we played “Sh’Diah,” and Sean Carey’s doing free-jazz freakouts on drums, and Michael Lewis, my favorite living musician and improviser and soloist, he’s playing, and we are throttling free jazz to an arena that is absolutely understanding what we’re doing. And, like, check mark. Check mark! Thank God. But I can’t go to that well over and over again. It has to be something sacred—it has to renew. I come back to the name of the band. It’s a good band name, a good project name, because it’s like—good death, good winter. Things need rest. A life needs to rest at some point.

It’s funny, I used to be a cynic about things like weddings—why does it have to be a big, performative, public thing? But you realize that is sort of the profundity of it.

I put these songs out because I know there’s truth in them, and I want to share that with everybody. I think where it gets slippery is when it’s, like, “O.K., but we need to see the person who sings the song.” Lately, the song has seemed to be not enough. That’s the part that gets me a little sensitive. But that’s what art is, and that’s why I believe in art and expression so much. It does seem to be the thing that carries cultures forward, past their old haunts and problems.

I mean, I think art can be instructive as well as lifesaving. I’m certainly not the first person to suggest that. Historically, you’ve been pretty mindful. Even using the name Bon Iver puts a little air, a little space, between you and the world. But you’re in these videos. It was so lovely to see your face.

Thank you. It felt like there was a certain amount of acceptance in that. My great friend Eric Timothy Carlson, who does some of my art work, was, like, “Man, just when are you going to do your ‘Man in Black’ thing?” And I was, like, “Challenge accepted. Let’s go.” Hiding has been a valuable thing, and a way for me to express that I don’t think it’s all that important who I am—that the songs are most important.

For listeners who have been with you since “For Emma, Forever Ago,” I suspect the single, “SPEYSIDE,” might feel like a kind of return, insofar as it’s a little more stripped-down, a little less layered, than what you were doing on “22, a Million” or “i,i.” Do you think of the two poles of Bon Iver—music that’s minimally produced, versus music that’s maybe more maximally produced—as in opposition?

From “For Emma” until “i,i,” it felt like it was an arc, or an expansion—from One to All. “I,i” was very much me trying to talk about the We—the Us, outside of I. And when I got to these songs, the obvious thing was, well, people might think this is a return to something. But it really feels like a kind of raw second skin. I think about time in cylindrical, forward-moving circles. This feels like a new person, new skin. A new everything, more than a return. But I did feel like it was important to strip it down to just the bare essentials and get out of the way, to not hide with swaths of choirs. Just get it as close to the human ear as possible.

Can you talk a little about where and when you wrote “SPEYSIDE”?

The “SPEYSIDE” story is that I was in Key West. I had been living alone in the woods by myself, in Wisconsin, and it was getting dangerous. My parents had always gone down there, and I was, like, “You know what? I could just escape.” I went for three or four weeks. My brother and sister-in-law also came, and then we were, like, “Oh, this is so fun, we’ll stay another month.” It didn’t matter. They were just working from home. This was January, February of 2021, and I was reflecting a lot. The song came out mostly in its entirety. I was thinking about guilt and people in my life where I was just, like, “Oh, my God, I really did not do that right. I did not act the right way.” It just came rolling out, with help from rum. I would go out to the pier, and I would look back at Key West, and I’d see it as this island. I didn’t want to name the song “Key West,” although it would have been appropriate. Speyside is a region in Scotland, and it’s a whiskey. That’s the story with the song title. It was my little nod to southern Florida.

So, I have this running text thread with a close friend of mine where we text each other the loneliest things we can think of. We’ve been doing this for years. And so, every six months or so, I’ll get a text from him that will just say, —“Rental car shuttle, pre-dawn . . .”—

[Groans.]

Or “Horse, stuck in the mud.” A recurring character on our text thread is the pedal steel guitar.

Oh, man.

So the text will just be, “Pedal steel solo, Buck Owens, ‘Together Again.’ Apocalyptic!”

[Laughing.] That’s apocalyptic-sad right there!

There’s pedal steel on two of these three new songs. I’m curious about your relationship to the instrument.

Well, it’s a very good question, because it’s the most beautiful musical instrument that humans have constructed, for sure. It really is. It’s an impossibility, and truly an American invention. It mimics the voice, but there’s nothing else that slides between chords like that. They’ve been trying to make keyboards in this century that mimic that, and there’s just nothing like it. Greg Leisz is one of my favorite musicians to ever live, and I was very, very lucky to get to record him again. A very formative record for me was Bill Frisell’s “Good Dog, Happy Man.” That was the first time I ever heard Greg play. There’s a song on there called “That Was Then”—my high-school friends and I—we’re very, very, very close—we all have it as a tattoo. The moment in which we felt the most alive and together was this little seven-, eight-second passage where Greg played this pedal steel line. It’s the pinnacle of music to me. And so to get him on “SABLE,” is just amazing. He’s a master, right? And he’s so funny, and we get along so well, but even he’ll sit there and be, like, “Oh, shit, how does this go?” It’s just so many strings and pedals. But he’s always searching.

I don’t want to ask you too much about the lyrics, because there’s often an opacity and an obliqueness to your writing that I find incredibly beautiful; in a way, I’m not that interested in the literal meaning. So, feel free to fib your way through this part. But I did want to ask about the title. “Sable” is a synonym for “black.” It’s a piece of clothing that widows sometimes wear. It’s a river in Michigan that my fly-fishing friends tell me is holy water for trout. It’s also a weasel, though that maybe feels less relevant.

Yeah, that cutie!

You use it as a noun in “AWARDS SEASON”: “But I’m a sable / and honey, us the fable.” Can you talk a little bit about what the word means to you?

It’s such a good question. For years and years, it’s just been there. There’s an outtake from the second record, I think, where I used it in a lyric. I don’t know what it is, but it’s true. I wrote it and I knew it was true, and I still didn’t know what it meant. I was, like, “Be O.K. with that.” But then I looked it up. Sable. Mourning. Deepest black. Also, place name. But what isit? For me, I think when I’m speaking that line, what it refers to is being the darkness. There have been times in my career where it has felt like I’m repeating a cycle of heartache. I was getting a lot of positive feedback for being heartbroken. And I wondered, maybe I’m pressing the bruise. Maybe I’m unknowingly steering this ship into the rocks over and over again, because . . . you know, I’m not, like, famous-on-the-street, People-magazine famous. But there have been a lot of accolades for me and my heartache. So it’s me asking the question: I’m a sable, I’ve been a sable. Am I repeating this cycle of sorrow? Or is this just how sorrow goes, and this is how everyone feels? That’s kind of what it means to me.

I hear joy and wonder in the work, too. But you’re right, that heartache is a part of the story of the Bon Iver. I think it’s easy to be dismissive and say, “Well, that’s a toxic notion, that artists need to suffer to make work.” But pain is generative, in a way.

That’s a really good way to say it.

When we’re grieving, when we’re hurting—I mean, grief is also an expression of love. I hate to say all of this, it seems like a terrible idea to perpetuate, but—

I think it’s either the most surface or the deepest thing. And, like we said before, grief can only come from the highest joys, the greatest things in life, you know? There were some things that I really needed to find out about myself in these songs. And so, in that regard, it’s been worth it, because I needed these songs to find out how I felt, and to really, actually say how I’ve been feeling.

I think of you as a person who considers language kind of pliable. And not just language but punctuation, too. You’ve made up some words. My favorite Bon Iver neologism is “fuckified.” It’s almost Shakespearean! Where does that playfulness come from?

When you said punctuation, my first thought was, I just did it wrong. But, no, it’s just expression. One of my best friends growing up—we’re still really close—we get into semantic arguments sometimes. He’ll say, “Justin, you can’t say something is super unique, or really unique. It’s either unique or it’s not.”

Your friend should get a job at The New Yorker.

Shout out to Keil! It’s the “SABLE,” thing. I didn’t really know what it was. And the “fuckified” in “10 d E A T h b R E a s T ⚄ ⚄”—you just have to kind of let it out as an expression. You brought up the opacity of my lyrics. It really feels like I’ve sort of found this new narrative structure in these songs, where it’s a little more clear what’s been going on, and I’m kind of just saying it, versus dancing around it.

The stories feel really close. Your voice feels really close. It’s a little like having you in the room.

I wanted it to be like that. To be right in your ear, you know?

“AWARDS SEASON” opens with the line “I can handle much more than I can handle”—that line flays me every time I hear it. I think it’s possible to perhaps understand those words as a person admitting to being overwhelmed. But, to me, it mostly sounds like someone discovering that they’re stronger than they thought they were. We’re lucky to learn that about ourselves in really tough moments, that we are actually pretty—

Resilient. And then there’s the spot where you know you gotta turn around and go back, because the mechanism isn’t working anymore. The metaphor I’ve always used is that it’s like running an engine with no oil. You are doing long-term damage. It takes a long time to re-oil, to reset the machine. My dad and I watched the Buster Douglas–Mike Tyson fight when I was growing up. Douglas’s mom had just passed but he still beat Tyson in Tokyo. Douglas would say you just have to “Suck it up.” My dad always says that. When I’m feeling like I’m not gonna make it, I remember my dad saying that to me. I don’t know—there’s times to suck it up and move on and get through it, and then there’s times where you gotta take a knee, and say, “You know what? I’m not strong enough for this, and I can’t do this alone.”

As you were saying that—“suck it up”—I was thinking, is that good advice? I think sometimes it is, right? And then, often, it is not, and it’s more complicated, and you need to ask for help and take care of yourself. But there are moments where we have to test ourselves a little bit, see what we can bear, what we can handle.

Yeah, right?

That Midwestern stoicism runs deep in the Vernon men.

Yeah, it does.

Speaking of healing: you’ve discussed the utility of psychedelic drugs in your life, in terms of managing anxiety or enabling creativity. I suffered abig loss two years ago, and there were times when the immensity of my grief felt truly insurmountable, to the extent that I wanted to manually reset my brain, to restore my capacity for happiness or lightness. There’s evidence suggesting that psychedelic therapies can be quite useful for grief. I’m still sort of figuring out if it makes sense for me. But I’m curious how that stuff fits into your life these days.

Well, these days, not much. It’s not in my life anymore, really. I once thought about pot, it’s sort of like going to the bowling alley and putting those bumpers up. It’s, like, “This rules. Every ball, I hit pins. Every idea I have has got legs.” After a number of years, that feeling gets really addictive. Mushrooms, LSD—there were times where it was very, very therapeutic. I think I look at it like opening a door. It has certainly stirred deeper pits of empathy and understanding and oneness with human beings and the world. Those were ideas I already had, but now solidified—that we are each other, and hurting one another is not going to get us anywhere but down. But the metaphor about it opening a door . . . you have to close a door. If you leave that door open too long, the snow’s gonna come in and you’re gonna get fried. I don’t look back with many regrets, although I do look back with accountability and a sense of reckoning.

Looking at your discography, I presume a kind of hunger in you for collaboration. You once said, “Power has come to me, but it’s not fun to wield by yourself, and it’s not as useful if it’s just your vision.” What appeals to you about resisting the auteur path?

I love this question. I believe in the power of the individual—don’t get me wrong—but I’ve always just found that it distracts from the point. Why do we like a song? Is it because of who’s singing it to us? Or is it the song? And I just think it’s the song. For me, it is. For me, it’s about the song and what the music does. It can be very distracting when it becomes, “Oh, I love Bon Iver so much. I want more Bon Iver. I want to see Bon Iver. I want to get his autograph.” I’m sensitive to it, and the attention can be overwhelming. I’m also uncomfortable with it because it distracts from the point that music delivered me to myself.

But I can also say when I first heard “Hello in There,” by John Prine, I was twelve years old, and I saw a universe of human joy and pain and love and life and death, all in three minutes. And of course I’m gonna be, like, “What was that?” And it’s useful, right, to have a name or whatever. But I’ve also found that in moments where I’ve thought, Oh, maybe I am really good at this, or really special, or I’ve got some sort of gift—really I’ve just rigged up a huge antenna to catch things. I have gotten better at crafting songs. But I just don’t need to dwell on it, and it’s not going to make the songs any more true or less true.

I wonder if what you’re talking about, the emphasis that we place on performers and performance, I wonder if it’s because—this is a very funny thing for me to say as a music critic—no one understands songwriting? Even songwriters! A lot of people speak of the process as almost this sort of divine channelling, wherein a sound or an idea or a melody comes to them, and they’re just receiving and recording it. It’s easier to be, like, there’s a guy up there and he’s singing and he has a voice and I also have a voice, that makes sense. But this other thing, where does the signal come from?

I mean, that’s the big question, right? Why are we worried about what happens when we die? What are we trying to find out? What is this mystery that we all seem to agree is there?

And music, in particular—neurologists are always studying it, trying to understand why it works on us—there’s no clear evolutionary advantage or reason for people to be absolutely devastated or buoyed by music. But we are, and we always have been. Maybe there’s a little bit of God in it.

Having been atheist and an agnostic at different times in my life, growing up Lutheran and then studying world religion in college, I was cynical, almost angry that when we use the word “God,” we’re so often misusing it. But I’ve been saying the word again lately, because I’m sick and tired of saying “synchronicity and coincidence.” And I just don’t know what else to call it. I’ve had friends who are deeply, deeply religious, and they talk about what God means to them. I’ve been a little more open to it. I’m certainly not a theist. But I like the word “God” and I’m back to using it.

The performance piece of it and the writing-recording piece of it—I’m not a musician, but they almost feel diametrically opposed to me. It’s weird that anyone can do both.

Nobody ever says that, but I agree. I’ve always looked at ’em like they’re the masculine and the feminine. They are a yin and yang. Masculine is live.

It’s power.

Yeah, it’s out. The record is so timeless and concave, or whatever the metaphors are. I actually mixed the EP. These are my performances. These are the moments that I wanted to create. I’m not going to think about how to instantly re-create them [onstage]. I’ve been working on this song for five years. I’m not gonna do that to myself. I’m not gonna do that to these songs. I really worked hard on getting the guitar to sound like it’s in your head on “SPEYSIDE.” I’m gonna let that breathe for a second, before I get out there and go “Woooooo!”

To return to collaboration: it forces you to be incredibly honest and vulnerable. Things that are hard for me—things that are hard for a lot of people. You have to have a line of communication open that allows you to be really frank about what’s working. How has that been for you? Have there been moments where your vision has not aligned with someone else’s? Have you ever had to scream, “Get out of my studio!”?

Twice. You know who you are. . . . [Laughs.] I think there are just times when you have to communicate. You mentioned Midwestern stoicism. I just learned that saying how you feel is really important. I’m, like, forty-three years old. [Laughs.]

Can you teach me?

Oh, God, it’s really hard. You just have to do it. It sucks. But saying, “Oh, just try it again,” is a way of saying, “That wasn’t it.” And then sometimes you’re, like, “Well, it’s never going to be it,” and then you don’t really have to say anything. So I never had to practice being super honest. I would just be, like, “Well, I’m not going to use that,” or “I’m going to redo that later,” or “I’ll edit it.” “I’ll chop it up later,” is what they say. But, yeah, of course, some of my longtime collaborators, like Rob Moose, we just have a language that we’ve built over the years. It’s pretty easy for us to find what each other wants. And we’re both very good at giving space to the other. Like, “O.K., I’m not sure what you mean, but let’s explore that.” Rob’s one of my favorite collaborators, if not my favorite. Musically, what I’ve gotten to achieve with him is just kind of wild.

You and I are around the same age—twenty-nine.

[Laughs.] Yep . . .

And I wonder what this era of life—some people, not me, but some people might call it middle age—has felt like for you.

Kind of like graduating from a master’s program or something. Feeling a little old, a little aged out, a little like Chris Farley at the bottom of the hill in “Black Sheep” saying, “What in the hell was that all about?” Like I said, I think I’ve been reckoning a lot with times I haven’t been so great, or times I haven’t been able to be a good brother or family member. While I feel a little weary, I feel very young in another way, in the sense that I get a chance now not only to look back but to look forward. Kind of a refresh. Not a restart—these are forty-three-year-old bones. But I’m taking care of my body more. I’m taking care of my mental health more. And if I look back and see a lot of suffering in my past it’s because I wasn’t treating myself correctly. Certainly, I’ve had everything I’ve needed to be flourishing, to be a kind and loving person. But when I look back, I see a lot of confusion, anxiety, and despair. So I’ve gotten to this point now—and these songs have really helped me open that door, or whatever the metaphor is—to start a new journey and to be alive and present and grateful from now on, as much as I can be.

In one’s early forties, there’s often that feeling of, Oh, this isn’t quite what I thought was going to happen.

“Nothing’s really happened like I thought it would.” My best friend Trevor always refers to it as “the memory of the future.” When we were young, if our childhood was good, we project ourselves into a happy adulthood. You start to put pieces together, you start moving the furniture around. And then when you actually get there you realize you’ve been trying to steer toward that so hard that you kind of missed some shit, and it’s never gonna be like how it was. . . .

Sometimes we end up chasing these ideas from our childhoods, and they guide us for the rest of our lives, for better or worse.

I feel like we are barely driving. I look at it like you’re yanking on the wheel. You’re down below, by the gas and brakes. But that’s all we’ve got.

I can’t tell if that makes me feel helpless, or if it makes me feel empowered. Helpless in the sense of, “I’m not in control of this.” But it’s also freeing in the sense of, “I’m not in control of this.” Right?

Exactly. That is a freedom.

_The idea that life just follows some twisted path, like a river—

That’s been one of my favorite metaphors for life. The Daoist concept of the way of the water. Life is like a river, and if you don’t stay in the flow you’re gonna get stuck. You might get pulled under, you might be on shore or in a bend for too long. Or you can go down the river and drown, or flourish, or get to the Holy Land, or whatever. . . .

Who knows!

It’s multiple choice. Actually, it’s not multiple choice at all. Actually, not choice at all. Multiple possibilities.

“SABLE,” starts in a place of contrition, which is part of the process of becoming hopeful. But it ends in a moment of radical possibility.

Mm-hmm. It does. It’s that “almost” word again. It’s, like, we’re right almost there. Almost.

Maybe now the Almost feels less scary.

We’ve been through some things.

You made most of “i,i” at Sonic Ranch, in Texas, but “SABLE,” was recorded at April Base, your studio in Eau Claire. Do you work differently there than in other places?

Yeah. It’s been a big reflection point. It just so happened that April Base went under an intense renovation process right at the beginning of 2019, and that’s when we moved most of the stuff to Texas and set up there for almost a couple months. But then, when the record was done and we went on that tour, by that time, it was 2020. And then the pandemic happened and the studio was empty, so I had to move into this small house on the property and live there by myself. I kind of set up a makeshift studio. It was really a good experience, because I hadn’t set up my own gear in a long time.

The ritual of untangling the cables, plugging things in . . .

Oh, man, there was a point where I was, like, “I need to switch the screen so it’s over there.” It took me three days to untangle the cables. And I was, like, “This is good for me! This is really good for me.” But to answer your question about being out there: I think, for years—during the psychedelic mind-opening years, especially—everything was expanding quickly. Then, at a certain point, it started to feel a little stagnant. My social life, my creative and collaborative life . . . there was a circle and everything was inside of it. I hadn’t met a lot of new friends. I hadn’t really been in other studios. And so I think there’s been a little bit of action in the last couple years of, like, let me get out of here a little more.

And now you’re spending time in California. How does that feel?

Necessary.

All that sunshine.

I mean, holy hell. I am Wisconsin, through and through. But if I’m just there then what is April Base for? And what’s my love of Wisconsin for if I don’t have to come back to it? Also, it’s a little lonely out there. A lot of my family and my oldest friends have all moved away. And so I also haven’t had a lot of opportunity to meet new friends that weren’t somehow connected to the past—

Or to your work.

Or to my work. In L.A., it was just, “Hi, my name is Justin.” “Hi, my name is So-and-So.” “Do you want to be friends?” “This is great.” And I almost started crying when I realized—this is my first new friend, based on normal circumstances, in sixteen or seventeen years. That’s been a very positive thing. There’s a little anonymity for me, walking around. A lot of anonymity in Los Angeles, in particular. So it’s been very positive and challenging, in the best ways.

What you’re saying about making new friends in midlife—I get it, there’s a giddiness to it. It’s nice to meet new people now because we’re always changing, and here’s this newest, freshest iteration of you, and you get to present that to someone, instead of them inheriting a bunch of ideas.

You don’t have to open your book and be, “Who am I again? This is how I am? These are the things I believe in? Let me just make sure I get all that. . . .” You can just be. ♦

[angela-hartbreak]

October Vogue Review

{Note, how I do my Vogue reviews is that I don't really talk about every single picture or article I just love talking about standouts<3 please don't be mad if I didn't mention YOUR favorite picture, also I try to give both positive and negative but I HATEE BEING MEAN}

First off, as a Lady Gaga lover (Little monster here <3) UHH the cover is just lovely. I love anything this woman puts out. Also FUR!!!!! UGH TO DIE FOR. maybe it's feathers but 99.99% sure Miss Gaga was wearing some kinda fur in this!

Bella Hadid is looking STUNNING for Saint Laurent, maybe I'm biased because I am a true sucker for lace and leather together {wearing that combo rn lmao accidentally twinning} but overall in love. also petition for making black-on-black a thing again.

Again as I have been seeing--kitten heels galore.

Ok when I say I was gagged for Giorgio Armani I WAS GAGGED. LIKE almost dropped my latte. Don't ask why ok usually I hate clear shoes but just the way that this is photographed has me STUNNED still--ew clear shoes. And I love any black and blue combo.

I loved the Gabrielle perfume scent from chanel--would I buy it?? Maybe idk I have 3 perfume shelves as we speak.

I keep on seeing way more black outfits and I'm so thrilled, my fav example of this this issue was maybe the middle lady of MaxMara..... And I'm honestly shocked to say this because I'm a Michael kors hater until I die but that picture is looking gorgeous hun

Negative time. The ugg boots looked really ugly I'm sorry. I have a love-hate relationship with uggs but I just don't like this heavy platform I just don't think it looks good. Also not a huge fan of the dolce & Gabbana devotion Eau de parfum intense scent, such a shame I have been eyeing up this bottle for so so long and was honestly thinking about buying a bottle but honestly I just don't think it's worth it for me personally it's just not something I would wear everyday.

Tom Ford's eyewears little gold T's just being perfect

"Age on the runway" was just a sweet little read I genuinely enjoyed.

I personally kind of rediscovered my love of blush after finding out about the whole red blush trick used by the Victoria's secret angels but the coming up Rosy article just kind of just secured my love of it again and I finally am using blush again for like the first time in months.

The second Erdem releases this flower handle bag I might just need to snatch one up-- because this is like the first time I've genuinely like wanted a handbag becides my beloved coach I've been religiously using.

Odissi's pictures are gorgeous {I might have accidentally forced all of my non-vogue reading friends to look at it (they were hella confused) while I was in love}

I can't tell if I'm supposed to hate guess or not with all of these STUNNING STUNNING PICTURES 🤍🤍

Okay so Michael kors new pour femme perfume actually smells pretty good {I'm doing a very bad job at hating Michael kors right here} and the pour homme one smells like every other cologne ever I'm sorry.

Honestly I'm not really invested in any of these books this month in the section but maybe the night we lost him would actually be something I would pick up the rest of them I'm honestly not that intrigued by which is kind of heartbreaking for me because I usually love the book section of Vogue

Okay Lady Gaga's article--BASICALLY THE WHOLE REASON WHY I BOUGHT THIS MONTH'S ISSUE as fast as I could get my hands on it. The shape shifter part is so real and you know damn well I tried my hardest to look at all the looks brought up in this one because well MISS GAGA IS THE LOML. and I'm so so so happy she found someone I hope the very best for them both ahhh also her saying "I'm not ready to meet my husband" HAD ME on the floor.

I am a sucker for decades--so obviously I was obsessed with the article and the pictures for on with the shows. My favorite pictures were the 60's and the 80's personally. As someone who generally likes 2000s fashion personally I just wasn't the biggest fan of the picture for it no hate to anyone in the picture just wasn't my taste.

OK OK I WAS SO HAPPY FOR THE FALSE FRENCH CHIC GIRL THING ON PAGE 158 BECAUSE THIS IS LITERALLY THE REASON WHY I BOUGHT VOGUE LIKE OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS. I love the giant sunglasses with the cute little Veronica de piante jacket and I love any chanel two tones shoe. Also can we please just bring back cameras?? Like just physical cameras because oh my God their so cute and chic.

IN GENERAL 8.7/10 ISSUE HERE. Please feel free to disagree or share your own opinions down below I LOVE YAPPING ABOUT VOGUE

Xxx Angela Hartbreak

[artemisia-black]

What’s some of your favorite perfume? Atm I’m liking La Belle, Eau Première, Vanilla 28, Libre Le Parfum, & Angels Share✨

ooh anon I loved Vanilla 28 so much that I bought the Kayali Discovery set and I loved Pink Pepper, but the longevity isn't great (ok for the price point, but not great).

Angels share- anoooon, you have taste. I love how sexy and decadent it smells. I was browsing duty-free a few months ago and almost impulse-bought it. It's the sophisticated older sister to Sol de Janero Brazillan crush (which I spray in my hair if I'm between washes).

So my signature scent is Intense Rose Musk by Montale, but in the summer, I rotate between Issey Miyake rose or rose prick, or red roses by Jo Malone (they are all much lighter). I also spray on some Rose Jam by Lush. My last fragrance buy was the Snow Fairy spray. I tend to either wear gourmands or rose scents- often, I layer them.

[paulinedorchester]

Passover, 1945: There are still troops serving in England, and they still need your support

(Above, from The Jewish Chronicle, February 23rd.)

And they received support across the country:

(From the March 2nd, 9th, and 16th issues of The JC.)

There was also much coverage in the general press (the following 6 images are ©The British Library Board. All Rights Reserved.) From the Bury Free Press, April 6th:

And from the Market Harborough Advertiser, April 8th:

(Rabbi Louis Milgrom was born in Poland in 1909 and came to the U.S. in 1921. In 1930 he graduated from the Lewis Institute, in Chicago (which merged with the Armour Institute in 1941 to form the Illinois Institute of Technology, where my father taught for nearly three decades). He received his ordination four years later from Hebrew Theological College, which at that time was also located in Chicago and is now in Skokie. This, combined with his wartime membership in the Rabbinical Council of America, tells us that he was Orthodox. Prior to joining up in 1943 he worked for the Joliet Jewish Federation, in Chicago's southwest suburbs. After the war he directed the Hillel chapter serving the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities and later taught at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. He also seems to have undergone a change in his theological outlook: when he died in 2004, the Conservative movement's Rabbinical Assembly took out an obituary for him. Such a shift was fairly unusual then and even more so now.)

The time lag in the reporting above can probably be attributed to a weekly publication schedule. In Plymouth, the Western Morning News was on top of things on March 29th:

And events in Birmingham received up-to-the-minute attention from three local dailies (top to bottom, the Birmingham Post, March 27th, the Evening Despatch, March 28th, and the Birmingham Gazette, March 29th):

Meanwhile, The Jewish Chronicle published the following letter of thanks on March 23rd:

[milfjagger]

ezra... give me a scent. i love rich aromatic stuff with maybe vanilla or cherry. last time i went sniffing around my fav was carolina herrera 212 vip black

ok my absolute favourite vanilla is eau duelle by diptyque and i feel like it has that slightly herbal note that you like in 212 vip black so i can’t not recommend it, it’s light yet decadent

this next one you might find too feminine but i have absolutely fallen in love with it. it’s called café chantant by nobile 1942 and it opens with a blast of sweet vanilla-amaretto but as it dries down it has a gorgeous masculine floral vibe

[joeys-piano]

An-tag-onist game

Tagged by @words-after-midnight, whom I'm currently beta-ing one of their oldest projects and have only read two original fiction works for pleasure this decade and I'm happy to say that theirs is one of them. The other one is "On Earth, We're Briefly Gorgeous" by Ocean Vuong. Which says something about the things I actually read, but that is neither here nor there.

Tagging (if you'll like to play along because y'all have interesting tastes): @feu-eau, @somuchanemoia, @voxofthevoid, @paleborza, @bowties-are-cool3000, @astralalmighty, @rebrandedbard, @hellfridge, and @walkinaroundtheuniverse and any of the rest of y'all who stumble upon this!

---

Rules: Have some fun by making an antagonist/villain, morally gray, or otherwise complicated character answer for their (alleged) fictional misdeeds, horrible and/or hilarious. BONUS: Add a poll to let public opinion decide what should be done with them. (Or just do it in the tags. Up to you.)

The accused: Kni | Nai | Millions Knives | "Hundreds Spoons" from Trigun Stampede

Evidence Against Him (in no specific order)

Chad™ body

Evil™ snuggy

Knife tentacles

Vaulting through a window through the thrust of his own pelvis

The voice of someone you'd spill your guts to and he'll sell you out for one (1) potato chip

Started a neo-catholic cult to enslave humanity under desperation, featuring himself and his twin brother as Adam and Eve-esque, Revelation-style angels here to deliver humanity to its end and blah blah blah blah blah

Kept a man alive for 150+ years to genetically modify and enhance the remaining BIPOC and disabled denizens of Noman Land to carry out the violence deemed "necessary" to show his twin brother that people aren't worth saving

Forces his brother into ultimatums where the end result is the same: his brother doesn't save anyone or keeps the promises he intends to keep and this further isolates him from the people he cares about until Knives is the only one he's certain with

Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss

Manslaughter

Loves his brother

Obsessed with his brother

Judges humanity on one (1) readthrough of the entire Bible, disregarding vast literature and actual history of what humanity can do and done

Has a body count in the thousands + the left arm of his brother, that he personally chopped off and is probably in preservation somewhere

Then gave his brother a bloody gun

Taunts him to kill a woman who is by no means a substitute to the mother figure he lost, but is an important person in his life whom he cares for and is cared back

Evil™ piano soundtrack whose title is his own name, that three notes into the song his twin brother knows shit is about to go down and rushes to where the music is the loudest to try to protect everyone from this madman

The horrors™ of the last two episodes of season 1, enough said

The intentional, institutional, and personal robbery of other's autonomy -- that any action not premediated in his grand game is a fault that lies outside of his own jurisdiction and should by no means exist, that there is no concept of free will or free choice because it's his way or the highway

Loving an idea of his brother so much that he violates said brother's memories and personal well-being, re-alters it into his image, and kills the things about his brother that makes his brother -- well, his brother

The audacity

Speaking as an asexual, I think a lot of his conflicts could be resolved if he got laid every now and then

Worst birthday present ever™

The way he slowly, deliberately, caresses down line that shot out from his brother's mechanical arm before he cuts it with a knife -- like there was some unresolved tension of an ambiguous but not ambiguous nature going on there; like, what a power move and a choice to just, just thread a finger over the one thing that seperates from your brother from your ideals and from the world he wants to live in before you take it -- and take him -- under

He alive

In His Defense

Loves his brother

The last three or four minutes of season 1 episode 3, where he unleashes the millions of knives like the mouth of armageddon and then it swallows an entire city -- it was cruel, it was badass, and it was a stunning animation sequence

Also that entire first confrontation with Vash in episode 3??? He has the air of someone truly frightening, just killed someone in a saloon, bathes his feet in dirty blood as he walks up to Vash -- voice soft, low, and saccharine; unafraid that there's gun on him, lightly touches the nuzzle, that I'm very convinced that if these two were not related there would be fanfics about the lovers to enemies tension going on in that saloon. And fuck, I know Knash or whatever the ship name is is a thing, and I'm frankly shocked that there aren't any fics I could find that focuses on the brothers to enemies to vaguely twisted lovers vibes that was in that scene. Were we all just sleeping on that, or what???

In their adulthood at 150+ years, Knives has never personally touched his brother. Like, skin to skin contact. Until the very last episode of season 1. It's always been personally impersonal. Like the touch of Vash's nuzzle. Skimming a finger over the steel line from Vash's mechanical arm. Knife tentacles stabbing Vash through the back. So close, yet so far. In that he wants to, really wants to, wants to bridge the gap from their childhood. And it's a sad thing, narratively, that the only first time he touches Vash -- like to skin to skin -- is when it looks like he's going to kill his brother for an ideal he wants Vash to believe in and it's like Knives accepting that of all the people he sent to hurt Vash, he will be the final person to hurt him the most.

[djemsoresu]

Scene from an obikin F1 AU I’m kind of writing? Obi-Wan tries to leave their team (albeit not willingly) and Anakin is evidently not having it:

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Anakin storms into his motorhome much like a tornado, the same way he stormed into his life a decade ago.

“I’m- I’m coming with you.” The blonde says, pacing around the space in front of his sofa. His hair, now almost to his shoulders, flaying around in a craze. Force, he loves this man.

“How could they do this! We’re supposed to be together we’re a team. The Team.” Obi-Wan now sees his Anakin for what he is, his youthful face highlighted by his red rimmed eyes.

“Anakin.” He speaks, calls softly, attempting to stop Anakin in his crazed muttering. “Anakin, dear one.”

The other man’s head lift from the floor, their eyes meeting each other. A single contact, a single glance, and Anakin’s fragility seams to shatter in a single instance.

“They can’t. You can’t. I’m leaving if you are.” and oh does Anakin’s tears leave a tear in his heart, the droplets flowing down unmarred skin.

“No.” he says, firmly.

Anakin stops. “No?”

“You can not come with me, Anakin.”

Obi-Wan sees right then, how Anakin’s shoulder tenses, his body bracing to pounce.

But then small, as if a wounded animal, “Do you… not want me with you? Is that it?”

and oh, Obi-Wan stands in an instant. He approaches Anakin, taking his face in his hands. He feels Anakin’s soft curls brushing along his skin and wipes away the flowing tears in his eyes.

“Never, dear one.” He says, taking the taller man’s head into the crook of his neck, softly brushing his hair. “Trust that I will always want to be with you.”

“Then why?” he murmurs into his shoulder, voice muffled by Obi-Wan’s now stained jumper.

“You’re… Anakin, look at you.” he lets go of the grip he has on Anakin, letting him let up his head so they could once again have their eyes trained on each other. “You are young still, my dear. You have… so much of your career ahead of you. I can not, in good conscience, allow you to make such a move.”

“Well fuck that. I don’t need your permission, I don’t need another championship, a fancy factory with a wind tunnel!”

Obi-Wan, after knowing Anakin for their entire lives, knows full well what a frantic Anakin Skywalker looks like. After spending a decade by Anakin’s side in their garage, after endless nights in bed on every continent of the planet. He knows what Anakin is, and what Anakin Skywalker needs most. Knows too, how though he doesn’t need, he wants.

“I just need you, I just want you, I just want to be with you.” and oh the tears stream even harder now, his long lashes dropping them down to his team shirt.

“I know.” he sighs, feeling his heart clench the hardest it ever had since a crash at Eau Rouge. “I know, Anakin.”

“But I will not let you do this to yourself, I will never forgive any possibility of ruin towards you due to my own doing.” if Obi-Wan were a weaker man, he would already be kneeling on his knees.

“I can’t, Anakin. Please don’t make me watch that, please don’t allow me to be complicit in it.” And oh he so reveres in the altar of Anakin Skywalker. Anakin, with his glistening blue eyes and soft golden hair. Anakin, with his glowing skin and tight muscles. Anakin, with his endless laugh and utter devotion.

His Anakin. The love of his life.

Obi-Wan would not stand for any threat towards Anakin’s dreams, of his wants to beat every record in the history of Formula 1.

No, instead he will kneel for the opposite.

And so he does, placing himself in front of his love, head directly above his knees.

He closes his eyes, “Please.”

[parfumieren]

Amanda (Amanda Lepore)

Of all the celebrities in the world, I chose her. I could have had Britney, J.Lo, Maria, Fergie, Celine, or Elizabeth Taylor-- heck, even Tilda Swinton, if androgyny was so compelling….

But no. My very deliberate first choice of celebrity perfume came from an aging transgender socialite with a rampant cosmetic surgery addiction and four dance-mix EPs that can best be described as unlistenable.

Why her? Why Amanda Lepore?

For those not in the know, Amanda Lepore is the steely-yet-vulnerable, thoroughly unshockable, plastic-fantastic queen of Manhattan's stygian depths. During the legendary '90's, Amanda ran with the likes of James Saint James, Richie Rich, DJ Keoki, and the Club Kids' notorious Svengali, Michael Alig. Her über-smooth, surgically-enhanced visage -- complete with cherry-red lips pumped full-to-bursting with collagen -- provided photographer and lifelong friend David LaChappelle with decades of inspiration. On the other hand, it's also attracted a particularly nasty brand of social editorial, scathing in its rejection of the blurred gender line.

But rest assured, I am not here to wield that weapon.

On the surface, Amanda's world is as far from my world as Pluto is to the sun. But I have been attracted to it all my life. I myself have walked the gender identity tightrope, as have many of my idols: David Bowie, Patti Smith, Nico and Candy Darling, Lili Elbe, Justin Vivian Bond, Kate Bornstein, Charles Busch, John Cameron Mitchell, Eddie Izzard, Divine. I identify more with these outlaws of the gender frontier than I do with Britney & Co. any day. And because of all this, I desperately wanted Amanda not to fail. I longed to see her perfume blow away all the haters and baiters and nasty naysayers.

Due to its limited production (only 5,000 bottles released) and prohibitive price tag ($900+), it appears that precious few samples of Amanda ever made their way into the hands of reviewers. Most journalists, online and off, merely recycled the most shocking snippets from the office press release. Its bottle (encrusted with 1,000 Swarovski crystals!) and its preposterous ingredients (red lipstick! Steamed rice! A dash of real Cristal® champagne"!) set Amanda up to be a magnificent train wreck.

Yet Luca Turin swore up and down that the damned thing had merit. He raved about the marvelous job done by Christophe Laudamiel to harness and tame its sizable iris content (which -- more than any amount of tacky bling -- surely accounted for that massive price tag).

If this was the Holy Grail of trash fragrances, loyalty drove this kitten to undertake a quest. In the end I found a tiny decant listed at a 60% percent discount-- perfect for me, since naturally I don't have a month's rent to spend on a single perfume. What else could I do? I snapped it up.

While waiting for its delivery, I confess I began to suffer from buyer's remorse. Had I really stopped to consider what a former Club Kid's perfume might smell like? I envisioned sweaty cleavage encased in a cruelly boned corset, whose black organza and lace had absorbed an evening's worth of subway stench, cigarette smoke, spilled bubbly and lightly toasted ketamine. (What can I say? I've read AND watched Party Monster far too often for my own good.) Even worse, I imagined the smell of the corset's matching black lace panties. A boozy, sexy, sticky, spent-all-night-at-the-club-and-can't-be-bothered-to-shower-now sort of smell. An ANGEL sort of smell.

What the hell had I done?

When Amanda arrived, I sat staring at the spray sample vial as if it held Eau de Kryptonite. I decided to apply it after a shower, not bothering to dress in case I found myself forced to break a land-speed record to get back under the hot spray.

Please, god, please-- don't let it be a scrubber, I found myself chanting. Come on, Amanda….

The first note shocked me cross-eyed. Are you fucking serious? I heard myself saying aloud. Apparently, yes she is. Delicate, delicious, and without a doubt feminine, here was the scent of steamed rice. When I first read those words in the press release, I'd thought it was a joke. But what now rose from my wrists was a remarkable facsimile of steamer-cooked Japanese short-grain brown rice, bran-rich and faintly woody. A mandarin note rode atop it, veiled as daintily in curls of steam as Lady Godiva in her long golden tresses. (Again, Amanda: are you fucking serious?)

A faint hint of fruity plastic -- the so-called "lipstick" accord -- followed, tailed by a tinge of something alcoholic. Cristal®? More like Gekkeikan. Yes, it was the unmistakable scent of warm plum sake. After expecting to be clocked in the head with a disco ball, to be ushered instead into the tatami room of a traditional kaiseki restaurant was near about the limit. The repast Amanda set before me was simple, impeccable, refined-- but she wasn't finished with me yet.

After ten minutes, the iris kicked in. The scent of iris shares so many olfactory characteristics with the notes that came before it -- rice, steam, gluten, wood, even plastic -- that I found myself whispering, Yes, yes, of course, I see it! It's not listed, but I trusted my own nose and that of Luca Turin: there's iris in here, all right. (In fact, I think that perhaps it alone creates that starchy-steam accord.)

After an hour, I was still fully engaged with the interweave of Amanda's three main accords: iris, rice, mandarin. At any given moment, one seemed more prominent than the others-- but a moment later, it gracefully ceded the foreground to another. I kept expecting a hostile takeover by something loathsome a la Angel, but it never came. Over and over, eternal, tranquil, they braided closely around one another - iris, rice, mandarin.

The watershed moment came when my spouse came home from work. I'd warned him that morning that my pulse points would be the staging area for an experiment-- possibly hazardous. Now I held my arm out to him. Correctly gauging the smile on my face as a green light, he leaned in cautiously to inhale, then nodded.

"That's really nice; what is that?" he said.

"It's Amanda," I replied.

"It's quieter than I expected," he said. "Pleasant."

"A keeper?"

"A keeper."

That night I wore it to an art gallery opening. With my spouse by my side and Amanda on my skin, I felt as though I was in the best of company. How does that song go?

Well she's all you'd ever want; She's the kind you'd like to flaunt and take to dinner. Well she always knows her place; She's got style, she's got grace-- she's a winner. She's a lady… and the lady is mine.

--Tom Jones "She's A Lady"

Scent Elements: Iris, mandarin, strawberry, woods, cucumber, "red lipstick", "steamed rice", and "champagne" accords. And Amanda. Beautiful, fascinating, unforgettable Amanda.

[titleleaf]

please... i saw the movie the sweet smell of success but they didnt tell me what smell it was so i come crawling to you my expert in sweet smells friend... whats the sweet smell of success... which perfume screams HUNSECKER...

First of all: I love you.

Second of all: oh my god... this movie is a scentstravaganza and I'm obsessed with how contemporaries thought the word "smell" was too vulgar/that it underscores something about Falco's character when I'm here like, please,

I almost feel weird giving Hunsecker his ska-assigned perfume (assigned perfume at birth) because he's such a next-level snob that I'm afraid but in addition to just so so so many cigarettes, I could see maybe Chanel Pour Monsieur. Whatever he wears it's incongruous with him looking absolutely yoked under those suits but also being a graceful motherfucker. He might also be an Eau d'Hermes guy. Whatever it is, it's incongruously delicate with all of that man's evil beef. Any sillage it has miraculously vanishes until you're right up in his personal space and then it blindsides you. Susie bought it for him, probably, and it's weird.

If he were a modern fragrance, ughhhh that's much more challenging bc the whole range of men's fragrance has massively diversified in the intervening decades. I wanna cry just thinking about it.

Falco smells like English Leather but slightly too much of it. Susan is actually really challenging because she *does* possess her own personality and sensuality but so much of her life is circumscribed by J.J. -- maybe L'Air du Temps but my brain is fucked because I now own like 4 separate bottles of L'Air du Temps because its superfans in the area keep dying and having estate sales about it.

[silvios-doormat]

Emma's perfumes....

Leon, Jin, Yves, and Licht edition

Even thought I started this because I wanted to take a break from the suitors, this still ended up being about them.... but this time it's featuring Emma! I ended up taking a lot of detours while I was writing this so not everybody’s will be the same/cover the same things. For the most part I just wanted to talk about what perfume or overall scents I think Emma would wear, as well as the suitors preferences and thoughts about perfume in general.

Leon Dompteur

Chloe Eau de Parfum, a modern take on classic florals that keeps it simple. I think Chloe EDP is extremely straightforward, what you see is what you get, and what you get is an amazing fresh, watery rose. Despite being a rose scent but it isn't overly powdery or dry, the white florals and sweet litchi keep is young and a bit playful. Overall I think it's the ideal rose scent for Emma, and I think it's something that both her and Leon would like immensely.

in general... for as fruity and feminine as Chloe EDP is, I think Leon's someone who would find women that wear men’s fragrances to be super hot

Jin Grandet

Marc Jacobs Decadence, a deep, rich, fruity floral. I'm not someone that usually likes plum, but the combination of iris and plum in this is to die for. I do think this scent is a bit heavy for Emma, but Jin would be so wild for it she'd have to put it on sometimes to throw the guy a bone. I think Jin is someone that would like darker fruits like plum and berries, specifically cherry. Now, for Emma, I think she would like something like Britney Spears Midnight Fantasy, it's a clean, soapy berry perfume. It is a Fantasy flanker so it's sweetness can seem young, but I don't think it's anywhere near the level of Fantasy itself. It smells like a nice blueberry soap, light and clean.

in general... I definitely see Jin as being someone who likes sensual, rich, gourmand and fruity scents. Things with plum, coffee, vanilla, rum.... very heavy and deep notes. He'd also be partial to berries, specifically cherry and blackberry.

Yves Kloss

Floral Street Wonderland Peony, a fruity floral with a bit of sweet gourmand at it's base notes. If I were to describe it in three words they would be cute, happy, and playful! It's not what you'd get for your typical peony perfume, instead of being a soft, romantic floral it's a fun, juicy, almost fresh perfume. I think for Emma this perfume perfectly balances out being whimsical while still staying out of the realm of being childish. The peony in this is quite subdued, but I think that's because it's laying low balancing out everything else going on with it.

in general... I think Yves is more drawn to sweet and gourmand scents on others because he himself probably doesn't feel comfortable wearing them. If you want to burrow your way into this guy's heart wear a gourmand perfume and say it's because it reminds you of him and his baking.

Licht Klein

Nothing. I'm sorry, I just think he would not care. He's definitely someone that likes the intimacy of being familiar with someone's natural scent. If anything, he'd probably enjoy the scent of someone's conditioner or lotion or something, but I can't see him liking something that's worn for the sole purpose of smelling good like perfume. However, If I ABSOLUTELY had to pick, the only thing that comes to mind is Maison Martin Margiela Lazy Sunday Morning, it's a very light soapy, slightly rose-y perfume.

in general... Licht just does not care. I don't think he'd hate perfume, he's just so absolutely neutral on it that it means nothing to him. If it was something that you love and makes you happy he will probably compliment you once in a while, but mostly because he knows it makes you happy.

[hungriestheidi]

Favourite circuits for the reverse unpopular opinions!

send me a topic and i'll give you my (positive) take <3

oh i love this topic, thank you so mucccccch!!!!

TOP FIVE BEST CIRCUITS EVER IN MY TOTALLY NON BIASED OPINION:

1: Autodromo Jose Carlos Pace

INTERLAGOS YOU BEAUTY. 4km of the best freaking action on track !!!!!! best fucking circuit!!!! This circuit is always ready to serve, deliver, destroy, break the mold, rebuild it and break it again. The season finales here were always INSANE. #BringBackInterlagosAsTheLastRace

2: Marina Bay Circuit

this bad bitch always delivers. she never stops serving. and this weekend it even served women on motorsport action so you know this baddie is top tier quality! the one street circuit i will never complain about. over a decade on the calendar and has always given us a safety car, xoxo singapore.

3: Autodromo Nazionale di Monza

bad bitch after bad bitch, monza is the girlie who has always been there and knows some shit. iconic victories and insane moments. tifosi home circuit will always be the SHIT.

MONZA IS FOR THE DREAMERS !!!!! MONZA IS FOR THE MIRACLE MAKERS AND THE PASSIONATE LOVERS !!!!! MONZA BABY !!!!

4: Suzuka International Racing Course

She came, she saw, she conquered. 130R will live in my dreams as the one piece of track i want to drive on at least once in my life. it's beautiful. and now it has a bee hotel so that's nice. also i think this is the circuit that has the most interesting layout in terms of the little crisscross of one part of track over the other? sick and fantastic ! (couldnt find a better resolution with the modifications of the circuit but whateveeeer we move!)

5: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

She's cute!!!! and it has a forest!!!!! and there is a place literally called a bus stop i cannot love her!!! the racing may have gotten a bit dull and sometimes it is unbearably dangerous, but radillion and eau rouge are simply a thing of beauty. i love you spaaaaa, stay with me foreveeeer.