Loving Ourselves Without Denial (ROUND 1)
scent of the day: Montabaco Extrême, by Ormonde Jayne
Montabaco Extrême (2018, Geza Schoen)—a high-altitude suede-tobacco fragrance, its minimalist aura pitched somewhere between gauzy luxury and masculine fantasy—
opens with a flash of hot sunshine on brushed metal (sparkling citrus zest, crackling cardamom, herbal mountain air) and then settles into a tanned-skin version of fresh laundry left to air-dry on a wind-chiming balcony near the base of a blindingly bright snow-capped mountain range (I think of an Alps scene where thick dark clouds ever threaten to bring an aquatic element into the mix),
its bright citruses (honeyed orange, Earl-Grey-like bergamot) and herbs (gin-like juniper, lavender-hay clary sage, soothing black tea) and florals (lemon-cream magnolia, dewy rose, cucumber-like violet, citrus-jasmine hedione)
at once made into a diffusive radiance by an ozonic air accord at the top and by musky-cedar combo of briny ambroxan-gris and cloud-billow iso at the base and yet cinched into place by various sensual woods (creamy sandalwood, rooty vetiver perhaps) framing the green leather (mossy suede) of gloves worn in the early spring chill
plus the subtle but star bite of tonka-nut tobacco (not nicotined like Ambergris Nicotina, not purple like 2AM, not boozy like Laudano Nero, not cigar humidor like Royal Tobacco, not oudy like Tabac Doré, not cigarillo like Sayat Nova, not shisha like Killian’s Smoking Hot, not hay powder like Chergui, not cigar ash like T Habanero, not cigarette ash like Tobacco Blaze, not straight smoke like Akro’s Smoke, not mossy like Tabac Vert, not honey-sweet like Naxos, but rather an uncured leaf so tea-like one could say it is more the intrigue of tobacco or tobacco flower than tobacco leaf itself)—
the overall result being a literal mountain-air fragrance, too breezy and blue and synthetic to expect me (a lover of perineal funk and dark-resinous ouds) to love so deeply, that does develop a bit over time (musky-mossy suede becomes more pronounced, the airiness fading into something denser especially now that I have trained my nose to smell the synthetics that once seemed more like empty volume) but mostly stays linear, oscillating softly between contrast-points (brisk and warm, bright and dark, airy and musky);
the overall result being a fragrance, one of the most arresting and reassuring and unique aromas I have ever put my nose on for all its reliance on iso (and unquestionably the most unique and classy combo), that smells like what happens when you take the elements of a masculine blueprint (leaf tobacco, clean citrus, plush suede, menthol spice, briny animalics) and run them through a futuristic air purifier (futuristic but not as cyborg-AI fractionated as one made by Bisch) until all that is left of the original musky gestalt, floating in a whisper even at an extremely dense 50 percent oil concentration, is a sublimated mirage of ozonic breeze (too smooth to offend, too well-constructed to ignore) with only the subtlest aroma differences from the original Parfum (35 percent oil concentration) and the Intensivo version (42 percent oil concentration):
(1) the ominous dark clouds in the alp scene, which is present in the Parfum and largely goes away in the Intensivo (the brightest of the three), come back at their darkest in the Extrême especially because of the intense leather and damp moss;
(2) the blonde tobacco in the Extrême is more intense but reads a bit staler, which together with the boosted leather and musky ambergris makes the scent the dirtiest of the three (comparatively tarry and even like diesel-stained leather work gloves, one might even say).
*Let’s workshop this poem about the beauty of automaticity—a beauty that rings clear no matter the upsetting implication it might have in regards to the soul or to an identity-preserving afterlife.
Loving Ourselves Without Denial
Blessed be that nervous-system circuitry that keeps a boxer—flatlined on the mat— ticking out vestigial bobs and weaves (like an obese bridesmaid, blood albatross,
damp on the dance-floor edge sketching choreography with heel-to-heel shifts, tucked-elbow feints), little shoulder rolls (like a whimpering dog in dream-conflict
over some bitch or bone), as he throws degraded combos (jab, cross), working the body even (piss-ass digs, low blows), in that liminal seam—cortical current
bleeding enough into jaw and tongue for stupid gurning (like a jazz guitarist swallowed in a murmuring brook)— between rehearsal and showtime.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
