MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 1)
scent of the day: Ombre Leather 2018 edp, by Tom Ford
The one that opened my nose to the olfactory arts. Even though I would have admitted upon scrutiny that perfumery is an art, in practice I snubbed my nose at it (associating it simply with the Ulta scents that have everyone smelling the same; just another sheeple thing). But then, while helping my girlfriend pick the best smelling scents from a sampler she was gifted for Christmas (not super into it, but being a good sport), suddenly my nose met this Tom Ford. It literally knocked my socks off: leather purses and distant reminders of Burlington Coat Factory, where I used to work as a kid—some sort of photorealism here forced me to behold in full consciousness the olfactory arts.
This is like a more complex and much dustier version of Aqua di Parma’s even more photorealistic leather fragrance, which is simply called leather and is more citrusy and salty whereas Ombre Leather is more floral. Ombre opens with cardamom and bold leather note. Leather stays in the immediate dry down and the jasmine sambac comes out. Spicy and slightly floral, as it settles more the leather becomes smoother and creamier—reminiscent of high-end suede, but never as oily feeling as Acqua di Parma’s. The heart reveals a blend of floral and spicy nuances, with jasmine taking an even more pronounced role (an elegant touch).
Dry down is where Ombre Leather truly shines, with warm amber and patchouli creating a deep, rich base. It really does maintain the leather core throughout, but with added warmth and complexity. longevity is great but falls short, and for good reason, of some other leather fragrances that are excellent but marred by amberwoods: Eerba Leather, Nasomatto’s Duro. Sillage is moderate to strong, making it noticeable but not overwhelming. Works day and night and year round (although people prefer leather in cold times). Very accessible for a leather scent (straddles the niche designer fence). It has a feel of a second skin so it is hard for this scent to read like its is wearing you (instead of other way around). Evokes imagery of sleek leather jackets or luxurious leather interiors in high-end cars or inside leather purses in department stores—not the outdoors artisanal leather markets of Acqua di Parma. Ombre is definitely more complex than Tuscan Leather. Ombre can go a tad wet dog on me with time and especially exercise heat, which used to be a negative but now gives it character.
It is something that I did not notice really when I was overwhelmed by the whole pizzazz of the beginning of the fragrance journey, but Ombre is super smokey in the base dry down. it’s Tiziana Terenzi’s copycat version Siene in that way, except with the Terenzi there is that big amberwoods in the base which you do not get here. I like the potential of the Siene better because it has the pine dominant. But yeah this is way better executed all around and lacks those horrible amberwoods.
What especially gives Ombre its uniqueness, explaining especially this clean musk fuzziness, is the white moss. White moss is an accord built around soft and soapy musks but with fresh aromatics (lavender especially) and sweet woods (cedar especially). Light and airy, it provides a “just out of the shower” freshness. It is not bombastic like the powerhouse synthetic musks of the 80s though. It is designed not to cut through cigarette smoke but to mimic a warm clean skin scent—soft, comforting, and understated.
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018—part 1)
hive Being
a neck-rubbing boss—your neck
the easiest wedding guest
off-the-rack identities
mate poaching
speaking flattery to power
toy-gun play in a land of open carry
pubic lice habitats annihilated by internet porn
the existential terror to which the boredom of living fat has opened us
born gay, perhaps—but born fagulously falsetto?
the barbarism of gender-reveal parties in an age of choose your own gender
then let any AI who identifies as human compete in human chess
his trauma turned into a pathology, but his pathology made his vengeance unending
just because you were fast asleep does not mean that they died in their sleep
practicing bondage ties on your child
serried in isolation
even your chiseled name dies, like the very stone
a teether’s vibrancy beaten in line by the grimy room
elephant sway in captivity to trick itself of roaming
fucking each other into bondage to each other
flames do not rest when the fire is out, and neither do we
the moon tends not to speak much to those with glowing screens
work-conference gangbang: being agile in a dynamic environment
racists, transphobes—the witches of today
in the absence of expected disaster, we are left again to what we do not want to be left again to: each other—each other’s eyes
even if darkness and silence achieve the ultimate triumph they are still modes of being
no stranger is an utter stranger: there can be no such thing there is no such thing like
if anywhere (a major “if”), tape that black strip of censor not across the book but across the eyes of the triggered!
tragedy as a call to shamanize
alcohol swabbing before lethal injection
cornfield meteor showers
lunch-table and school-desk drum machines
negatives of slavery aside, at least blacks got to learn who the real God is
never afraid enough to be unable to spit
congregational auming
food-stamp soda?!
trusting in him more because he is in a wheelchair
palm callouses interfering with date night
static lightning, undressing in the dark
smoking up the town special-needs kid
wrong cell numbers for uglies
quick to breathe in the air she passed through
menstrual harmonization—what other harmonization, then?
those people ever with those people in the worst days of their lives
how much of a stretch is it to call juvenile rebellion Earth’s prophylaxis against sclerosis, an injection of paradigm-melting chaos—like the gene-shuffle of sex— that might very well catalyze Ubermenschean leaps from the organic Petri dish?
a slavered ear whisper fractured by systolic thumps from within you both: “You’re all grown up”
contorted twists and a facial wince as if from inmost faith that such gestures affect the ball even well into the air
the practiced grace of the niqabbed woman who has the man and even herself believing any glimmer of her eyeing him is but a mirage
calling the friend on impulse to share in anguish and anger about his own abrupt demise
warfare medals to promote future valor in others more than to honor the recipients
even with mouse squeaks on mute, watching porn triple speed cannot but dredge up (like mucosal catfish glinting out from Lethe’s inky mud) our rodent-whiskered roots, our quivering-shrew core, once—in the reign of dinosaurs—scurrying on the surface
the uncomfortable alliance between nostalgic regressives and trans revolutionaries on shared advocacy of gender stereotypes recalls that between the Klan and the NOI on shared advocacy of racial separation (and hate for “the Jewish parasite infestation”)
like those who “miss the point” and celebrate Patrick Bateman, we seem now a culture that celebrates, apes even, artistic depictions of our depravity—unable to hear in them the merest hint of “wait-stop-no” regarding, say, our worship of bling and Botox hoes
will your artist friends be crafty enough to acclaim your work and thereby redirect you—and perhaps themselves as well—away from sensing that their first instinct was to lash out at it for making them face their indolence?
stealing your mom’s ring to give to your second-grade girlfriend
reclaiming those TV shows, places, activities tainted by your ex
mushrooms cutting out the priest between you and God
we belong to a “fixed” constellation in another’s night sky
misgendered funereal dressing of the dead transgendered
friends not desperate for legitimacy from one another
food dye for Christmas crack
disciplinary special education
heckling the dead-mall magician
wounded healers are best
doula to the dying
healed by giving your child what you were not given
does the you that has lived on deserve to be called “you”
“Row Row Row Your Boat” is as potent as any Vedic chant, but that still remains concealed to us by its deficient exoticness
skepticism about the soul makes it easy for us to feel ourselves to be nothing more than the avatars of our race and gender
testosterone is such an anxiety slayer that giving the teen just a pinch will drive away any dubitation about whether gender dysphoria is her real issue
there is great nobility, often undervalued, in ceasing altogether from doing x out of deference to those who do x so damn well— and this goes especially if those in question are your friends
if women find joy doing MMA, joy can still be found playing chess even after the rise of AI that can destroy the most genius of us one hundred percent of the time
