MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 5)
scent of the day: Au Couer Du Desert (ACDD), by Tauer
Au Coeur du Désert (2016, Andy Tauer)—a denser concentrate of L’Air du Désert Marocain’s sunlit spice aura, albeit one that exchanges its predecessor’s cumin-dusted sun-bleached expanse of throat-scratching sand for something more nocturnal, medicinal, earthy, fungal, sepulchral—
opens with oily-twiggy citrus (bergamot and petitgrain) with a spiced-metal edge (ferric-electrical rose plus lemon-pepper coriander than copper-sweat cumin) that, in contrast to LDDM, gets lacquered under a thick myrrh-labdanum goo (honeyed rubber, wet stone, black licorice) whose bitter-asphalt facet is boosted by tarry-antiseptic vanilla and whose fungal-medicinal facet is boosted by a chocolate-mint patchouli and whose terpene-sap facet is boosted by gin-juniper cedar and piney-smoky frankinscence and whose umami-saline facet is boosted by sabkha-salt ambergris, the mentholic merger of all these elements creating what seems like a homeopathic cough syrup or herbal salve for desert mystics—
the overall effect being a mineralic-resinous fragrance that, anchoring LDDM’s gritty cola-spice volatility into a stonewall basement rife with mothball aromas, trades LDDM shimmering solar bone-dry aridity (afternoon breeze) for a plush and enveloping introspective enclosure (still air, camphorous-patchouli air, at midnight), temple darkness and dankness instead of desert glare and sparkle;
the overall effect being, in other words, a spicy-amber fragrance that, in a perfect parallel to the difference between Reflection Man and the lower-vibration Reflection 45 (both Reflection 45 and ACCD boosting the fungal-licorice myrrh and perhaps also adding in honey-toffee opoponax), mutes its predecessor’s top-loaded fizz (an outward-facing pizzazz) in favor of a velvet-curtained gravity (an inward-facing quiet) that I find slightly more haunted (the white florals trampled and the citruses fermented like in Orange Star) and also, because of the large place of the patchouli and myrrh, more artisanal in feel (its medicinality approaching what I feel in Aguru and in 2am).
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018—part 5)
a beer-can metropolis on the kitchen table each morning from dad
when everyone around you is dying, it seems wrong—unnatural—to go on living
turning to the internet to be told that your want is okay—or, in its speak, “valid”
insecticide-soaked cotton balls in the nostrils of the dead
that brown liquid patch for slashed school bus seats
patience to pursue star crushes after they wash up
trusting a brand more than a person
to trust or not to trust in her DNR tattoo
blue-collar labor injuries to prescription drugs to street drugs
at your tree-carve spot after being dumped for the first time, a shooting star zips by
singing rapture into crippled forms to uplift them—if only by sparking a drive to dig deeper—is construed, in a victim era of righteous mediocrity, as an insensitive taunt against the marginalized (a supremacist ploy even) rather than as love for all mankind
ill-timed notes sung flat, twitches of the brush beyond borders preordained—in them he saw only stains to be winced from mind instead of milkable breaks, muses nudging the stream toward unguessed glory that could wind up crowning them lynchpin stars
it is reasonable to trust your gut when something does not feel right, but recognize that your gut is shaped by outside forces (racist and otherwise): people genuinely felt something was wrong—toxic—about blacks and whites swimming in the same pool
overcome by a warm-fuzzy feeling getting a stranger out of a ticket, shouting: “Officer! Gunshots! Down that way!”
however true it may be, do not say that you will give her a kidney if need be— at least not after just one bout of phone sex
the corporate leader, desperate to be humiliated for a change, turns to a spit-in-your-face dominatrix
only affording to say “Yes” to junk food, not the traditional symbols of familial affection: gadgets, summer camps, vacations
what the voices say, however, is conditioned by the culture in which the psychotic finds herself
selecting how to feel before feeling that way
why ever feel shame, even if we were immortal, for having the desire for someone new to fuck?
wait, wait—black power is not in looking for a handout from the former victimizers of blacks?
the glazed eyes of the wizard point guard dribbling down the court, his look riveted on nothing but the dynamic panoply itself
time would pass, so you imagine, even if everything you were observing were static because you, observing, would not be static
projecting onto him his being the one even though he is just one who fits your needs now
portions of the totality might be both sketches for their own sake or from some pictures to come, but the totality itself is for its own sake alone
philosophers too skilled recoil in silence since they prove a horror to animated conversation, demanding definitions for every term and spotting when we talk past one another
one of the good ones, or did he just lack the opportunity?
more dancing at funerals!
women reduced to potential proofs of masculinity
imprisoned in fire by burglar bars
just being a student, not just the black kid
the dreaded time has come to discard the dead husband’s belongings
the wear and tear beneath even the most glamorous occupations
homework today is just one internet tab of ten
threatened by vibrators
voting is too late: the time is here
where you can no longer stiff arm
having to see what you are made of
cowardly avoiding the conflict since you know that once within you will not behave cowardly
you can give a man everything without everything ceasing to be everything only if you really give him everything: not just all of natura naturata but natura naturans (the eternal arche)—turning him, in effect, into ipse esse subsistence: being itself
artists unable to see art aesthetically anymore, only technically
satire spotlights stupidity: not only that of those who think it true and agree, but especially of those who—despite concord with the author—are offended
veering from how they box you incandesces them, but in a sense other than how it incandesces you
a society in which people see little hope even in paying for the funeral of family should at least invest in suicide booths
around the world snatch tastes like the cuisine of the people to which its owner belongs
the wail of dreams waning persists even after discarding their last bit of paraphernalia
you are no alcoholic if you can hold on until five
simple gratitude for making it back from an infernal trip into inner space has mushrooms ease social anxiety
a wicked script rehashed in college bars (“Whites ruin it all!”)—a gaslighting script given the enlightenment ideals and emancipatory norms of western civ (“Yuck!”) that lift us to Sagan stars, shelter the helpless, abolish monkey law (slavery), enshrine rights for all
