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I could believe in athanasia
In which there is further BPAL.
(Cut for Yggdrasil, since I haven't the foggiest what went into this bottle.)
Description
The World Ash. Nine woods, nine leaves, and three herbs each for Ratatosk and Vidofnir, with three final herbs to placate Nidhogg.
Vial
. . . which is great mythologically, but doesn't help me at all figure out what I am smelling. This is the second perfume that, in the vial, smells floral to me: lighter and sweeter this time, more complicated, and a couple of little sharpnesses that might be herbs or woods or God knows what. I feel that I should recognize at least a few of these scents, but mostly I'm left with the impression that I might burn them on my night table to keep away the paper mill.
Wet
Hello, skin-chemistry effect. Now it's spicier and sweeter and a little citrus-flavored, although it's not a citron that I easily recognize—what is this, essence of esrog? (Actually, that would be awesome. Perfumes based on major Jewish holidays would be such a niche market.) Plus the layer that my brain interprets flatly as perfume and that's as far as it goes. I should figure out what this really is.
Drydown
So, the scents have mellowed: but again, I'm not sure into what. I keep being reminded of the cedar blocks and dried-crumbled rose petals I kept once in a drawer of sweaters because that's what my grandmother did. No, really. Nothing on my wrist smells exactly like cedar or roses, which are two scents that I can at least identify, but this is the mental effect. Sort of warm and . . . sandalwood? The World Ash clearly hangs out at much lower latitudes than I had expected. Or has been mined for clothes chests in the recent past.
Later
My limited discernment of Yggdrasil has mostly been ruined by a neighbor's decision to mow his lawn and my decision to set up near an open window, which means that right now I inhale and get fresh grass clippings and the far less appetizing lawnmower exhaust. That said, what I still seem to be picking up is scented woods; and that I don't mind. There is a certain savory component, which I attribute to the herbs. Less cedar and roses, more aromatic leaves I don't know. Some underlying dryness that is almost bitter, nostril-stinging. I'm not reminded so much of Norse myth, but I can at least see this combination as its intended tree—which is more than I could for Hecate. Neat.
I am peculiarly amused to note that I seem to have unconsciously filed John Griffiths Pedley's New Light on Ancient Carthage between Jenney's First Year Latin and Amy Schwartz's Yossel Zissel and the Wisdom of Chelm. I am not so amused that my other book on Carthage, which includes some transcribed and translated inscriptions, appears to have vanished into another state. But I am curious to see what people with greater fluency in Semitic languages than I would make of the following epigram from the Anthologia Graeca:
Walk softly, stranger: among the righteous, the old man
is resting, lulled to the sleep that he deserves,
Meleagros the son of Eukrates, who put together
sweet-crying Love and the Muses with the joyful Graces:
whom god-gotten Tyre reared to manhood, and the holy land of Gadara:
but lovely Kos of the Meropes tended him as an old man.
So if you are Syrian, Salam, if you are Phoenician,
Naidios, and if you are Greek, Chaire—say the same.
(Besides, I love this epigram.) Two out of three of those greetings make perfect sense to me. I'm never been able to figure out where naidios came from, however, even accounting for the orthographical pretzels that words go through when transcribed into languages not their own. Anyone?
And as though I needed another new addiction,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shirei_shibolim, kraada, and my brother (who does not have a livejournal) have all conspired to lure me into the ever-peculiar world of Sluggy Freelance. At least I can't possibly develop allergies to a webcomic. Shalom, you nebbish!
(Cut for Yggdrasil, since I haven't the foggiest what went into this bottle.)
Description
The World Ash. Nine woods, nine leaves, and three herbs each for Ratatosk and Vidofnir, with three final herbs to placate Nidhogg.
Vial
. . . which is great mythologically, but doesn't help me at all figure out what I am smelling. This is the second perfume that, in the vial, smells floral to me: lighter and sweeter this time, more complicated, and a couple of little sharpnesses that might be herbs or woods or God knows what. I feel that I should recognize at least a few of these scents, but mostly I'm left with the impression that I might burn them on my night table to keep away the paper mill.
Wet
Hello, skin-chemistry effect. Now it's spicier and sweeter and a little citrus-flavored, although it's not a citron that I easily recognize—what is this, essence of esrog? (Actually, that would be awesome. Perfumes based on major Jewish holidays would be such a niche market.) Plus the layer that my brain interprets flatly as perfume and that's as far as it goes. I should figure out what this really is.
Drydown
So, the scents have mellowed: but again, I'm not sure into what. I keep being reminded of the cedar blocks and dried-crumbled rose petals I kept once in a drawer of sweaters because that's what my grandmother did. No, really. Nothing on my wrist smells exactly like cedar or roses, which are two scents that I can at least identify, but this is the mental effect. Sort of warm and . . . sandalwood? The World Ash clearly hangs out at much lower latitudes than I had expected. Or has been mined for clothes chests in the recent past.
Later
My limited discernment of Yggdrasil has mostly been ruined by a neighbor's decision to mow his lawn and my decision to set up near an open window, which means that right now I inhale and get fresh grass clippings and the far less appetizing lawnmower exhaust. That said, what I still seem to be picking up is scented woods; and that I don't mind. There is a certain savory component, which I attribute to the herbs. Less cedar and roses, more aromatic leaves I don't know. Some underlying dryness that is almost bitter, nostril-stinging. I'm not reminded so much of Norse myth, but I can at least see this combination as its intended tree—which is more than I could for Hecate. Neat.
I am peculiarly amused to note that I seem to have unconsciously filed John Griffiths Pedley's New Light on Ancient Carthage between Jenney's First Year Latin and Amy Schwartz's Yossel Zissel and the Wisdom of Chelm. I am not so amused that my other book on Carthage, which includes some transcribed and translated inscriptions, appears to have vanished into another state. But I am curious to see what people with greater fluency in Semitic languages than I would make of the following epigram from the Anthologia Graeca:
Walk softly, stranger: among the righteous, the old man
is resting, lulled to the sleep that he deserves,
Meleagros the son of Eukrates, who put together
sweet-crying Love and the Muses with the joyful Graces:
whom god-gotten Tyre reared to manhood, and the holy land of Gadara:
but lovely Kos of the Meropes tended him as an old man.
So if you are Syrian, Salam, if you are Phoenician,
Naidios, and if you are Greek, Chaire—say the same.
(Besides, I love this epigram.) Two out of three of those greetings make perfect sense to me. I'm never been able to figure out where naidios came from, however, even accounting for the orthographical pretzels that words go through when transcribed into languages not their own. Anyone?
And as though I needed another new addiction,
shirei_shibolim, kraada, and my brother (who does not have a livejournal) have all conspired to lure me into the ever-peculiar world of Sluggy Freelance. At least I can't possibly develop allergies to a webcomic. Shalom, you nebbish!
no subject
Chris
no subject
I'm having a surprisingly enjoyable time myself. Perfume has never been high on my list of things to care about, unless it interferes with my breathing, but this is both geekery of the highest order—these people name perfumes after everything from classical gods to Lovecraftian monsters to folktales to Lewis Caroll—and, at least so far, smells nice. It's literate hedonism!