It's quite an elaborate scheme

[sovay]

lesser_celery got me a Jill Tracy and the Malcontent Orchestra corpse cooler T-shirt. It seems to have arrived with a pair of ancillary postcards and a sticker for The Fine Art of Poisoning, which are rather cool in their own right. Thank you. My life can always use more black T-shirts.

In political news: well, thank God. I'm still revolted that it even came to a vote. "We're making progress, and we're not going to stop until marriage between a man and a woman is protected . . . protected in the courts, protected in the Constitution, but most of all, protected for the people and for the future of our children in this society," Senator Sam Brownback, Republican of Kansas, said after the vote. Protected from what? The only marriages I can see under threat right now are, what do you know, the same-sex kind. Or anything that isn't the standard heterosexual pairing. I really would like to live in a country that hasn't outlawed the ways in which most of the people important to me love one another. Although frankly, I'm not sure where I should move to at this point . . . I don't know if I'll ever marry. If I do, it might well be the kind of marriage of which Senator Brownback would approve (although for reasons other than gender, I rather doubt it). And just as likely not. And it shouldn't matter, should it? This is a strange planet.

(Cut for Arachne, because who doesn't love Greek myth and spiders?)

Description
A victim of her own arrogance, conceit and hubris, Arachne, the greatest mortal weaver, had the temerity to claim herself superior to Athena. Arachne was truly gifted: not only was her art astoundingly beautiful, but the vision of her in the act of weaving was a joy to behold. When one observer commented that her skill was so great that she must have been trained by the goddess Athena herself, the proud woman scoffed: she was insulted, and proclaimed aloud that the goddess could do no better than she. Athena heard this, and, as she is not a vindictive or jealous goddess, gave Arachne the opportunity to redeem herself. Disguised as an elderly woman, she came to Arachne and warned her against hubris. She laughed at the old woman and declared that she would welcome a contest with Athena. The goddess accepted the challenge. Athena wove a stunning tapestry depicting her victory over Poseidon, thus gaining patronage over the city of Athens. Arachne, who couldn't leave well enough alone, wove a vulgar piece that depicted Zeus' dalliances with Leda, Europa and Danae. Appalled at the woman's audacity and blasphemy, Athena tore Arachne's tapestry to shreds, crushed her loom, and bonked the mortal on the head, forcing her to feel remorse for her actions.* In guilt and grief, Arachne hung herself. Again, because the goddess is merciful, she took pity on the woman and, after sprinkling aconite upon her corpse, transformed her into the first spider. A gossamer scent, as light as a spider's footfall, touched with sighing mists: pallid flowers, dusty woods and soft herbs.

*Because everybody knows that if you trash someone's loom and bonk them on the head with their own shuttle, they will immediately feel regretful rather than homicidal. It helps to be over six foot tall, in full hoplite armor, and, if at all possible, a goddess, if you plan to try this at at home.

Vial
Yes, it's another sweet floral scent: this time with a mildly warmer, earthier smell underneath. I have no idea what any of the ingredients are. We'll find out.

Wet
Immediately on my skin, it's dryer, more pungent, and much less flowery. I'm reminded of the scented woods in Yggdrasil, but I have no idea which one—something resinous, for the slightly tindery feel? And the layer that smells like perfume. So far, I don't see either the mists or the spiders. Maybe the abandoned loom, but that's it.

Drydown
The scented woods have settled out, although I'm a little unclear on which: not cedar, perhaps sandalwood? The dust seems to have crosswired and manifested itself as bitter herbs, not so much Pesach as the kind you discover turned to mummia in your spice cabinet; there's always the chance that it might have been parsley or oregano once upon a time, but mostly it looks like a greyish-green lichenous dust and you give up and buy the kind in a pot from Bread & Circus that afternoon. There are faint touches of flowers, or lighter sweetnesses that might be flowers, but damned if I can tell which ones.

Later
I can't tell if I am not enough of a scent-oriented person for these descriptions to mesh with my own word-associations, or if I need a nose better attuned to the subtleties of perfume, or if my skin chemistry has simply booted this one out the window, too. I am not experiencing remorseful sighs, dry as chitin, cobweb-floated. I'm not even sure I still have flowers, pallid or otherwise. What I do seem to be wearing is a sandalwood box in which some misguided soul has stored expired kitchen herbs. It isn't strictly a bad scent, we are not talking The Unicorn-like necessity to wash it off before it burrows into my skin forever, and in the past half-hour it's warmed and mellowed considerably from the acerbic tinder I noticed initially. (I am still picking up intermittent touches of that same ammoniac bitterness; if it follows the pattern of Yggdrasil, that note will fade before the herb-and-wood scents do, however present at the moment. Does anyone know what components Yggdrasil, The Unicorn, and Arachne might have in common? And which my skin chemistry might hate?) But it's not gossamer-light: it's distinct and difficult to ignore. Eh. I'll see what else is out there first.

Comments

[lesser-celery.livejournal.com]

The freshman roommate of the gay man (Andy) who was to become my best friend as an undergrad was so offended by Andy’s sexual orientation that he strangled and threatened to kill him. There were no laws against gay-bashing in those days, so the RA told Andy to “work it out” with his roommate. He worked it out by sleeping on the floor the rest of the school year in a room whose official residents were two straight guys who somehow didn’t think Andy, the son of a Methodist minister, was the Antichrist. He wasn’t. His being in a men’s dorm with straight guys didn’t compromise anyone’s morals or unit morale, the best I can tell. Nor would the institution of marriage have been compromised had he been able to marry a man with whom he could have shared his life.