We left right at the sunrise. The sky looked like an iced sea of reddish waves.
It was light, it was cold and it was you.
Smell is a very under-estimated sense. Yet it’s the one sense collecting and linking most emotions.
Perfume is my favourite sin. Demands finance, time and patience to find the one scent that has something.
Something with the masculine drowsiness of olives, a hint of musk, perhaps a bit of patchouli. Maybe vanilla or some mysterious rose. Chypre and vetiver. Or… just anything that goes wooo on my nose on one particular day.
I like powerful scents, intriguing scents, scents that don’t always appeal. Signature scents for people that know me.
I also like discrete, smell-able only for the curious nose near my neck, or my ears.
My curiosity goes towards the misted bodies I sense on the street, walking in front of me, next to me. I follow people whose smell I like – my stalking curiosity is not for their face, but for the way they move, spreading the fragrance, and maybe for the voice, and for the traces they leave behind them.
Some perfumes are like a poem, playing with aromas as if they were words. Others come like a symphony, imposing and long lasting. And there are some that just cut a bit of the Universe and deliver it in a bottle. The bottle? or the scent? or the people that used it? they all gather around for a trip down the memory lane, like this exquisite post from Memory and Desire.
And if you like autumn, the penchant of spring, why not imagine/recall autumn smells?
My autumn always smells of cold, clean and colours.
Autumn is a vibrant city in the morning. The Statue of Liberty, appalling turquoise above the water. The shiny city hall above some beautiful unknown trees. A Starbucks coffee over cold hands near terribly high sky scrappers.
Autumn is a country house in a valley surrounded by hills. Wake up in the morning, listen to parents and grandparents voices. I smell colours – dying red yellow leaves on black, moist earth; grey fire smoke somewhere; the cry of violet crushed plums combined with the greeness of wallnuts, the orangeness and strong aroma they leave on hungry hands.
Autumn is a rainy day, in a bed surrounded by warmth, under a pillow of love. Holding hands before getting up and leaving for the mad world.
Here’s a beautiful entry on Autumn smells:
“To me, autumn is the smell of my cat coming in from the cold. It only lasts a minute, maybe less, but if I can scoop her up before she runs to the dinner bowl, and inhale deeply, there is a fragrance of incomparable beauty, and nearly impossible to describe: it is cold but alive, her fur, yes, but also wisps of the smoke from our chimney, the fresh cut woodpile she nestles in to watch for mice, the sweet brown of decaying leaves on the forest floor. Wandering outside won’t lead you to this smell, it is something unique to her and her kind. Maybe we walk too far from the ground, or maybe we don’t stay long enough in one place, but her autumn is a world truly apart from mine. While I love the rich wine and honey of my autumn, it is nothing compared to her wild and lovely life.”