General catalogue: BPAL Edition-Rappaccini’s Garden Pt. IV

The Lotus Tree
Thence the winds bore me, blowing fierce and fell,
Across the fish-abounding ocean swell
A nine-days’ space: and on the tenth we reached
The land where the Lotus-eaters dwell,

Who fed on flowery food: there landed we
And drew us water, and by the sea
By the swift ships taking our midday meal
We drank and ate bread in sufficiency.

Then of my crew I sent to bring me word,
Exploring inland, what they saw or heard
Of dwellers on the acres, choosing out
Twain, and as a herald with them for the third.

And straightway going forth, anigh they drew
The Lotus-eaters; who against our crew
Devised not hurt, but gave them of the fruit
To taste upon the lotus-trees that grew.

But whoso of them once began to eat
The lotus-fruit, that is as honey sweet,
Had no will longer in him to return
Or bring back tidings, but desired to fleet

His days among the lotus-eating men,
Eating the lotus, nor return again.
Howbeit I drove them weeping to the ships,
And to the ships’ hold haled and bound them then

Under the benches: but I bade anon
My fellows to the swift ships get them gone
In haste, that none might of the lotus-fruit
Eat, and forget the way he went upon.

Honey-sweet and soporific.

In the Imp: Honeyed Opium
On Me: Honey, Opium, and chewy steamed Lotus roots.
On My Son: This is so a Mom smell, but because honey, I tried it. It was like this weird rice dumpling wrapped in sweet leaves, and honeyed tea.
Me: I can’t believe you remember that!
He was small, about five, maybe six and we went with friends to a restaurant in Chicago’s Chinatown. They made a dish that’s glutinous rice, veg, mushrooms, and meat rolled up in Lotus leaves and steamed. The tea they served had Chrysanthemums in it, which had almost a honeyed taste to it. With this memory, I completely see how he got fragrant sticky rice in Lotus Leaves with Chrysanthemum tea.

Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before, milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

In the Imp: Not quite Pansy, but very pretty. Bluebonnets and Sweet Peas with a hint of sweet.
On Me: Sweet Pea, maybe a bit of Lilac, the Bluebonnet so strong in the imp is a bare whiff. Touch of Violets too. Creamy dry sweet. This is very Springtime flowers kiddo. You should probably just let me have this…
On My Son: Okay, I maybe might try it later.

The velvet flower. A lush, thick, luxuriant bloom, bold and red.

In the Imp: I know this plant in life is a gorgeous red Amaranth, but the smell isn’t exactly like it. It’s nutty, yes, but there’s also a syrupy copper tang with pungent green too.
On Me: Think Dana O’Shee, with a hint of Dragon’s Blood, and a drop of the stemmy green they’re brilliant at, and soft velvety Violets, rose petals, and sweet flag.
On My Son: You had me at Dana O’Shee and Dragon’s Blood. I also smell gentlemanly Violets.

Opium Poppy
Opium teaches only one thing, which is that aside from physical suffering, there is nothing real. A bitter, soft, fragile flower.

In the Imp: Opium and Poppy. ‘Nuff said.
On Me: Opium, Poppies, hint of something brightly spicy.
On My Son: Nope. This is Mom’s special special.


**Indulgent scents were acquired from  Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab by me or our friends.  Reviews are thanks and appreciation.**


General catalogue: BPAL Edition-Rappaccini’s Garden Pt. III

Bohun Upas

The Tree of Poisons. Every aspect of this tree is toxic, from the narcotic, lethal fumes that it emits, to its oozing, poisonous sap.

A deceptively tranquil scent: heady fruits, dry bark, and deep green leaves, enveloped by a dark and sinister murk.

In the Imp: Pine Sol and Fruit Punch. Uh-Oh!
On Me: OOOOooooh! The Smokey Pine of Lapsang Souchong witg a sharp pungent green tempered by fruit.
On My Son: This reminds me of that Baker Street Tea with the Blueberries in it. Smokey and fruity and a touch spicy. Mom will never miss this!


Cobra Lily 
Sharp, heady and viciously carnivorous.

In the Imp: Cloven Orange, Sharp bite of green, heady Stargazer Lilies.
On Me: This should be so nice, but the Orange turns to an Orange Spicedrop with a hint of florals.
On My Son: NOPE.

Death Cap 
A lethal poison bundled up in a dainty, innocent little package that was oft times found in ancient witches  flying ointments and astral projection balms. A warm, soft, ruddy scent, earthy and mild.

In the Imp: Dirty dank caves and peat.
On Me: Mushroom loamy and Peat infused black soil.
On My Son: Fresh Mushrooms. Now I want some.

Destroying Angel
One of the deadliest mushrooms to ever pop through Gaia’s soil. Papery white notes evoke the grace of this fungi, grounded by thin, crisp soil.

In the Imp: High pitched, beautiful mushroom and dirt.
On Me: Sharp bite of floral that fades down to a loamy mushroom.
On My Son: Frozen mushrooms. Not like eating them, but the smell of icy bitter cold air in the Snow, with fresh mushrooms.


**Indulgent scents were acquired from  Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab by me or our friends.  Reviews are thanks and appreciation.**


General catalogue: BPAL Edition-Rappaccini’s Garden Pt. II

Black Lily 
Breathtaking darkness, a vision of grace in shadow.

In the Imp: Creamy elegsnt, delicate lilies.
On Me: Not quite as demure as an Easter Lily, not as heady as a Stargazer, but somewhere in between. Kiddo I think, will pass.
On My Son: Yes, especially since I used this on an old school project to actually make the paper flowers smell real. It is very you.

Black Lotus 
Born in the shadows of a Temple to Set, this corrupted Egyptian scent evokes images of black pyramids, river demons, and bleak, deadly desert sands.

Black lotus flower, amber, myrrh and sandalwood.

In the Imp: Resinous, Woodsy, and heady florals.
On Me: Very lovely heady sweetness, bordering between Orchid and Water Lily. Resins swirl around like a sandstorm, settling in with a sweet dry wooden undertone. Very nice.
On My Son: Pass because the Flowers are too much, and I washed it off pretty fast before Mom knew I tried it.

Black Rose 
Exquisitely melancholy. The background scent to an ancient exequies.

Heavy, dark and floral: a blend of roses, with a touch of amber and musk.

In the Imp: Musk soaked Roses and soft Amber.
On Me: On me it’s a feather light skin-close musky version of ZOMG Smells Rose in Amber.
On My Son: It smells like ZOMG Smells Rose in Amber, except instead of dusty fossils, there’s this sort of almost oily bit I can’t figure out.

Blood Rose 
Sensual, robust, and silken: voluptuous red rose bursting with lascivious red wine and sultry dragon’s blood resin.

In the Imp: Dragon’s Blood and Red Roses
On Me: Peacock Queen’s Bold Red Rose, mulled with a splash of Grape and Dragon’s Blood.
On My Son: Dragon’s Blood and a teeny bit of candied Roses. Just enough though.




**Indulgent scents were acquired from  Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab by me or our friends.  Reviews are thanks and appreciation.**


General catalogue: BPAL Edition-Rappaccini’s Garden Pt. I


Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred.

The Apple of Sodom
…Their vine is of the vine of Sodom, and of the fields of Gomorrah:
their grapes are grapes of gall, their clusters are bitter.
The tree’s bark is grey and cork-like, and the fruit,
when ripe, is bright yellow, comely and sweet-scented.

After their success in tempting Adam and Eve to the knowledge of sin, Satan and his cronies celebrated by partaking of the Apple:

There stood
A Grove hard by, sprung up with this thir change,
His will who reigns above, to aggravate
Thir penance, laden with Fruit like that
Which grew in Paradise, the bait of Eve
Us’d by the Tempter: on that prospect strange
Thir earnest eyes they fix’d, imagining
For one forbidden Tree a multitude
Now ris’n, to work them furder woe or shame;
Yet parcht with scalding thurst and hunger fierce,
Though to delude them sent, could not abstain,
But on they rould in heaps, and up the Trees
Climbing, sat thicker then the snakie locks
That curld Megæra: greedily they pluck’d
The Frutage fair to sight, like that which grew
Neer that bituminous Lake where Sodom flam’d;
This more delusive, not the touch, but taste
Deceav’d; they fondly thinking to allay
Thir appetite with gust, instead of Fruit
Chewd bitter Ashes, which th’ offended taste
With spattering noise rejected: oft they assayd,
Hunger and thirst constraining, drugd as oft,
With hatefullest disrelish writh’d thir jaws
With soot and cinders fill’d; so oft they fell
Into the same illusion, not as Man
Whom they triumph’d once lapst. Thus were they plagu’d
And worn with Famin, long and ceasless hiss,
Till thir lost shape, permitted, they resum’d,
Yearly enjoynd, some say, to undergo
This annual humbling certain number’d days,
To dash thir pride, and joy for Man seduc’t.

Native to the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, this fruit turns to ashes when plucked as a sign of God’s displeasure.

In the Imp: Sharp Green and Sour Apples.
On Me: Very sharp green, Green Apple, sort of high-pitched dirty nuance I get from Destroying Angel. Love it.
On My Son: Apples gone wrong, which is the point I think.

A poisonous fruit-bearing member of the buttercup family. The scent, like the plant, is dark green, herbal, and plump with bulging black fruit.

In the Imp: Dark fruit and sickly green.
On Me: Dripping fruit juices, almost a Blackberry note with Currant and a hint of English Creeping Ivy.
On My Son: Juicy berries on the bush, and broken leaves from picking them in a hurry.

The devil’s herb, which he cultivates with skill and pleasure. According to lore, the spirit of this plant may take the form of a breathtaking, achingly beautiful woman, deadly to behold. This scent is a tribute to such a dark and magnificent plant: a rich green and floral blend, earthy and haunting.

In the Imp: Sharp herbal evergreen.
On Me: Tomato vines, a sort of bitter, nutty herbal note, and a sharp bite of Juniper.
On My Son: Evergreen and flowers.  Not sure I like it.  Wish it was how it is on Mom.

Black Hellebore
Also called Melampode. In witchcraft legend, this is one of the components of the notorious flying ointment, and is used in rituals that summon the Devil. In Greek mythology, Melampus of Pylos used hellebore to save the daughters of the king of Argos from a Dionysian Maenad-like madness. In Christian myth, hellebore was born from the tears a little girl shed onto the snow because she had no gift to give to the Christ child. In low magick, it has been used by farmers to protect their livestock from the evil eye. Court magicians have used it in martial invisibility spells, enabling spies and assassins to infiltrate enemy camps. Hellebore resembles the wild rose, but does not belong to their family. The scent is a pale green herbal, darkly rooty, with a faint rose and peony-like overtone.

Borage and hellebore fill two scenes,
Sovereign plants to purge the veins
Of melancholy, and cheer the heart
Of those black fumes which make it smart.

In the Imp: Sharp green, and delicate flowers.
On Me: Roses and Peonies and wickedly sharp green.
On My Son: Too flowery, but interesting in the imp.



**Indulgent scents were acquired from  Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab by me or our friends.  Reviews are thanks and appreciation.**


General catalogue: BPAL Edition-A Picnic in Arkham Pt. III


Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn. The sunken city of the Great God Cthulhu. A hellishly dark aquatic scent, evocative of fathomless oceanic deeps, the mysteries of madness buried under crushing black waters, and the brooding eternal evil that lies beneath the waves.

In the Imp: Grapefruit on a coastal beach.
On Me: Grapefruit in the ocean…that turned to Grapefruit scented Irish Spring. Blergh.
On My Son: Grapefruit in the ocean…that’s funny.

It was a terrible, indescribable thing vaster than any subway train – a shapeless congerie of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming as pustules of greenish light all over the tunnel-filling front that bore down upon us, crushing the frantic penguins and slithering over the glistening floor that it and its kind had swept so evilly free of all litter.

An amorphous, radiant, incandescent scent. Ever changing, protoplasmic and primordial: white amber, green coconut meat, iris, palmarosa, Chinese peony, lime, water lily, snowdrop, muguet, lemongrass, osmanthus, wisteria, glassy musk, and hinoki.

In the Imp: Coconut and fresh greens, florals, and a whiff of Amber.
On Me: Coco Castile soap scented with fresh greens and flowers.
On My Son: Coconut soap and grass with flowers.  Not sure about this one.


Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, the All-Mother and wife of the Not-to-Be-Named-One.

The lust incense of a corrupted Astarte. A blend of ritual herbs and dark resins, shot through with three gingers and aphrodisiacal spices.

In the Imp: Evil Gingersnaps, almost as delicious smelling as ZOMG Smells Elder Spicecake.
On Me: Okay, now turn this Gingersnap smell into soap.  Dagnabit.
On My Son: I like Miss Ariel’s Spicecake one a bit better if we are comparing just the gingerbread part.  This one has an incense tang to it.  (BTW Mom, I just finished my Squee of that, and need a bottle.)


The Deep Ones

I think their predominant colour was a greyish-green, though they had white bellies. They were mostly shiny and slippery, but the ridges of their backs were scaly. Their forms vaguely suggested the anthropoid, while their heads were the heads of fish, with prodigious bulging eyes that never closed. At the sides of their necks were palpitating gills, and their long paws were webbed. They hopped irregularly, sometimes on two legs and sometimes on four. I was somehow glad that they had no more than four limbs. Their croaking, baying voices, clearly used for articulate speech, held all the dark shades of expression which their staring faces lacked.

Black algae, drooping seaweed, salty brine, and crushed coral.

In the Imp: Such a fresh, green aquatic.
On Me: Seaweed clay soap. $!?%&¢@                 On My Son: It’s beachy.  Kinda like Parthenope and Thalassa without the flowers.

Me: (T-T)

I’m beginning to sense a theme here…that Lovecraft is being a bag of @$#%¢ and just decided he wants to #@$! with my sense of smell.

Probably should hunt down the few I’m missing so I can say I’ve tried them all.  I wish I knew why these go so strange when all the Miskatonic Valley scents are so amazing on me.

I seriously would have sent these to Chris’fer as a gag gift. He’d have laughed after calling me a colossal jerkface.

That’s it for A Picnic in Arkham, next up is Rappaccini’s Garden.


**Indulgent scents were acquired from  Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab by me or our friends.  Reviews are thanks and appreciation.**


General catalogue: BPAL Edition-A Picnic in Arkham Pt. II



If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings… It represented a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind. This thing, which seemed instinct with a fearsome and unnatural malignancy, was of a somewhat bloated corpulence…

A creeping, wet, slithering scent, dripping with seaweed, oceanic plants and dark, unfathomable waters.

In the Bottle: Smells like Irish Spring soap.
On Me: Ditto. Ew, getitoff!
On My Son: I’m with Mom, this smells like that green soap, but I like it.

Miskatonic University

A venerable New England university, whose vast library holds many rare, diabolical and obscure arcane works, including one of the few surviving legitimate copies of the Necronomicon. Home to innumerable scholars of the esoteric and the occult, and the notorious Dr. Herbert West.

The scent of Irish coffee, dusty tomes and polished oakwood halls.

In the Bottle: Boozy coffee and books and freshly polished wooden desks and shelves while trying to avoid the Librarian.
On Me: Pretty much this, but I keep waiting for the creepy soap to show up.
On My Son: What Mom said.  I like this a lot.

Night Gaunt

No one ever found what the night-gaunts took, though those beasts themselves were so uncertain as to be almost fabulous. Carter asked them if night-gaunts sucked blood and liked shiny things and left webbed footprints, but they all shook their heads negatively and seemed frightened at his making such an inquiry. When he saw how taciturn they had become he asked them no more, but went to sleep in his blanket.

Their scent of their slick, rubbery hides is bittersweet, ticklish, and skin-creeping: something akin to yuzu, white grapefruit, and kumquat mixed with the snow-dusted flowers of Mount Ngranek.

In the Imp: a pretty Citrusy floral.                       On Me: Citrus blended with high-pitched florals…no, it’s soap. *sigh*                                   On My Son: Sorry, too much flowers, pass.


**Indulgent scents were acquired from  Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab by me or our friends.  Reviews are thanks and appreciation.**


General catalogue: BPAL Edition-A Picnic in Arkham Pt. I


The Lovecraft Collection.
Scents inspired by the works of H.P. Lovecraft and the Cthulhu Mythos.

What, in substance, both the Esquimaux wizards and the Louisiana swamp-priests had chanted to their kindred idols was something very like this: the word-divisions being guessed at from traditional breaks in the phrase as chanted aloud:

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.

Iä! Iä!



An Arabic term that refers to both the chirping of nocturnal insects and the ambient sound made by the chattering of demons. This is the original title of the feared Necronomicon, the Book of Dead Names, penned by the Mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred.

Nor is it to be thought that man is either the oldest or the last of earth’s masters, or that the common bulk of life and substances walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth’s fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread. By Their smell can men sometimes know Them near, but of Their semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those They have begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts, differing in likeness from man’s truest eidolon to that shape without sight or substance which is Them. They walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words have been spoken and the Rites howled through at their Seasons. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend the forest and crush the city, yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites. Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones where Their seal is engraven, but who hath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed tower long garlanded with seaweed and barnacles? Great Cthulhu is Their cousin, yet can he spy Them only dimly. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! As a foulness shall ye know Them. Their hand is at your throats, yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold. Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man rules now where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, and after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall They reign again.

A sinister, sinuous incense of summoning, a herald and paean to the Primordial Gods of Darkness, Chaos, Madness and Decay.

In the Imp: Aquatic Incense
On Me: Sulphrous Sorghum and Dirty Hippie incense with soap. WTBF?
On My Son: Ocean incense.  Poor Mom.


The Daemon Sultan, Seething Nuclear Chaos

…that last amorphous blight of nethermost confusion which blasphemes and bubbles at the centre of all infinity — the boundless daemon-sultan Azathoth, whose name no lips dare speak aloud, and who gnaws hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of accursed flutes; to which detestable pounding and piping dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic ultimate gods, the blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless Other Gods whose soul and messenger is the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep.

Azathoth is the blind, idiot god who sits on a black throne at the center of Chaos. His scent is high-pitched and screeching, both impenetrably dark and searingly bright with the clarity of madness: tangerine, saffron, vetiver, black amber and cedarwood.

In the Imp: Citrus, Amber and Woods, oh my!
On Me: Citrus and ancient woods soap. Boo.
On My Son: Citrus and woods and a hint of Amber. I feel bad for Mom.


Behind everything crouched the brooding, festering horror of the ancient town, and of the mouldy, unhallowed garret gable where he wrote and studied and wrestled with figures and formulae when he was not tossing on the meager iron bed. His ears were growing sensitive to a preternatural and intolerable degree, and he had long ago stopped the cheap mantel clock whose ticking had come to seem like a thunder of artillery. At night the subtle stirring of the black city outside, the sinister scurrying of rats in the wormy partitions, and the creaking of hidden timbers in the centuried house, were enough to give him a sense of strident pandemonium. The darkness always teemed with unexplained sound – and yet he sometimes shook with fear lest the noises he heard should subside and allow him to hear certain other fainter noises which he suspected were lurking behind them.

He was in the changeless, legend-haunted city of Arkham, with its clustering gambrel roofs that sway and sag over attics where witches hid from the King’s men in the dark, olden years of the Province.

A shadowy, unapproachable forest of maple, birch, dogwood, cypress and pine softened by a garland of New England wildflowers: bergamot, columbine, rue anemone, blue violet, creeping phlox, bloodroot, toadflax, and pixie moss.

In the Bottle: A New England Forest in Spring.
On Me: Forest and flowers…nope, it’s mushy, congealed, Yardley’s soap and Pine Sol.              On My Son: Tea in a Garden of butterfly weeds and trees.  Mom is so not happy, so maybe I’ll let her sniff my wrists while we review these.

Brown Jenkin

The yellowed country records containing her testimony and that of her accusers were so damnably suggestive of things beyond human experience – and the descriptions of the darting little furry object which served as her familiar were so painfully realistic despite their incredible details.

That object – no larger than a good-sized rat and quaintly called by the townspeople “Brown Jenkin – seemed to have been the fruit of a remarkable case of sympathetic herd-delusion, for in 1692 no less than eleven persons had testified to glimpsing it. There were recent rumours, too, with a baffling and disconcerting amount of agreement. Witnesses said it had long hair and the shape of a rat, but that its sharp-toothed, bearded face was evilly human while its paws were like tiny human hands. It took messages betwixt old Keziah and the devil, and was nursed on the witch’s blood, which it sucked like a vampire. Its voice was a kind of loathsome titter, and it could speak all languages. Of all the bizarre monstrosities in Gilman’s dreams, nothing filled him with greater panic and nausea than this blasphemous and diminutive hybrid, whose image flitted across his vision in a form a thousandfold more hateful than anything his waking mind had deduced from the ancient records and the modern whispers.

A small, furry, sharp-toothed scent that will nuzzle you curiously in the black hours before dawn: dusty white sandalwood and orris root, dry coconut husk, creeping musk, and the residue of ceremonial incense.

In the Imp: Church Incense with Coconut.
On Me: Sandalwood and Coconut soap…damnit. On My Son: It smells like my coconut shampoo.



**Indulgent scents were acquired from  Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab by me or our friends.  Reviews are thanks and appreciation.**