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Notes08/01/2020
FioreMarina
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FioreMarina
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19
Schnucki or: The curl of the lemon
My friend Schnucki tears open the door of the passenger side and throws a package on my lap.
"There!" she says and plops down on the seat next to me.
In real life, of course, her name is not Precious. She has a name that expresses her mother's vain hope for female gentleness, and she would probably tear my head off if she found out about the pseudonym I gave her here. Fortunately, that's highly unlikely. But more on that later.
Schnucki embodies what I like to think of an Amazon; in less complicated times she would probably have cut off her breast to avoid getting in her way while archery, but times have become more complicated and so she is content to pierce her unhappy counterpart with glances despite her lovely appearance or at least to put a few well-chosen words to flight. In any case, caution is advised when dealing with her.
So I start the engine and gently ask, "What is this?"
"What does it look like?" asks Precious and rolls her eyes. "A present!"
"Oh - for me?" I ask and add hastily, because that was of course a stupid question, "How nice! What is it?"
"Open it."
"When I stop driving, okay?" Schnucki sighs, takes the parcel from my lap and winds it up. Patience is not one of her virtues. A cardboard box in the most beautiful sky blue appears, which she waves under my nose. I look, involuntarily stepping on the brakes, look again, this time longer. "Oh", I do. "Is that - perfume?"
Precious has to sigh again. But today I am also really slow to grasp. "Light Blue", she explains. It sounds almost solemn "But Light Blue is your perfume!" Not that I ever smelled it on her. I know that because she told me. Honey's idea of appropriate scent dosage is below the threshold of perception.
"Yeah - and?"
"Would you like me to smell like you?" "Why not?" Schnucki's expression reflects absolute incomprehension. I explained about the Muggles once before on a blog. Now - this is another Muggle - wait. And I don't even try to argue with things like "individuality" and "expression of personality". But Schnucki is not even finished yet.
"The thing that really gets on my nerves about you," she says and comes around the corner with her true motives, "is how you always smell of perfume! All feminine and so sweet and flowery, t-o-t-a-l annoying! Now by the way again."
I smell discreetly of samsara, take a deep breath, let my wonderfully exclusive, select feminine perfume collection pass me by in my mind and digest the defeat.
"Anyway, it's a slam dunk," I say in a barely trembling voice. "I love perfume. Tonight I'll try it on."
I don't have to tell her that I have a not entirely unprejudiced shyness towards universally popular mainstream fragrances. Or that I read about scouring milk and Master Popper on Parfumo. I just have to try it. And then come up with a nice excuse.
So in the evening I press the spray button with all my heart, I arm myself inwardly - and am then first surprised by a wonderfully successful, delicately scented lemon: not sour, not synthetic, not even loud, but cheerful and light-hearted. I am taken with it and in a decidedly mild mood, when immediately afterwards an aquatic wave crashes over me, like most aquatic notes of select artificiality and completely inauthentic, but, I must admit, somehow and actually quite pleasant. The little lemon flies frightened into the background, from where it still sparks little yellow flashes of joy for a good two hours. And as if from distant shores it flutters across. Anyone who wants to believe that this discreet floral accent comes from roses and jasmine will be happy to believe it. Bamboo or anything green, like the apple, by the way, shines in my perception by absence, if I am not to understand them as indistinguishable components of the aqua note.
Last but not least, Oliver Cresp has the nice idea of combining amber, musk and cedar wood into a base that I would have had no objection to at all if it hadn't obviously remained with good intentions. None of this appears, perhaps because after three hours the fragrance becomes dull and matte, then slightly musty and finally disappears in the waves of my perceptive faculties like a slightly brackish triton. Before I go to sleep, the light blue magic is over.
What does that mean for me now? Will I wear the scent?
Of course I will. On hot summer days like today. For the lemon. And to remind myself that a fragrance has more to offer than exquisite ingredients and a balanced composition. For example, that it is a symbol of sweetness and a wonderful friendship. And if nothing else speaks for him, then that is not little.
"There!" she says and plops down on the seat next to me.
In real life, of course, her name is not Precious. She has a name that expresses her mother's vain hope for female gentleness, and she would probably tear my head off if she found out about the pseudonym I gave her here. Fortunately, that's highly unlikely. But more on that later.
Schnucki embodies what I like to think of an Amazon; in less complicated times she would probably have cut off her breast to avoid getting in her way while archery, but times have become more complicated and so she is content to pierce her unhappy counterpart with glances despite her lovely appearance or at least to put a few well-chosen words to flight. In any case, caution is advised when dealing with her.
So I start the engine and gently ask, "What is this?"
"What does it look like?" asks Precious and rolls her eyes. "A present!"
"Oh - for me?" I ask and add hastily, because that was of course a stupid question, "How nice! What is it?"
"Open it."
"When I stop driving, okay?" Schnucki sighs, takes the parcel from my lap and winds it up. Patience is not one of her virtues. A cardboard box in the most beautiful sky blue appears, which she waves under my nose. I look, involuntarily stepping on the brakes, look again, this time longer. "Oh", I do. "Is that - perfume?"
Precious has to sigh again. But today I am also really slow to grasp. "Light Blue", she explains. It sounds almost solemn "But Light Blue is your perfume!" Not that I ever smelled it on her. I know that because she told me. Honey's idea of appropriate scent dosage is below the threshold of perception.
"Yeah - and?"
"Would you like me to smell like you?" "Why not?" Schnucki's expression reflects absolute incomprehension. I explained about the Muggles once before on a blog. Now - this is another Muggle - wait. And I don't even try to argue with things like "individuality" and "expression of personality". But Schnucki is not even finished yet.
"The thing that really gets on my nerves about you," she says and comes around the corner with her true motives, "is how you always smell of perfume! All feminine and so sweet and flowery, t-o-t-a-l annoying! Now by the way again."
I smell discreetly of samsara, take a deep breath, let my wonderfully exclusive, select feminine perfume collection pass me by in my mind and digest the defeat.
"Anyway, it's a slam dunk," I say in a barely trembling voice. "I love perfume. Tonight I'll try it on."
I don't have to tell her that I have a not entirely unprejudiced shyness towards universally popular mainstream fragrances. Or that I read about scouring milk and Master Popper on Parfumo. I just have to try it. And then come up with a nice excuse.
So in the evening I press the spray button with all my heart, I arm myself inwardly - and am then first surprised by a wonderfully successful, delicately scented lemon: not sour, not synthetic, not even loud, but cheerful and light-hearted. I am taken with it and in a decidedly mild mood, when immediately afterwards an aquatic wave crashes over me, like most aquatic notes of select artificiality and completely inauthentic, but, I must admit, somehow and actually quite pleasant. The little lemon flies frightened into the background, from where it still sparks little yellow flashes of joy for a good two hours. And as if from distant shores it flutters across. Anyone who wants to believe that this discreet floral accent comes from roses and jasmine will be happy to believe it. Bamboo or anything green, like the apple, by the way, shines in my perception by absence, if I am not to understand them as indistinguishable components of the aqua note.
Last but not least, Oliver Cresp has the nice idea of combining amber, musk and cedar wood into a base that I would have had no objection to at all if it hadn't obviously remained with good intentions. None of this appears, perhaps because after three hours the fragrance becomes dull and matte, then slightly musty and finally disappears in the waves of my perceptive faculties like a slightly brackish triton. Before I go to sleep, the light blue magic is over.
What does that mean for me now? Will I wear the scent?
Of course I will. On hot summer days like today. For the lemon. And to remind myself that a fragrance has more to offer than exquisite ingredients and a balanced composition. For example, that it is a symbol of sweetness and a wonderful friendship. And if nothing else speaks for him, then that is not little.
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