#OlfactoryMemories

[serendipity-adventures]

160 Best Perfume Captions and Puns for Cute Fragrance Posts

Craft the perfect narrative for your scent stories with 160 perfume captions and Puns, ideal for sharing your fragrance journey and memories.

Introduction Perfume is more than a fragrance; it’s a signature, a personal statement, and a subtle whisper of one’s presence long after they’ve left the room. This compilation of 160 perfume captions seeks to articulate the intangible allure of perfumes, resonating with connoisseurs and casual enthusiasts alike. From the essence of spring blooms captured in a bottle to the musky undertones of a…

[cities]

I suppose this is as good a time as any to mention I wrote a book, Another Grey City: A Scented Story. There are a few copies left in the Ex Libris Odoratis shop here.

[starina23]

We're about to go see @olfactoryshortfilm at #dragoncon2017 !!! @panopticonnyc @sararuthblake #olfactory #olfactoryshortfilm #olfactorymemory #dragonconfilmfestival

[anitaisola]

Reminder of the roots.

When the morning smells of fresh flowers; hibiscus, marigold, roses. When you wake up to the sounds of murmuring chants and humble brass bell. When you have to walk through the fragrant cloud of dhoop and incense to get to your first tumbler of filter-kaapi! #olfactorymemories and #morningrituals ——————————• #home

[cities]

Unchanging Window

Today: 95 degrees in Seattle, sunworn and lethargic, revolving between the shade of books and lakes. Almost ready for the green coolness of autumn, where I can close myself into woolen layers and brooding perfume, and the evenings bite with a forgotten crispness (I’m currently fantasizing about Etat Libre d’Orange’s Roissy de Palma, all red roses, cacao, patchouli—dark and fierce, very pretty). Yet I’m holding onto summer’s dwindling light by all means possible. Via photographs—there are the long walks with my camera to one of the same five places, furiously willing golden hour to cast this or that trail in a color worth saving. Via sun-drenched sentences scrawled in thick black ink while lazing at some water’s edge, now preserved for colder times. Less often are the daydreams stored in bottles—beginnings, middles and ends of olfactory ideas (I hesitate to call them perfume) which, smelled in the depth of autumn, will recall this time, a time of light.

The easiest thing to miss is travel and culture. The thrill of the other, of, for once, being the other. The thrill of feeling anything different. I miss launching into the strangeness of somewhere else, disrupted and electric, then returning to find I’m intact somehow yet rearranged, creativity renewed, a better version of who I was because I’d been in the world. I’d escaped the inertia of my habits and thoughts, which after enough time blend with the room, the contents of the refrigerator, the screens, the endless screens—a sickeningly dull, beige soup of being. But now there is no choice. There’s only the beige soup. Which in its weird void allows me the time to actually be consistent for once. Time to read all the books, feel rested, and the space to notice that I’ve inadvertently cheated my way into happiness—even if only for moments at a time. At no point in the past twenty years have I been this still. I can’t help but feel it’s a cosmic test.

So I travel via my photographs. On good days they take me somewhere new. I sort through my archive—sprawling years and years of stuff, most of it unremarkable dross—laboring to find some common thread, a loose narrative bound by light or shadow, color, or maybe a feeling. Through the slow methodical process of editing and recombining, maybe that common thread emerges, a reminder (admittedly some days nihilistic) that places and faces shift with the years, but what I see, or more to the point, how I see in this world remains unchanged. One tree is every tree. This spire in Seattle is that spire in Stockholm. Every image recalls another. At least there’s a self beneath the constant churn of thought that can be known, one reliable thing. I can wait another year. This desire to connect the dots between disparate places, objects, and events has long been the engine of my thinking (and so my photography), but only in a time where travel is impossible do I see it for what it is—as a means of survival.

[cities]

2 gold crests, 3 shields

Waking, feeling for the old town after years removed. Intrusions of architecture and light refract off of the present, the remembered and gilded edges of buildings glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. Half-memories are saturated by half-remembered olfactive accords: moss and concrete, jasmine and cold sand, sea air and rock musk, dead wood and taquerias. The scent also of trees, redwood and eucalyptus, grounding and bracing, mingling and inseparable, and half-memories too of walking, always walking: the path beside the Goldsworthy Spire, blanketed in green, the softness of fallen leaves underfoot; the walk from Alta Plaza Park to Lafayette Park to Russian Hill, tallying regalia as I pass each resolute Victorian—2 gold crests, 3 shields; the climb up the secret steps of Tank Hill to its vantage where I settle against the red rocks, observing this place in its stillness, forgetting my breath, this place that is mine from all angles.

[cities]

Pink-green-yellow-brown-blue

Roads go on While we forget, and are Forgotten like a star That shoots and is gone. — Roads, Edward Thomas

•

I am being driven, like I asked. Petaluma to Point Reyes, everything beyond the window an undulating explosion of aliveness and color like the first glimpse from a train after a long sleep. Gleaming sunlight, a sky Yves Klein might immortalize, fields finally green from late spring rains, sturdy spotted cows grazing, everything crystalline radiance, platonic ideals of sun or sky, over and over again. All the black oaks ablaze and without color, their dusty shadows stretched out long. Jazz on the radio, piano notes as crisp as a starched white shirt—that was Portrait of Cannonball Adderley with Bill Evans on piano a voice reports over the airwaves. The driver is a sun-worn sixty-something in shorts, exuding a subtle rakishness, an unkempt refinement, even in this base model Toyota Corolla that rattles around the turns. A jade ring on a pinky finger glimmers in the sunlight against the perforated steering wheel. Then there’s the musky smell of sweat and aftershave against car seat leather, baked by the sun, the smell of a dad, someone else’s, one who counts money for a living, no yard work. Earlier, waiting for the car to arrive, I crushed a spray of star jasmine blossoms between my palms with a sprig of mint. The perfume rises up, pink and green mixing with the yellow-brown-blue of sun and earth, sweat and sea, as the car lurches through a corridor of redwoods toward the Pacific.

[cities]

Scent Capsule • Berkeley

c. 2012 Henrik Vibskov Type B

As you drive me to BART this morning, I can see our entire future separate. There is the slow ascent toward rhythm: meals and drinks, the first airfare and then another. The songs with and without order. Mothers. White flowers. New York. Seasoning a cast iron pan. Grinding coffee with a hand-crank mill. And then the first disappointment. Cornwall. Kingsland Road. The men and the clubs, the clubs and the drugs, women that wear their words better, with credentials. La Lengua. Brugmansia in a cloud of smoke. The trailing off of letters and syllables, of poems and affect. Against our better judgment.

I know how it will go. And yet this new smell fills the car, an invitation to adventure. Or perhaps it’s violence, balsam-scented.

[cities]

Notes, Shape Shifters, London

c. 2019 the queue • trudging • a concrete barricade • Wilson’s 20:50 • in my best blacks • waiting • a Narcissus Garden City demarcation of space • a pall of a smell • mineral odor • crumpled architecture suspended from a golden apex • 500 tourists photographing Sky Mirror, Blue • a circular staircase descending toward unknown rooms • dry/pungent • translucence • the shape of children (erratic) against hardwood • iridescent pastel • clean line & clean line • a Great Fog • Untitled (Parabolic Lens) • salt/pepper • dystopian concrete • 500 selfies in any/all reflective surfaces • tar/petroleum • 360 degrees Illusion V • & you arrive from beyond gleaming perspex

—

'Nothing is more beautiful than a person's own perception. I try to push it to its limits.' —Ann Veronica Janssens, quote and sculpture, Magic Mirrors (Pink #2 and Blue)

[cities]

Scent Capsule • Panama

c. 1994 Exhaust, damp smog, white fish

I am walking with one groggy paw in yours, father, Dad. Or I would like to remember it this way but it was like that: take my hand, keep it close and firm to you. But you walk silently beside, your own silent country with its own laws and its own heavy tread. We pause at the top of the tower block and I can see down over the stately footprint of the hotel: a U-shaped brutalist monstrosity, once palatial maybe, now streaked with a sad beige just barely perceptible through the smog. Hundreds of windows and patios in unison, just like ours. It’s dusk. The sky is one hundred million exhalations, all the motors of the third world at work in alternating discord and harmony, torpedoes, monuments, bombings, vile human history. The palm trees thrash against the bleak color as though in defiance, the shape of leaves like swords or fingers or the eels I saw rippling through the airport pond. Down below, a bean-shaped outdoor pool vibrates aquamarine fluorescence, anomalous color. It’s hard to breathe. The humidity closes in, a dead weight. Now we sit on the hotel veranda eating an array of unmemorable fish in white sauce, and I wonder if you will buy me stamps for my postcards tomorrow, or if my skin has taken on the color of yours yet, here in this place where the sun, when it sees a clearing, touches everything.

[cities]

Scent Capsule • Dungeness

c. 2019 Engine oil, battered food, sea air, exhaust, wood smoke You have no questions for me today. This was meant to be nothing, some fun, a vague memory on a shingle beach, but now the silence undercuts everything. We amble along the lowlands, only the sound of brittle stones underfoot. What the fuck are we doing, and here? 

I examine the contents of the foreshore.

1. A sprawl of boarded up fishing shacks against pale blue dusk. 2. A disused ship’s engine laid out, still slick with oil. 3. A pair of lighthouses, in use and disuse. 4. A sheep’s foot, with no further explanation.

There’s a southerly wind blowing the smell of wood smoke and battered cod down from the cottages and the pub along the boundary road. Some words, and then we disagree on the smell of wood. You stop to speak with a stranger. I have black hair and a foreigner’s eyes.

Questions illuminate, give form. From a distance I can see there’s a way that you hold your body in anticipation of an answer, a stretched coil assuming its most familiar form. A way that speaks to a certain fire of the mind. And then the comedy of purely being.

[cities]

Salt

Writing in Seattle’s Union Station today, eating $5 saba shioyaki from a styrofoam container: a fleeting analog to writing in Grand Central five years ago, with the saline odor of Blue Point oysters, the proletariat’s choice, wafting across the whispering arches along with the voices of excited tourists. The same dissonance and vacancy. The same salt smell. The same Beaux-Arts architecture speaking to some impossibly golden, bygone point in time, but here no celestial ceiling.

[cities]

Bainbridge Island, Washington • USA 47°35'48.1"N 122°31'10.4"W Olfactory notes: Tart apple skin, wet earth, pipe smoke

A man was walking his dog through the orchard, smoking a pipe. An unexpected harmony of Pacific Northwestern winter smells.

[cities]

Muir Woods National Monument, Mill Valley, California • USA 37°53'50.6"N 122°34'25.3"W

Olfactory notes: Redwood, cold wood, dry wood, sour grape, butter, milk chocolate, warm skin, unwashed denim, Il Bacio, musk

[fourpointstradingco-blog]

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[fourpointstradingco-blog]

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