Infinity Ring

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Lost but found: infinity ring. Photo app: YouCam Perfect

The case of the infinity ring. Had it on my finger during yesterday’s dog walk and didn’t realize I couldn’t remember its last whereabouts until later that evening. The sun had already set before I wondered: Could it have slipped off my finger during the walk? It’s so cold every bone feels like it’s shrinking, turning whiter and whiter into itself. Past the warmth of the marrow and out the back again.

This morning’s coffee conversations included: have you seen my ring? Counter challenges involved: did you check your gloves? Then this morning’s walk where I thought: Maybe it will turn up. And did. Right there, in a rather unlikely place, nowhere near the drama points of impact, in fact. Just a harmless bit where I remember thinking: Good, I am almost home.

“It’s so cold every bone feels like it’s shrinking, turning whiter and whiter into itself.”
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Say Less, Do More

Photo: Death to the Stock Photo.

The motto of our newsletter is “Say less, do more.” When I received my latest delivery of free photographs from Death to the Stock Photo along with Paul Jarvis‘s writing prompt on making space for creativity, I reflected on my winter morning experiences. These days, I’m stepping into the snowy East Coast climate, sometime pre-dawn, and the world is blanketed with white. White covers the ground and the trees and even the sky. I’m promising myself I’ll remember the true melody of non-existent harmony, lost in the steady hum of a singular note. I’m not talking about the occasional crow that inserts himself into the scene, not in body but in his beckoning to another bird that I also cannot see. And I’m not talking about the sound of my own thread-like breath that does show up in a thin stream like the magic of mist over an early-Spring lake. There is no green here, not yet (though I know and you know it’s coming). I’m talking about the one true sound that emanates from pure nothingness, the hollow reverberation that can lead to enlightenment or a trip down crazy lane if force fed through solitary confinement. The writers of the world do this to themselves. Lock away in cabins with no contact. It’s okay. They always seem to come back better off than when they left. I’m certain that’s because even the most standoffish are given time enough to come down from their heights and share stares through a window pane, though certainly nothing more divisive than that. Perhaps even eating out of a hand. Feathers are friendly when given the chance.

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“The motto of our newsletter is “Say less, do more.”

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“…stepping into the snowy East Coast climate…the world is blanketed with white.”

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“…remember the true melody of non-existent harmony, lost in the steady hum of a singular note.”

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“The writers of the world do this to themselves. Lock away in cabins with no contact.”

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“Feathers are friendly when given the chance.”

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Feral Love

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Ernie

I am cat-brained. The twitchy tail and pupils dilate accordingly depending on excitement, contentment or fear. Since I was little, cats came to me and I to them. We had colonies of ferals all around. Each litter would yield one that named me something other than my birth name: “friend” “mother” “confidant” “spy”. I, in turn, would name it something other than what it answered to on the kind of winter nights that kill: “friend” “mother” “confidant” “spy”. We’d spend hours watching each other. Days following each other. Years finding each other. A lifetime mourning the loss of each other. It rolled on and on like that, birth after death, death after birth, a new form, a new coat, a new ghost. There was the big orange tabby tomcat, soft as worn leather inside and out. I have no memory of how he died. There was the black and white tabby that limped because of a run-in. He let me get so close as to collar him. His body turned up weeks later behind a fence, and I knew him because of the color I chose. There was the solid gray left behind because we moved. Why we let him go, I’ll never know. Tiger, friend of the gray, came with us. Fifteen years access to a warm house and my pre-teen embrace, chased from the furniture but allowed to die on his own terms. Then there was Pepper, who I cannot speak of here. Not yet. And now, Ernie and Bert. This time last year, laps were uncharted. Today, during this month of love, there is lean-in, look up and purr.

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“Since I was little, cats came to me and I to them.”

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“I am cat-brained. The twitchy tail and pupils dilate…depending on excitement, contentment or fear.”

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“This time last year, laps were uncharted.”

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Custom Made For Brooklyn

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This gallery contains 2 photos.

Silver winter nights are custom made for Brooklyn. Bits of metal in the air and the blue light has no edges. Tiny remnants of pine hide out somewhere between unused snow and glimpses of star. Urgency and all-the-time-in-the-world marks the … Continue reading

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The Devil Wears Snow: Interview With Founder of Ephemeral Scent

One year ago, I found CB I Hate Perfume during a Brooklyn stroll. I’ve long had snow on the brain not knowing I could hit it with a stone. Partly bred in Brooklyn, this siren was delighted to discover the mastermind of an award-winningfamous fragrance in her backyard. Now doubly delighted at the chance to meet Christopher Brosius in December–the month to discuss scent, semblance, sanity and a four letter ‘s’ word.

Image courtesy of WikiMedia Commons. “Schneekristalle” Source: German Wikipedia, original upload 23. Okt 2004 by MatthiasKabel (selfmade) (http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Schneekristalle.jpg)

“Perfume is too often an ethereal corset trapping everyone in the same, unnatural shape…An opaque shell concealing everything–revealing nothing…An arrogant slap in the face from across the room…People who smell like everyone else disgust me.” ~ CB

 

December–the month to discuss scent, semblance, sanity and a four letter ‘s’ word.
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Me: The sense of smell? How? Why?

CB: Those especially fascinated by the psychology of smell: read Rachel Herz.

Me: How does smell effect us?

CB: While we’re constantly using our sense of smell, we very seldom–if at all–notice the impact smell has on our lives. I know of an individual who lost his ability to smell and suffered emotional trauma and depression. I know of an adult who was born without the ability to smell and through a surgical operation acquired the sense of smell. He couldn’t leave his house–the smell of everything, everywhere, was overwhelming. He hadn’t had the chance to assign qualifiers like “good” or “bad” to scents, so everything he smelled seemed overpowering and repulsive, including food.

“…we very seldom–if at all–notice the impact smell has on our lives.”
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“I know of an individual who lost his ability to smell and suffered emotional trauma and depression.”

Me: Demeter.

CB: Mmm.

Me: You’re moving.

CB: We intend to bring more art through our new space. We’ve got ideas.

Mihail Simonidi (1870 – 1933) – Winter perfume. Image courtesy of WikiMedia Commons. This work is in the public domain (http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Commons:Copyright_tags#United_States)

Me: New flowers in the house.

CB: Some florals are nearly impossible to replicate due to their depth. Take tuberose, for example. I’m very pleased with this line. Granted, they’re not inexpensive due to the high cost of materials needed to produce these fragrances. Nor are they for the faint of heart due to how they differ from their commonly conjured synthetic counterparts.

Me: Winter 1972. A signature snow scent.

CB: Each fragrance conjures up different emotional reactions that may be tied to an individual’s memory. “My Birthday Cake” once brought to mind chocolate cake with pink frosted flowers and a hint of candle wax for someone who came through my store. Nothing to do with the plain, simple, unfrosted angel food cake that was my birthday cake. It’s great when someone hones into a scent and owns it.

“Each fragrance conjures up different emotional reactions that may be tied to an individual’s memory.”
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Me: Your fragrance titles lead with a notion. A simple suggestion can lead far and away from your original intention.

CB: Yes, and that’s wonderful.

Image courtesy of WikiMedia Commons.

Me: Do you have a protégée?

CB: I work with many talented people, but I can’t teach anyone what is in my head nor the way I work. When I attempt to convey what I want, my hands may wind up above my head while I’m saying “No, this way!”

Me: The devil wears snow?

CB: Yes, sometimes.

Image courtesy of WikiMedia Commons.

Love CB I Hate Perfume? Here’s your chance to show your support.

This interview is not a direct transcript and has been edited for brevity and creativity. 

Snow kings and queens: share your comments.

 

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