R Tramble

Life, work and everything in between have driven a wedge between me and my art. I’ve attempted to nudge the blockage out of the way a couple of times, but my own stupidity has driven it firmly back into place.

Exhibit A: After a false restart two months ago, I geared up to work on “Dear” again. After going over my notes (again), my hair stood on the back of my neck.

I realized I’d miscalculated the blend.

The percentage was lower than what I’d thought it was, which is why when I kept sampling it, the blend smelled weak.

My sweet friends who are much more mathematically gifted than I am figured out the exact calculation needed to save Dear.

I thought I was on the right track.

Until tonight.

Exhibit B: After gathering all of my ingredients, sampling, meditating and getting myself ready to fall into a fragrant cloud of creation, I realized that I wouldn’t have enough of two important oils I needed to boost the 100 ml weak blend.

My quest to have Dear bottled and in bed by the end of the night faded away drop by drop.

I blended as much juice as I could. And instead of joining it with the weak blend, I put the juice away.

So now I’m here, in front of the computer, instead of my table, putting together a shopping list. Hopefully I can get an order off tomorrow.

Dear is becoming an obsession, a saga.

I hope she’ll be worth it.

Finally.

I had a wonderfully delicious Pfannekuchen with onions and schnittlauch (I can’t remember the name of the latter in English) at Zum Guten Glueck with my dear, dear friend Kristi today, who gave me a fabulous tip concerning my notes problem (see post below): warm up.

It’s been two weeks since I actually blended anything. By looking at my notes cold, I was trying to force my mundane world to immediately morph into my perfumery-creative world. It takes time to leave this world and enter the fantasy world, the world where I composed the notes I attempted to read.

Patience, grasshopper.

If you have a habit of going into a trance like state while you’re composing a perfume, GO BACK TO THE NOTES YOU WRITE DURING THAT TRANCE-LIKE STATE THE DAY AFTER AT THE LATEST AND TRANSLATE THEM INTO PROPER, NON-TRANCE ENGLISH SO YOU’LL BE ABLE TO READ WHAT YOU’VE DONE!!!!!

ARRRRGHHHHHHH!!!

Sorry for the caps. I’m slightly perturbed at myself right now.

Emma was right. The-scent-formerly-named-Zurich is begging to be unleashed, as a pure perfume. Not an eau de toilette, not a cologne, not an eau de parfum.

A perfume.

A full on, hot, raunchy, Saturday-night-racetrack-Sunday-morning-church-pew perfume

I took the top off of her today, waking her after a month-long nap.

She yawned, extended her arms in a full stretch of cedar, then sank back down on a pillow of vanilla.

She needs an umph.

A kick.

She needs more. So I will give her more – thirty percent more.

Maybe this will tempt her out of her slumber.

And she will be called Dear.

I’ll explain. I promise.