You can read more about tokidoki bags (and guide to avoiding fakes) here:

http://www.tokidoki-blog.com/2007/02/05/how-to-avoid-fake-tokidoki-bags-on-ebay

Their emotions are too much, it’s like my skin is too thin, and two people talking to me at once, just too much. I’m in overload. I spend most of my life now trying to do one thing at a time  (resisting a lot of the time, the desire to scream) and it is so hard to concentrate sometimes that I need not to be asked to do something else whilst I am doing something. Tricky huh, especially if you have kids who never stop asking for stuff.

Weirdly, people saying angry things doesn’t uspet me the same way, it’s the unsaid stuff, the things they won’t say that affect me the worst, nervous people, angry people, passive-aggressive people, some days I just feel under attack.

I’m awkward in social situations, but not because I don’t know how to behave or read people’s feelings, like in Asperger’s, but more because I can, it’s just too much at once.

I really like to be on my own. I don’t really get lonely. I get lonely with people, because I don’t seem to think the same way, or they just don’t understand what I am saying, or just because I want something from them that they will never give. Being alone is easy, I like quiet things, reading, thinking, tv, writing.

I’m really literal, I like precise clear instructions, and I like people to do what they said, and when they don’t and it’s because they didn’t actually follow the meaning of their own words, it makes me want to scream. I hate to be expecting one thing and get another. I don’t want to control a situation but I want to know what to expect! I’m too rigid, but I can’t seem to change.

What do I want now you ask? Look at these ( I have hilighted the ones I fancy):

BLACK BUTTERFLY MOON
Sister of the first-born light,

Type of sorrowing gentleness!

Quivering mists in silv’ry dress
Float around thy features bright;
When thy gentle foot is heard,

From the day-closed caverns then

Wake the mournful ghosts of men,
I, too, wake, and each night-bird.

O’er a field of boundless span

Looks thy gaze both far and wide.

Raise me upwards to thy side!
Grant this to a raving man!
And to heights of rapture raised,

Let the knight so crafty peep

At his maiden while asleep,
Through her lattice-window glazed.

Soon the bliss of this sweet view,

Pangs by distance caused allays;

And I gather all thy rays,
And my look I sharpen too.
Round her unveil’d limbs I see

Brighter still become the glow,

And she draws me down below,
As Endymion once drew thee.

Soft, deep, and luminous: Lady of the Night orchid, benzoin, opopponax, currant, black chypre, white gardenia, ambergris, damp, wooded mosses, and black lily.
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THE FEAST FOR THE GREATLY REVERED ONES
Huey Tecuilhuitl, the Great Festival of Lords, occurs on the 8th month of the 260-day Mexica sacred calendar of Tonalpualli. This festival honors Chicomecoatl, also known as Xilonen, the Goddess of Nourishment and Plenty, Seven Snakes. She represents the female aspect of corn, and she is the counterpart of Centeotl, — the female sheath to his phallic cob.

The celebration of the Feast assured the return of the rains and a good corn harvest.

Cacao mixed with ground maize, agave wine, and octli, mixed with herbs and spices native to central Mexico.
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LABORES SOLIS
Nothing there is beyond hope,
nothing that can be sworn impossible,
nothing wonderful, since Zeus,
father of the Olympians,
made night from mid-day,
hiding the light of the shining Sun,
and sore fear came upon men.

On July 22, we will be experiencing a total solar eclipse. This is the Labores Solis: the sun’s rays expressed through frankincense, amber, heliotrope, saffron, and chamomile, crossed with Luna’s Artemisias, manifesting in darkness. .purchase 5ml.
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THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER
‘Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
From Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit,
This bleak world alone?

A quiet, solitary scent: white rose, frankincense, Arabian sandalwood, neroli, orris root, and patchouli.
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NONAE CAPROTINA
The Nones of the Wild Fig, held on the 7th of July and celebrated only by women, is a festival of fertility honoring Juno Caprotina. Both goats and figs are sacred to Juno in this aspect, goats being notoriously randy, and figs being prolifically seedy. The milky sap of the fig tree also links to the concept of fertility, and to Juno as Mother Goddess.

The scent is of goat’s milk, ripe fig, and a hint of sweet myrrh.

Please note: no goats were milked in the process of creating this scent. It is an accord, and this scent is vegan.
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SHADOWLESS LIKE SILENCE
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;–
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?–With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?–Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?–In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer,–the green prime,–
The many, many leaves all twinkling?–Three
On the moss’d elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,–and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad’s immortality?–
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly’s green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d hoard,
The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain,
And honey bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing’d across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care;–
There is enough of wither’d everywhere
To make her bower,–and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty’s,–she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,–
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

Dry leaves and white sandalwood, rock moss, cypress, and dry, lifeless roses.
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STINKY
A cure for sweaty bits and sticky wilting. Stinky is a summer refresher ‘foom for people that don’t dig run-of-the-mill “clean” scents: newly-washed skin with a dusting of milk, white honey, and baby powder.
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SUMMER’S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
What pleasure always lasts? No joy endures:
Summer I was, I am not as I was;
Harvest and age have whitened my green head;
On Autumn now and Winter must I lean.
Needs must he fall, whom none but foes uphold.
Thus must the happiest man have his black day:
Omnibus una manet nox, & calcanda semel via lethi.
This month have I lain languishing abed, …
Looking each hour to yield my life and throne;
And died I had indeed unto the earth,
But that Eliza, England’s beauteous Queen,
On whom all seasons prosperously attend,
Forbad the execution of my fate,
Until her joyful progress was expired.
For her doth Summer live, and linger here,
And wisheth long to live to her content;
But wishes are not had when they wish well.
I must depart, my death-day is set down; …
To these two must I leave my wheaten crown.
So unto unthrifts rich men leave their lands,
Who in an hour consume long labor’s gains.

Doomed summer, supported on the shoulders of winter and autumn: citrus-infused Baltic amber, red valerian, marigold, blood orange, and sunflower subdued by somber myrrh and dry geranium alongside the leaves of autumn and a breath of winter wind.
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UNDER THE HARVEST MOON
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

Blue and white musk, summer roses, wild crimson leaves, grey amber, carnation, lavender bud, and vanilla bean.
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BITE ME
Well, we *are* doing a vampire update finally.

Croquembouche with almond silk and a drizzle of caramel.
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BOO
Eerie billows of spun sugar, fluttering white cotton, and sheets of cream.
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CARLIN
The Spirit of the Eve of Samhain, an aspect of Cailleach, the Divine Hag, in her Destroyer aspect.

While Brìghde rules the time between Beltane and Sahmain, Cailleach rules the Dark of the Year. On the night of Samhain, she transforms into Carlin, harbingering the death of the land and the onset of the snows. On Beltane, the Great Crone is slain by Brìghde so springtime can reinvigorate the land.

Black sage, ivy-twined rowan, thistle, snapdragon, heather, gorse, fumitory, and anise.
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CREEPY 2009
A return of 2006′s Ridiculous Scent! As creepy as Spooky was spooky, this is the scent of butterscotch-kissed, caramel-smothered red apples spiked with a blast of coconut rum.
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DEVIL’S NIGHT 2009
Devil’s Eve, Devil’s Night, Gate Night, Trick Night, Mischief Night; whatever your name for it might be, the chaos is still the same. Contrary to popular belief, this festival of pandemonium isn’t unique to Detroit. Falling on October 30th, it is an evening of mayhem and destruction. On the gentler side, it may be celebrated by practical jokes, an egging, Ding-Dong-Ditch, or enthusiastic TP’ing of your most hated neighbor’s trees, and on the more violent side, arson and vandalism. This is the scent of autumn night, fires in the distance, with a touch of boozy swoon, playful sugar and thuggish musk.
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DIA DE LOS MUERTOS 2009
A joyous celebration of La Catarina, La Flaca, La Muerte… Glorious, Beautiful Death. In Mexico, death is not something to be feared or hated; She is embraced, loved, and adored. La Muerte is fêted, as the celebrant “…chases after it, mocks it, courts it, hugs it, sleeps with it; it is his favorite plaything and his most lasting love.” This is a Mexican paean to La Huesuda: dry, crackling leaves, the incense smoke of altars honoring Death and the Dead, funeral bouquets, the candies, chocolates, foods and tobacco of the ofrenda, amaranth, sweet cactus blossom and desert cereus.
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FEEDING THE DEAD
A barrel of beer, a pyramid of cakes, and three sticks of incense.
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THE HELL-GATE OF IRELAND
The Cave of Cruachan in Connaught, a province that was given to the Formorians after the Battle of Mag Tuired. On the first of November, a flock of malevolent copper-colored birds bursts forth from the mouth of the cave, ushering a host of restless ghosts and wicked goblins that torment the living by blighting crops, killing livestock, stealing away brides-to-be, and replacing infants with changelings.

Smoldering brimstone, bitter labdanum, clove, black musk, and copper-colored feathers.
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LAMBS-WOOL
According to William Shepard Walsh, the Gentleman’s Magazine for May of 1784 stated, “this is a constant ingredient at merrymaking on Holy Eve.” He also quotes Vallancey’s etymological speculation: “The first day of November was dedicated to the angel presiding over fruits, seeds, etc., and was therefore named La Mas Ubhal, — that is, the day of the apple fruit, — and being pronounced Lamasool, the English have corrupted the name to Lambs-wool.”

A popular holy day beverage in 18th century Ireland: roasted apples mashed into warmed milk and ale, with nutmeg, sugar, ginger, and clove.
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POMONA
I am the ancient apple-queen.
As once I was so am I now –
For evermore a hope unseen
Betwixt the blossom and the bough.

Ah, where’s the river’s hidden gold!
And where’s the windy grave of Troy?
Yet come I as I came of old,
From out the heart of summer’s joy.

The Roman festival for Pomona, Goddess of fruit, orchards, and gardens, was celebrated on November 1. On this day, the stores amassed during summer were opened for winter.

Azaroles, nuts, and apple blossoms with red apple pulp, mulberry, blackberry, and pomegranate juice.
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SAMHAIN 2009
Truly the scent of autumn itself — damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.
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SUCK IT
A companion to Bite Me. Layers well with Lick It.

Sexy and suckable: black cherry brandy.
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TRICK OR TREAT 2009
The sticky sweet scent of candy corn! Even cornier for 2009! – cuz corny is how we roll at BPAL!
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The ‘Patch is back, and there are five new pumpkin blends to choose from. Pick individual pumpkins from the field, or snatch up the whole shebang!

If you purchase Pumpkin Booty, you will receive an imp of Tattie Bogle: a scent created to compliment and complete the collection.

TATTIE BOGLE
Alane upon the field she stood,
The tattie-bogle, tall an’ prood.
But certie, she wis smairt an’ braw,
A bonnie lass, tho’ made o’ straw.

Her gowden hair wis made o’ oo.
Her dentie goon when it wis new
Langsyne, hid been the guidwife’s best.
Sae trigly wis the bogle drest!

The beasts they cam’ frae a’ the airts.
(The tod ran tours frae furrin’ pairts.)
They cam’ by day, they cam’ by nicht,
To see a maist byordnar sicht.

An’ craws an sparras by the score,
A wale o’ burds, mair nor afore.
The fermer roared an’ raged aboot.
‘A’ll cast yon tattie-bogle oot!’

Pair tattie-bogle, she wis wae.
‘Eh!’ said the houlet, ‘Whits a dae?’
He flew doon frae the elder tree.
‘Noo, dry yer e’en an’ herk tae me.

‘See, lassie, tak ma guid advice.
There is nae yiss ye bein’ nice.
Can ye nae glower an’ skreich an’ a’
Tae sen’ thae cooardie burds awa’?’

The bogle grat nae mair: instead
‘A’m much obleeged tae ye,’ she said
‘Ma voice is lood – jist like the craik!’
‘Then sing,’ he said, ‘ for ony sake!’

It chilled the verra bluid tae hear
The bogle’s sang : frae far an’ near
The burds rose up, a’ frichtit sair
An’ nivver cam back ony mair.

Sae should ye pass at skreich o’ day
Alang the road frae Auchenblae,
An’ hear a strange uncanny soun,
That scares the burds for miles aroon,

A soon like pincils on a sclate,
Be on yer way an’ dinna wait.
Ye can be shair as onything
Ye’ve heard the tattie-bogle sing.

Hay, gunpowder, patchouli, autumn herbs, and sun-baked wood.

A cypress-bough, and a rose-wreath sweet
A wedding-robe, and a winding-sheet,
A bridal-bed and a bier.
Thine be the kisses, maid,
And smiling Love’s alarms;
And thou, pale youth, be laid
In the grave’s cold arms.
Each in his own charms,
Death and Hymen both are here;
So up with scythe and torch,
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring clear:
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

Now tremble dimples on your cheek,
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak,
For he who kisses is near:
By her the bridegod fair,
In youthful power and force;
By him the grizard bare,
Pale knight on a pale horse,
To woo him to a corpse.
Death and Hymen both are here;
So up with scythe and torch,
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring clear:
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

— Songs from “Death’s Jest-Book”, Athulf’s Death Song, Thomas Lovell Beddoes

ARIADNE BRUNNELL
(The Vampire Maid, Hume Nisbet)
This contact seemed also to have affected her as it did me; a clear flush, like a white flame, lighted up her face, so that it glowed as if an alabaster lamp had been lit; her black eyes became softer and more humid as our glances crossed, and her scarlet lips grew moist. She was a living woman now, while before she had seemed half a corpse.

She permitted her white slender hand to remain in mine longer than most people do at an introduction, and then she slowly withdrew it, still regarding me with steadfast eyes for a second or two afterwards.

Fathomless velvety eyes these were, yet before they were shifted from mine they appeared to have absorbed all my willpower and made me her abject slave. They looked like deep dark pools of clear water, yet they filled me with fire and deprived me of strength. I sank into my chair almost as languidly as I had risen from my bed that morning.

Yet I made a good breakfast, and although she hardly tasted anything, this strange girl rose much refreshed and with a slight glow of colour on her cheeks, which improved her so greatly that she appeared younger and almost beautiful.

I had come here seeking solitude, but since I had seen Ariadne it seemed as if I had come for her only. She was not very lively; indeed, thinking back, I cannot recall any spontaneous remark of hers; she answered my questions by monosyllables and left me to lead in words; yet she was insinuating and appeared to lead my thoughts in her direction and speak to me with her eyes. I cannot describe her minutely, I only know that from the first glance and touch she gave me I was bewitched and could think of nothing else.

It was a rapid, distracting, and devouring infatuation that possessed me; all day long I followed her about like a dog, every night I dreamed of that white glowing face, those steadfast black eyes, those moist scarlet lips, and each morning I rose more languid than I had been the day before. Sometimes I dreamt that she was kissing me with those red lips, while I shivered at the contact of her silky black tresses as they covered my throat; sometimes that we were floating in the air, her arms about me and her long hair enveloping us both like an inky cloud, while I lay supine and helpless.

Poppy flowers, peat, sphagnum moss, gardenia, and white water lily.
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CLARIMONDE
(La Morte Amoureuse, Theophile Gautier) I do not know whether it was an illusion or a reflection of the lamplight, but it seemed to me that the blood was again commencing to circulate under that lifeless pallor, although she remained all motionless. I laid my hand lightly on her arm; it was cold, but not colder than her hand on the day when it touched mine at the portals of the church. I resumed my position, bending my face above her, and bathing her cheeks with the warm dew of my tears. Ah, what bitter feelings of despair and helplessness, what agonies unutterable did I endure in that long watch! Vainly did I wish that I could have gathered all my life into one mass that I might give it all to her, and breathe into her chill remains the flame which devoured me. The night advanced, and feeling the moment of eternal separation approach, I could not deny myself the last sad sweet pleasure of imprinting a kiss upon the dead lips of her who had been my only love. . . . Oh, miracle! A faint breath mingled itself with my breath, and the mouth of Clarimonde responded to the passionate pressure of mine. Her eyes unclosed, and lighted up with something of their former brilliancy; she uttered a long sigh, and uncrossing her arms, passed them around my neck with a look of ineffable delight. “Ah, it is thou, Romuald!” she murmured in a voice languishingly sweet as the last vibrations of a harp. “What ailed thee, dearest? I waited so long for thee that I am dead; but we are now betrothed; I can see thee and visit thee. Adieu, Romuald, adieu! I love thee. That is all I wished to tell thee, and I give thee back the life which thy kiss for a moment recalled. We shall soon meet again.”

Her head fell back, but her arms yet encircled me, as though to retain me still. A furious whirlwind suddenly burst in the window, and entered the chamber. The last remaining leaf of the white rose for a moment palpitated at the extremity of the stalk like a butterfly’s wing, then it detached itself and flew forth through the open casement, bearing with it the soul of Clarimonde. The lamp was extinguished, and I fell insensible upon the bosom of the beautiful dead.

Pallid skin musk, white roses, and a languorous vapor of Oriental perfume.
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CRISTINA
(For the Blood is the Life by F. Marion Crawford)
He was near the village now; it was half an hour since the sun had set, and the cracked church bell sent little discordant echoes across the rocks and ravines to tell all good people that the day was done. Angelo stood still a moment where the path forked, where it led toward the village on the left, and down to the gorge on the right, where a clump of chestnut trees overhung the narrow way. He stood still a minute, lifting his battered hat from his head and gazing at the fast-fading sea westward, and his lips moved as he silently repeated the familiar evening prayer. His lips moved, but the words that followed them in his brain lost their meaning and turned into others, and ended in a name that he spoke aloud — Cristina!

With the name, the tension of his will relaxed suddenly, reality went out and the dream took him again, and bore him on swiftly and surely like a man walking in his sleep, down, down, by the steep path in the gathering darkness. And as she glided beside him, Cristina whispered strange, sweet things in his ear, which somehow, if he had been awake, he knew that he could not quite have understood; but now they were the most wonderful words he had ever heard in his life. And she kissed him also, but not upon his mouth. He felt her sharp kisses upon his white throat, and he knew that her lips were red.

So the wild dream sped on through twilight and darkness and moonrise, and all the glory of the summer’s night. But in the chilly dawn he lay as one half dead upon the mound down there, recalling and not recalling, drained of his blood, yet strangely longing to give those red lips more. Then came the fear, the awful nameless panic, the mortal horror that guards the confines of the world we see not, neither know of as we know of other things, but which we feel when its icy chill freezes our bones and stirs our hair with the touch of a ghostly hand. Once more Angelo sprang from the mound and fled up the gorge in the breaking day, but his step was less sure this time, and he panted for breath as he ran; and when he came to the bright spring of water that rises half way up the hillside, he dropped upon his knees and hands and plunged his whole face in and drank as he had never drunk before — for it was the thirst of the wounded man who has lain bleeding all night upon the battle-field.

She had him fast now, and he could not escape her, but would come to her every evening at dusk until she had drained him of his last drop of blood. It was in vain that when the day was done he tried to take another turning and to go home by a path that did not lead near the gorge. It was in vain that he made promises to himself each morning at dawn when he climbed the lonely way up from the shore to the village. It was all in vain, for when the sun sank burning into the sea, and the coolness of the evening stole out as from a hiding-place to delight the weary world, his feet turned toward the old way, and she was waiting for him in the shadow under the chestnut trees; and then all happened as before, and she fell to kissing his white throat even as she flitted lightly down the way, winding one arm about him.

Chestnut trees, juniper berries, violet leaf, labdanum, dazzling, moonlit white musk, and night-blooming summer flowers.
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COUNTESS DOLINGEN OF GRATZ
(Dracula’s Guest, the omitted introduction to Bram Stoker’s Dracula)
Now and again, through the black mass of drifting cloud, came a straggling ray of moonlight, which lit up the expanse, and showed me that I was at the edge of a dense mass of cypress and yew trees. As the snow had ceased to fall, I walked out from the shelter and began to investigate more closely. It appeared to me that, amongst so many old foundations as I had passed, there might be still standing a house in which, though in ruins, I could find some sort of shelter for a while. As I skirted the edge of the copse, I found that a low wall encircled it, and following this I presently found an opening. Here the cypresses formed an alley leading up to a square mass of some kind of building. Just as I caught sight of this, however, the drifting clouds obscured the moon, and I passed up the path in darkness. The wind must have grown colder, for I felt myself shiver as I walked; but there was hope of shelter, and I groped my way blindly on.

I stopped, for there was a sudden stillness. The storm had passed; and, perhaps in sympathy with nature’s silence, my heart seemed to cease to beat. But this was only momentarily; for suddenly the moonlight broke through the clouds, showing me that I was in a graveyard, and that the square object before me was a great massive tomb of marble, as white as the snow that lay on and all around it. With the moonlight there came a fierce sigh of the storm, which appeared to resume its course with a long, low howl, as of many dogs or wolves. I was awed and shocked, and felt the cold perceptibly grow upon me till it seemed to grip me by the heart. Then while the flood of moonlight still fell on the marble tomb, the storm gave further evidence of renewing, as though it was returning on its track. Impelled by some sort of fascination, I approached the sepulchre to see what it was, and why such a thing stood alone in such a place. I walked around it, and read, over the Doric door, in German:

COUNTESS DOLINGEN OF GRATZ
IN STYRIA
SOUGHT AND FOUND DEATH
1801
On the top of the tomb, seemingly driven through the solid marble-for the structure was composed of a few vast blocks of stone-was a great iron spike or stake. On going to the back I saw, graven in great Russian letters:

‘The dead travel fast.’
There was something so weird and uncanny about the whole thing that it gave me a turn and made me feel quite faint. I began to wish, for the first time, that I had taken Johann’s advice. Here a thought struck me, which came under almost mysterious circumstances and with a terrible shock. This was Walpurgis Night!

Walpurgis Night, when, according to the belief of millions of people, the devil was abroad-when the graves were opened and the dead came forth and walked. When all evil things of earth and air and water held revel. This very place the driver had specially shunned. This was the depopulated village of centuries ago. This was where the suicide lay; and this was the place where I was alone-unmanned, shivering with cold in a shroud of snow with a wild storm gathering again upon me! It took all my philosophy, all the religion I had been taught, all my courage, not to collapse in a paroxysm of fright.

And now a perfect tornado burst upon me. The ground shook as though thousands of horses thundered across it; and this time the storm bore on its icy wings, not snow, but great hailstones which drove with such violence that they might have come from the thongs of Balearic slingers-hailstones that beat down leaf and branch and made the shelter of the cypresses of no more avail than though their stems were standing-corn. At the first I had rushed to the nearest tree; but I was soon fain to leave it and seek the only spot that seemed to afford refuge, the deep Doric doorway of the marble tomb. There, crouching against the massive bronze door, I gained a certain amount of protection from the beating of the hailstones, for now they only drove against me as they ricocheted from the ground and the side of the marble.

As I leaned against the door, it moved slightly and opened inwards. The shelter of even a tomb was welcome in that pitiless tempest, and I was about to enter it when there came a flash of forked-lightning that lit up the whole expanse of the heavens. In the instant, as I am a living man, I saw, as my eyes were turned into the darkness of the tomb, a beautiful woman, with rounded cheeks and red lips, seemingly sleeping on a bier. As the thunder broke overhead, I was grasped as by the hand of a giant and hurled out into the storm. The whole thing was so sudden that, before I could realise the shock, moral as well as physical, I found the hailstones beating me down. At the same time I had a strange, dominating feeling that I was not alone. I looked towards the tomb. Just then there came another blinding flash, which seemed to strike the iron stake that surmounted the tomb and to pour through to the earth, blasting and crumbling the marble, as in a burst of flame. The dead woman rose for a moment of agony, while she was lapped in the flame, and her bitter scream of pain was drowned in the thundercrash. The last thing I heard was this mingling of dreadful sound, as again I was seized in the giant-grasp and dragged away, while the hailstones beat on me, and the air around seemed reverberant with the howling of wolves. The last sight that I remembered was a vague, white, moving mass, as if all the graves around me had sent out the phantoms of their sheeted-dead, and that they were closing in on me through the white cloudiness of the driving hail.

Hailstone-pounded cypress boughs, olibanum, and an ozone blast of lightning.
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THE GIRL
(The Singular Death of Morton, Algernon Blackwood)
Then, suddenly, as they had turned to go, after much vain shouting and knocking at the door, a face appeared for an instant at a window, the shutter of which was half open. His friend saw it first, and called aloud. The face nodded in reply, and presently a young girl came round the corner of the house, apparently by a back door, and stood staring at them both from a little distance.

And from that very instant, so far as he could remember, these queer feelings had entered his heart-fear, distrust, misgiving. The thought of it now, as he lay in bed in the darkness, made his hair rise. There was something about that girl that struck cold into the soul. Yet she was a mere slip of a thing, very pretty, seductive even, with a certain serpent?like fascination about her eyes and movements; and although she only replied to their questions as to refreshment with a smile, uttering no single word, she managed to convey the impression that she was a managing little person who might make herself very disagreeable if she chose. In spite of her undeniable charm there was about her an atmosphere of something sinister. He himself did most of the questioning, but it was his older friend who had the benefit of her smile. Her eyes hardly ever left his face, and once she had slipped quite close to him and touched his arm.

The strange part of it now seemed to him that he could not remember in the least how she was dressed, or what was the colouring of her eyes and hair. It was almost as though he had felt, rather than seen, her presence.

A seductive, serpentine white scent, elusive, crystalline, and spellbinding: white amber, silver birch, immortelle, davana, pale musk, star jasmine, and ylang ylang.
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MIRCALLA, COUNTESS KARNSTEIN
(Carmilla, Sheridan LeFanu)
Sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful companion would take my hand and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and again; blushing softly, gazing in my face with languid and burning eyes, and breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tumultuous respiration. It was like the ardor of a lover; it embarrassed me; it was hateful and yet over-powering; and with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips traveled along my cheek in kisses; and she would whisper, almost in sobs, “You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are one for ever.” Then she had thrown herself back in her chair, with her small hands over her eyes, leaving me trembling.

Languid, melancholy fire: red musk, purple orchid, frankincense, smoky vanilla, Styrian herbs, peru balsam, tonka, Zanzibar clove, and patchouli.
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LORD RUTHVEN
(the Vampyre, John Polidori)
It happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank. He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned. Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass. His peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something in their presence capable of engaging their attention. In spite of the deadly hue of his face, which never gained a wanner tint, either from the blush of modesty, or from the strong emotion of passion, though its form and outline were beautiful, many of the female hunters after notoriety attempted to win his attentions, and gain, at least, some marks of what they might term affection: Lady Mercer, who had been the mockery of every monster shewn in drawing-rooms since her marriage, threw herself in his way, and did all but put on the dress of a mountebank, to attract his notice — though in vain; — when she stood before him, though his eyes were apparently fixed upon hers, still it seemed as if they were unperceived; — even her unappalled impudence was baffled, and she left the field. But though the common adultress could not influence even the guidance of his eyes, it was not that the female sex was indifferent to him: yet such was the apparent caution with which he spoke to the virtuous wife and innocent daughter, that few knew he ever addressed himself to females. He had, however, the reputation of a winning tongue; and whether it was that it even overcame the dread of his singular character, or that they were moved by his apparent hatred of vice, he was as often among those females who form the boast of their sex from their domestic virtues, as among those who sully it by their vices.

The father of all dandy aristocrat vampires: Aqua Admirabilis with polished boot leather and blood.
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SARAH
(The Tomb of Sarah, F.G. Loring)
By half-past ten we were both getting very tired, and I began to think that perhaps after all we should see nothing that night. However, soon after eleven we observed a light mist rising from the ‘Sarah Tomb’. It seemed to scintillate and sparkle as it rose, and curled in a sort of pillar or spiral.

I said nothing, but I heard the Rector give a sort of gasp as he clutched my arm feverishly.

‘Great Heaven!’ he whispered, ‘it is taking shape.’

And, true enough, in a very few moments we saw standing erect by the tomb the ghastly figure of the Countess Sarah!

She looked thin and haggard still, and her face was deadly white; but the crimson lips looked like a hideous gash in the pale cheeks, and her eyes glared like red coals in the gloom of the church.

Unholy mist congealing into soft, white flesh, with black marble, remnants of liturgical incense, wolf’s fur, and black flecks of froth.
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JULIA STONE
(The Room in the Tower, E.F. Benson.)
And then, with a sudden start of unexplained dismay, I saw that there were two rather conspicuous objects which I had not seen before in my dreams: one a life-sized oil painting of Mrs. Stone, the other a black-and-white sketch of Jack Stone, representing him as he had appeared to me only a week before in the last of the series of these repeated dreams, a rather secret and evil-looking man of about thirty. His picture hung between the windows, looking straight across the room to the other portrait, which hung at the side of the bed. At that I looked next, and as I looked I felt once more the horror of nightmare seize me.

It represented Mrs. Stone as I had seen her last in my dreams: old and withered and white-haired. But in spite of the evident feebleness of body, a dreadful exuberance and vitality shone through the envelope of flesh, an exuberance wholly malign, a vitality that foamed and frothed with unimaginable evil. Evil beamed from the narrow, leering eyes; it laughed in the demon-like mouth. The whole face was instinct with some secret and appalling mirth; the hands, clasped together on the knee, seemed shaking with suppressed and nameless glee. Then I saw also that it was signed in the left-hand bottom corner, and wondering who the artist could be, I looked more closely, and read the inscription, “Julia Stone by Julia Stone.”

Rotting once-white fabric, spotted with mold.
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PERLE VON MAUREN
(Revelations in Black, Carl Jacobi)
I stumbled forward, my eyes quickly accustoming themselves to the half-light from the almost opaque windows.

At the end of the corridor a second door barred my passage. I thrust it open – and stood swaying there on the sill staring inward.

Beyond was a small room, barely ten feet square, with a low-raftered ceiling. And by the light of the open door I saw side by side in the center of the floor – two white wood coffins.

How long I stood there leaning weakly against the stone wall I don’t know. There was an odor drifting from out of that chamber. Heliotrope! But heliotrope defiled by the rotting smell of an ancient grave.

Then suddenly I leaped to the nearest coffin, seized its cover and ripped it open.

Would to heaven I could forget that sight that met my eyes. There the woman in black – unveiled.

That face – it was divinely beautiful, the hair black as sable, the cheeks a classic white. But the lips – ! I grew suddenly sick as I looked upon them. They were scarlet…. and sticky with human blood.

Heliotrope, grave soil, and blood.
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Only on mine, it doesn’t, as the problem is not just the brake engaging, but 90% of the time refusing to disengage. Which makes getting off the bus a pretty fun event. As if lurching forwards clinging onto buggy for dear life as you manouevre down the bus so you can get to the front to put brake on and wait to get off wasn’t enough, having people almost slam you over the handle bar as you try to push forward and spring back again hindered by the brake, just makes it that tiny bit more fun. It’s like sprinkles on ice-cream.

It has taken me over three weeks of correspondence and proving proof of purchase and detailing faults to get some kind of result. The first CSR was all happy and helpful until he received my receipt then went silent and ceased responding. The second required all the info again. The third told me as I had purchased my Bee online (via ebay), to cut a long story short, I am screwed. Warranty invalid. Buy another chassis for 199.00 (POUNDS).

So, not really planning on taking that kind of crap, I email them back and point out that they are bastards the online store ( and not an individual selling on second hand goods) in question states that they are an auth.retailer, and that if this is not the case then they should point this out to them. I also raised the question of the ethics involved in selling a faulty product that has no warranty if bought online if it has not been publicised that this is the case. Moreover, how are these “shonky” sellers able to sell their goods? What are they doing about it? Blablablabla…etc

Imagine my surprise (yes that’s sarcasm) when lo and behold they reply that same day, that: yes my warranty is valid, they (online store) are miraculously an authorised seller and they will provide me with the new chassis that they promised in the first place.

Tossoids. Some people are not blessed with my natural indignation and persistance in the face of injustice and would have swallowed that shit.

Shame. Shame. Shame. For THE high end retailer in the baby world to pull this stunt is despicable. It’s not a cheap product. People buy into the image, but not just that, the guarantee for two years and the rumoured customer service is a big sway also.

After the recent price hike, I’m not sure they are going to keep their position at the top much longer. Especially as the Icandy are bringing out their second versatile single/double on a single chassis. They are not the first to do it. I also owned the Quinny Freestyler 4 Twin which did this years before but it was a heavy push and had various drawbacks, however, how long have we been waiting for any double version of any Bugaboo model??

Anyway, Giles Coren;  shouldn’t like him but I do. Also, seeing him hit his head on a cooker hood made me feel jusitifed in the rage it causes me, as I also bang my head on it every time I try and cook. It’s not like it even serves a purpose other than to make a noise that grates on my nerves.

I love the rapport between Giles and Sue. I know Sue’s a lesbian but I like to entertain the idea that they might be secretly having a sexual relationship.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t believe one day we will all live in some Utopian society where everyone barters for anything they need, but I do like the idea of getting the stuff you need using stuff you don’t want so much without cutting in Evilbay. I’ll rant about them another time, just mentioning them has made my pulse speed up.

My main swaps tend to involve like for like (ie Bpal), but this week I managed to secure myself an 8 track EP by Bleeding Heart Narrative (clearly a man after my own heart as he was offering it for sale, or barter, barter preferred) in exchange for Gaiman themed Bpal samples.

I’ve swapped Creme Eggs for perfume (to Germany), a parcel themed on my local area involving poetry book, Twinings teas, English toffee (to USA) – for perfume, you sense a trend here no doubt.

Were it not for my current hesitancy to spend much money, I’d be taking part in more of Pay It Forward, where you offer up stuff you no longer want and then send it someone, or my favourite, which is more random acts of kindness, sneakily get someone’s address and send them stuff you know they want as a surprise. Thus satisfying your inner stalker benevolent side, and making you feel happy that you made someone else squeal with excitement.

www.blackphoenixalchemylab.com

We just went blackberry picking and made the meagre results into jam, but I think it may be slightly over-sugared and has the potential to be more like a chewy blackberry, er, chew. I want scones though, which brings me back around to BPAL… I can’t say I am a fan of Amanda Palmer in a musical sense and in the whole body hair removal debate I stand firmly on remove from armpits, leave on as eyebrows, whereas she sits on the opposite side. Her choice, but not for me. However, I do love the picture book she has brought out, and the ideas for the scents are very interesting.

Who Killed Amanda Palmer: Scent Evidence

Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab presents a series of scents that is based on a book that was based on an album, all posing the question, Who Killed Amanda Palmer?

Bathroom Incident
Blackberry Jam & Scones
Conservatory Tableaux
Cupcake Splatter Pattern Analysis
Daylillies at the Bottom of the Stairs
Occurance at the Diner
Floater
Unexpected Golf Hazard
Leaf-Strewn Couch - could tempt me
Joyeux Noel
Unfortunate Shopping Cart
Manus Dei or the Typewriter Incident – this is the one for me!

Had the idea to look for advice on a TAL to help my daughter at school next year, so we’ll see what comes of that.

Managed to whack my head on the corner of the wooden locker door before I even got in the water. I bent to pick up my flip flops, the locker door swung to close itself only it was impeded by the top/side of my head, which now sports a moderate sized lump and stings a lot.

Oh no! I think I left my pound in it!

My sister wore a bikini , unaware that it was see-through at the back, and attracted two giggly 12/13 year old admirers who proceeded to laugh at her the whole time she was in the (communal)  shower.

So, a good time all round.

All this is just distraction though from how I really feel which is both sad, and angry – at myself and someone else. I hope I have some energy left to go swimming for the first time in ages, later.

I miss my babies, but am sane enough to know that I would be getting nothing done if they were here today, and that I need to have this time alone to get things more organised.

Listen to Bleeding Heart Narrative on myspace:

http://www.myspace.com/bleedingheartnarrative