It smells like magic...

I am preparing the concentrate of my new perfume to be launched; and on a foggy night in the middle of September, suddenly it is Christmas already.


The raw materials are sacred again. I use every pipette as if they were made from diamonds. I smell carefully each one before throwing it delicately to the bin next to me. Slowly I am getting high from all the beautiful olfactory impulses, I am thinking maybe a few grams of cocaine could have the same effect.  Even my perfume organ seems different, it looks more rustic today, like an great emperor with a lot of personality. I wouldn't exclude the possibility that it has magical abilities, something like that closet to Narnia or a powerful pendent.

Once someone told me that contrary to romantic expectations, most people will not be continuously in love with their chosen partners. In real life, it is more like you fall in love with the 'One' again again and again. This is what's happening with me tonight. I fell in love with perfumery for the second time: It is champagne and rose once again, instead of dirty dishes and daily routine.

I love my job. I love being a perfumer. I love being surrounded with scents so noble, so rare, so expensive. I enjoy the complete serenity of the moment. I am submissive and humble towards the great art of perfumery. I feel grateful. I am amazed by my own creativity, and how my work turned out to be so enchanting, intoxicating and radiantly erotic.

Paris is waking up

I haven't slept but a few hours only, it is still early. Anyways, anything before 9 o clock on a Sunday morning is considered dawn in France, so here I am sitting on my terrace with nothing but my thoughts and the view of Paris waking up leisurely.

 

It's just the very second day of September, but Paris is already cold,  grey and unfriendly in her own moody-whimsical way. There are a few birds on the neighboring roof trying to make it sound like it was spring again, but they soon get tired, muffled and eventually fly away. It is still gloomy and there is this fuzziness in the cold air, giving a quite mysterious edge to this new day. 

I am very conscious of time passing by. I always have been. I am very conscious of the preciousness of every single moment, if anybody I do live in the present. To the point that from the future, I am continuously longing for the nostalgic feeling of the moment that is about to pass. I live as if I was born at the time of war, when you don't know if there would be a tomorrow, so you just live as there wasn't cause you know one day, you' ll be right.   

Today, I woke up in a different mood. There is no rush to enjoy, there is no rush to produce or profit. There is just me and this bittersweet Parisian morning in front of me, smelling crispy, like fresh rose petals, chilly like the cool elegance iris root with the touch of something dark and murky like grisambrol - a synthetic raw material that resembles the odor of diluted naphthalene.