At eleven-thirty in the morning, it has already crested eighty degrees here. A fitful breeze is lifting the leaves so that their pale undersides show, and everyone around me seems restless and edgy. Most living organisms find the approach of storm weather nerve-wracking; cats fret, horses kick, dogs whine, and flocks of birds scatter, their flight formations thrown into chaos. The monarch butterfly is particularly susceptible to the heightened anxiety of oncoming thunder-- hence its nickname, "the storm king". It seems that from large to small, we are all trapped in the atmospheric tension.
Today I'm wearing L'Artisan Parfumeur's La Chasse aux Papillons ("Chasing Butterflies"), gifted to me by Bloody Frida and saved up for a day on the borderline of summer. It's doing its very best to soothe me, though in my present state of tetchiness, I fear its efforts may be in vain. (Was that lightning? I'm sure that was lightning. Just a fluorescent bulb flickering? Well, if you say so...)
Climbing the walls has at least one benefit: an elevated vantage point. From here, La Chasse aux Papillons appears to be a masterpiece of natural engineering, perfectly weighted with ultra-light, lemony hesperidic notes and neroli cancelling out jasmine and tuberose's ballast so that the lovely thing just hovers magically in midair. Central to its charms is a sweet, fizzy linden-blossom note that I'm certain is equal to the task of talking me down from whatever ledges I may find myself occupying as the afternoon continues.
How will it manage? Through the power of suggestion. Though stuck inside my office, with my eyes closed I clearly envision hedgerows of glossy green privet dotted with tiny white flowers above which fleets of bees studiously dart and weave. It will storm within a day; my vacation is two weeks away, and true summer double that distance, but so long as La Chasse aux Papillons surrounds me, the weather is perpetually fine.
Scent Elements: Citrus, neroli, linden, tuberose, jasmine