The latest batch of kyphi has barely dried and cured and I'm ready for the next one. It's become an obsession. This weekend, the first I've been home or not had houseguests in over a month, will be filled with perfumery projects. I'm working on a batch of soap, that lovely balsam fir based soap I spoke of earlier in the week, and a goodies' experiment, plus once again gathering the bones of another kyphi incense. And I'm writing something up for the latest course at the Natural Perfume Academy -- things are changing there as well -- and I'm collaborating on a perfume project with one of my co-conspirators from the old Blacknails Academy. I had been working on a vintage perfume reimagining but I'm at a crossroads. I've set the project down and can't seem to get back into it. I'm a horrible procrastinator, as you know, and for whatever reason, I am being held back from completing this project. I know the only solution is to simply soldier on. Once I've begun, the inferno will rise again and I'll be knee-deep in fumes and working diligently to bring the project to fruition. In the meantime, I dilly dally, dawdle, fiddle-f*rt, and putter about decanting this, tweaking that, writing down the bones of another, pushing paper from this edge to that edge.
Have I told you I have notebooks half finished full of ideas? Just ideas. Perfume ideas, event ideas, project ideas, collaboration ideas -- they're everywhere, these notebooks, there is even one crammed in my purse, the pages bent and folded and covered in black ink, notes to my future self about what can be. I feel sometimes that I need an assistant thinker. A sounding board made of flesh and blood and passion for perfume. Someone to tinker in the studio with. Someone to help bring all those ideas in the notebooks alive. Another head. I sometimes remind myself of a relative-by-marriage who will invite us to dinner and after three hours of banging pots and running in and out of the kitchen brings a pan of burnt fried potatoes to the table, but has during that three-hour interim managed to chop a cord of wood, tune up the car, water the vegetable garden, feed the chickens, tie up a rope swing, start a bonfire, and collect the mail, all with a certain degree of ineptitude. One has to believe that with all that energy, and a little Adderall, a masterpiece of gustatory precision could have been created. Yeah, sometimes I feel like that...
I'm procrastinating right now, can't you tell?
Have I told you I have notebooks half finished full of ideas? Just ideas. Perfume ideas, event ideas, project ideas, collaboration ideas -- they're everywhere, these notebooks, there is even one crammed in my purse, the pages bent and folded and covered in black ink, notes to my future self about what can be. I feel sometimes that I need an assistant thinker. A sounding board made of flesh and blood and passion for perfume. Someone to tinker in the studio with. Someone to help bring all those ideas in the notebooks alive. Another head. I sometimes remind myself of a relative-by-marriage who will invite us to dinner and after three hours of banging pots and running in and out of the kitchen brings a pan of burnt fried potatoes to the table, but has during that three-hour interim managed to chop a cord of wood, tune up the car, water the vegetable garden, feed the chickens, tie up a rope swing, start a bonfire, and collect the mail, all with a certain degree of ineptitude. One has to believe that with all that energy, and a little Adderall, a masterpiece of gustatory precision could have been created. Yeah, sometimes I feel like that...
I'm procrastinating right now, can't you tell?
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