When I think of BPAL Miskatonic University and BPAL Dorian...
[What I Feel| 
cranky--it's HOT!!!!!! ]
[What I Hear| Coldplay "Speed of Sound" ]
[What I Smell| Prototype #1 of Síolan in the Wind by Artiztic Oils ]
I assign BPAL scents to characters, and these are two of my favourites.
*****
When I close my eyes, I can place myself back in time, back in space.
It was a bitterly cold day. Winter had borne down hard on the Midlands and the winds sweeping into the city were brutal. Dry, harsh, and stinging, they would steal your breath away if they hit you in the face. I drew my woollen coat closer around me and made a straight path for the door, wishing I had remembered to wear the thick muffler Mum had crocheted for me. I had only had it for a couple of weeks and forgot it on the peg behind the door.
The weathered red door opened with a clang; a brass bell hung from the lintel announced anyone entering the bookstore to the staff, although the girl standing at the till would hardly miss anyone blustering through on the wings of the wind. She gave me a reproachful look as she hunched her jumper closer around her shoulders. I fought the automatic door pull to shut the door against the buffeting from outside.
"Cold, innit?" she asked, rubbing her hands together. "Not fit for anyone out there."
"No, certainly not," I agreed, imagining my frozen nose must be as red as the door from the chill.
The shoppe girl smiled wryly and added, "There's tea and coffee toward the back. Just pitch your coins in the cup."
"Thank you, I'm most grateful," I smiled back, stamping my feet to get the feeling back in my toes. "Would you like one?"
"Nah, I'm on break soon. You from the university? If you are, show your student identity and you'll get a discount on whatever you buy." Her smile had warmed up and while I could see she was a lovely girl, she was not my reason for entering the shoppe.
I shook my head and pushed my fringe from my eyes. "Ah, no, not any more. I have done in the past, but I left uni some months ago. Thank you; thank you very much," I offered, sidling past the cashier and deeper into the stacks.
"Pity..." I heard her say to herself.
The rich scent of old leather and thick papers filled the air. Every bookcase towered above me, shoved full of both new and used books that were shelved according to interest and access. The more popular subjects were on the floor nearest the door in the big main room, while more eclectic studies were relegated to the further reaches of the side rooms that twisted off to the left and right. I could see the teakettle and coffee urn through the doorway beyond, just outside the small office where the owner, Tebbs, kept his own counsels while surrounded by some of the rarer books in the collection. The bookseller was no fool; anything worthy of stealing was under his constant regard.
Pulling off my gloves, I shoved my hand inside my pocket and checked that I had not lost the small wad of ready cash I had brought along. It was not so much that I wanted a rarity as that most of the books that interested me tended to be more expensive: art books with highly-detailed coloured plates, archaeological studies from limited press, and historical tomes written by men and women with weighty doctorates following their names. I preferred hardbacks to paperbound and leather to bookcloth, so no matter what I might want, it was going to cost a bit. I was prepared.
Money was always tight, but coming off tour in early December meant I had more of it than usual. With Stephen still recovering from getting so ill, the Siege Perilous was at a standstill until we all got together again after the New Year. The little blighter had phoned to say he was doing better, but it would take more than a call or two to convince both Rhys and Brendan that Steph was serious about continuing the band since his total disappearance after the last show. We flew home wondering if we'd ever see him alive again.
I waved noncommittally toward Tebbs and plonked down the shillings to grab a cup of tea. He grunted congenially and went back to reading the paper. The hot, rich coffee brewing in the urn filled the air with the heady perfume of something surely black and South American. Tebbs was a coffee aficionado. A faint hint of vanilla wafted from my cup as I dropped in the bag and poured in the hot water.
Coffee was always delicious, but I could get two cups of tea from one bag. It was a scrimping move I'd learnt from my uni days.
Climbing the spiral iron staircase to the upper stacks, I headed for my favourite place-the PreRaphaelites and the Romantics. Tebbs had kindly thrown in a few dilapidated armchairs and a very abused ancient velvet loveseat here and there for those who wanted to peruse the books more carefully before purchasing. If a few students decided to linger a bit longer and actually do their studying there, he turned a blind eye to it so long as they did not try to scarf the refreshments too freely. He was running a business for profit, after all.
As in love as I was with old Victorian works and the entire milieu of the period, I generally did not have to share the space in those aisles with many other warm bodies. Writers such as Shelley, Tennyson, Shaw, Pope, and Wilde were required study for many students, but the anachronisms were not popular. No one cared about the scandal of a woman leaving her glove behind or the wild accusations behind the image of a man stealing a lock of a beautiful young woman's hair anymore. These older men with their witty turns of phrase and clever imaginations had filled my mind with passion and honour as much as classical writing and rich vocabularies. They had been the Bright Young Things of their era, and I delighted in the works of Rossetti, Ruskin, and other artists who had been as talented with their words as they were with brushes and chisels.
This day I was searching for Lord Byron and the empurpled breath of darkness. Most of the early collections of his works had been censored or edited savagely and many more modern publishers had not taken the time to understand there were unexpurgated versions of their sanitised editions. I once coveted an 1884 edition of his 'Poems and Dramas', encased in an embossed and coloured cover, dark with age and yellowed pages still embracing the tiny, delicate type. The book acquitted its position by asserting it was "...compleat...pure...notated...with appropriate illustrations...and good typography." How on earth could I pass up something as delicious as that?
Moving past the other shelves, I turned the corner to the last shelf and what would be a couple of miserable chairs and a small marquetry table with a design of lilies marred by several lifetimes of mug rings and cigarette burns near a tiny barred window. But unlike my previous visits, I was not alone.
The gentleman who sat in one of the chairs could well have been my fabled Lord Byron. Dark curls fell around a pale but kindly face as he looked up from his book. For a moment I was not certain what was more startling: that he was there at all, or that he seemed out of time with everything else around him. His black velvet jacket flared a bit at the cuffs and his lapels were much wider than what was stylish now. The long, black stovepipe trousers revealed black boots beneath, and I wondered if he was an actor or some sort of role player to look so Edwardian. "Pardon me, I'm just looking for a book," I mumbled, taken aback.
"Don't mind me, I'm just reading," he smiled. The smile went all the way up into his eyes and they glowed hazel and warm. "May I ask what you're searching for?"
"Uh, well...I know where it is. I've been here before," I said, suddenly feeling very embarrassed and awkward. I could hardly breathe.
As panic raced about in my brain trying to take over my mind, I argued with myself that I was being silly. I was doing nothing wrong. I had come for a book, and I would take it, and go downstairs, and purchase it, and...
"'...Oft I have dreamed of thee whose glorious name, who knows not, knows not man's divinest, and now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame that I in feeblest accents must adore...'" he said aloud.
"What? What did you say?" I asked, dragging my thoughts away from how handsome he was as my hand found the book.
"'Childe Harold'. I believe that's Byron you're reaching for," he smiled again.
When I turned to him I somehow fell into the warm depths of those eyes. I will never forget how the coffee he left on the table filled the air with its scent, or how pleasing the conversation mixed with the dusty leather books and stillness all about us. No one interrupted our discourses and the hours flew by as we remembered anew the quips by Robbie Ross or the upstart James Abbot McNeill Whistler...
"...That's my name, too," he laughed. "Although I fear I am less an artist and more desirous of being thought a poet," James had joked.
"You truly seem more in line with the sort of man of whom John Ruskin could have approved," I replied, wondering what it was to be kissed by those lips.
His teeth were perfect behind those lips, too. "I rather doubt it! Our Professor Ruskin did not have much of a sense of humour, while I need it to live!"
"Me, too," I sighed. The man was rendering me into a puddle of warm goo. He was as dark and exciting as Byron, as clever as Wilde, and something told me deep inside that he could possibly be as heroic and noble as the imaginary Captain Mackay of my childhood fantasies.
A soft kiss caressed my forehead. "Have we lost you, Beloved?" Opening my eyes, I found my James standing over me. One of his graceful, powerful hands touched my cheek and he smiled once more, bathing me yet again in his warmth. "You appear to be daydreaming."
"No. Remembering when we met."
Even now, I can still smell the coffee, the oak shelves laden with leather-bound books, and the faint hint of dust as the setting sun warmed our faces that evening. Even now. That wonderful edition of Byron he bought me is still my favourite book.
*****
Last weekend I indulged in watching "Gothic"...even with Ken Russell's tendency to be heavy-handed, it was a glorious thing to watch once more. A dark, stormy night in a big house full of friends all determined to scare the bejeesus out of one another while madly screaming and running about is pretty much exactly what MY idea of "real fun" is, and it's how I used to spend my evenings with friends when I was younger. I've missed it.
I've been regretting no longer having a group of friends who enjoy reading to one another and playing dress-up. I HAVE friends who all enjoy that, but we don't live close enough to one another to do it.
But if I'm ever finally rich and own that huge old pile, I'm paying for all these friends to come together. We're going to tell each other frightful fantasies and pretend we're all about to die until the dawn comes.
*hugs*
Nechtan :)
cranky--it's HOT!!!!!! ]
[What I Hear| Coldplay "Speed of Sound" ]
[What I Smell| Prototype #1 of Síolan in the Wind by Artiztic Oils ]
I assign BPAL scents to characters, and these are two of my favourites.
*****
When I close my eyes, I can place myself back in time, back in space.
It was a bitterly cold day. Winter had borne down hard on the Midlands and the winds sweeping into the city were brutal. Dry, harsh, and stinging, they would steal your breath away if they hit you in the face. I drew my woollen coat closer around me and made a straight path for the door, wishing I had remembered to wear the thick muffler Mum had crocheted for me. I had only had it for a couple of weeks and forgot it on the peg behind the door.
The weathered red door opened with a clang; a brass bell hung from the lintel announced anyone entering the bookstore to the staff, although the girl standing at the till would hardly miss anyone blustering through on the wings of the wind. She gave me a reproachful look as she hunched her jumper closer around her shoulders. I fought the automatic door pull to shut the door against the buffeting from outside.
"Cold, innit?" she asked, rubbing her hands together. "Not fit for anyone out there."
"No, certainly not," I agreed, imagining my frozen nose must be as red as the door from the chill.
The shoppe girl smiled wryly and added, "There's tea and coffee toward the back. Just pitch your coins in the cup."
"Thank you, I'm most grateful," I smiled back, stamping my feet to get the feeling back in my toes. "Would you like one?"
"Nah, I'm on break soon. You from the university? If you are, show your student identity and you'll get a discount on whatever you buy." Her smile had warmed up and while I could see she was a lovely girl, she was not my reason for entering the shoppe.
I shook my head and pushed my fringe from my eyes. "Ah, no, not any more. I have done in the past, but I left uni some months ago. Thank you; thank you very much," I offered, sidling past the cashier and deeper into the stacks.
"Pity..." I heard her say to herself.
The rich scent of old leather and thick papers filled the air. Every bookcase towered above me, shoved full of both new and used books that were shelved according to interest and access. The more popular subjects were on the floor nearest the door in the big main room, while more eclectic studies were relegated to the further reaches of the side rooms that twisted off to the left and right. I could see the teakettle and coffee urn through the doorway beyond, just outside the small office where the owner, Tebbs, kept his own counsels while surrounded by some of the rarer books in the collection. The bookseller was no fool; anything worthy of stealing was under his constant regard.
Pulling off my gloves, I shoved my hand inside my pocket and checked that I had not lost the small wad of ready cash I had brought along. It was not so much that I wanted a rarity as that most of the books that interested me tended to be more expensive: art books with highly-detailed coloured plates, archaeological studies from limited press, and historical tomes written by men and women with weighty doctorates following their names. I preferred hardbacks to paperbound and leather to bookcloth, so no matter what I might want, it was going to cost a bit. I was prepared.
Money was always tight, but coming off tour in early December meant I had more of it than usual. With Stephen still recovering from getting so ill, the Siege Perilous was at a standstill until we all got together again after the New Year. The little blighter had phoned to say he was doing better, but it would take more than a call or two to convince both Rhys and Brendan that Steph was serious about continuing the band since his total disappearance after the last show. We flew home wondering if we'd ever see him alive again.
I waved noncommittally toward Tebbs and plonked down the shillings to grab a cup of tea. He grunted congenially and went back to reading the paper. The hot, rich coffee brewing in the urn filled the air with the heady perfume of something surely black and South American. Tebbs was a coffee aficionado. A faint hint of vanilla wafted from my cup as I dropped in the bag and poured in the hot water.
Coffee was always delicious, but I could get two cups of tea from one bag. It was a scrimping move I'd learnt from my uni days.
Climbing the spiral iron staircase to the upper stacks, I headed for my favourite place-the PreRaphaelites and the Romantics. Tebbs had kindly thrown in a few dilapidated armchairs and a very abused ancient velvet loveseat here and there for those who wanted to peruse the books more carefully before purchasing. If a few students decided to linger a bit longer and actually do their studying there, he turned a blind eye to it so long as they did not try to scarf the refreshments too freely. He was running a business for profit, after all.
As in love as I was with old Victorian works and the entire milieu of the period, I generally did not have to share the space in those aisles with many other warm bodies. Writers such as Shelley, Tennyson, Shaw, Pope, and Wilde were required study for many students, but the anachronisms were not popular. No one cared about the scandal of a woman leaving her glove behind or the wild accusations behind the image of a man stealing a lock of a beautiful young woman's hair anymore. These older men with their witty turns of phrase and clever imaginations had filled my mind with passion and honour as much as classical writing and rich vocabularies. They had been the Bright Young Things of their era, and I delighted in the works of Rossetti, Ruskin, and other artists who had been as talented with their words as they were with brushes and chisels.
This day I was searching for Lord Byron and the empurpled breath of darkness. Most of the early collections of his works had been censored or edited savagely and many more modern publishers had not taken the time to understand there were unexpurgated versions of their sanitised editions. I once coveted an 1884 edition of his 'Poems and Dramas', encased in an embossed and coloured cover, dark with age and yellowed pages still embracing the tiny, delicate type. The book acquitted its position by asserting it was "...compleat...pure...notated...with appropriate illustrations...and good typography." How on earth could I pass up something as delicious as that?
Moving past the other shelves, I turned the corner to the last shelf and what would be a couple of miserable chairs and a small marquetry table with a design of lilies marred by several lifetimes of mug rings and cigarette burns near a tiny barred window. But unlike my previous visits, I was not alone.
The gentleman who sat in one of the chairs could well have been my fabled Lord Byron. Dark curls fell around a pale but kindly face as he looked up from his book. For a moment I was not certain what was more startling: that he was there at all, or that he seemed out of time with everything else around him. His black velvet jacket flared a bit at the cuffs and his lapels were much wider than what was stylish now. The long, black stovepipe trousers revealed black boots beneath, and I wondered if he was an actor or some sort of role player to look so Edwardian. "Pardon me, I'm just looking for a book," I mumbled, taken aback.
"Don't mind me, I'm just reading," he smiled. The smile went all the way up into his eyes and they glowed hazel and warm. "May I ask what you're searching for?"
"Uh, well...I know where it is. I've been here before," I said, suddenly feeling very embarrassed and awkward. I could hardly breathe.
As panic raced about in my brain trying to take over my mind, I argued with myself that I was being silly. I was doing nothing wrong. I had come for a book, and I would take it, and go downstairs, and purchase it, and...
"'...Oft I have dreamed of thee whose glorious name, who knows not, knows not man's divinest, and now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame that I in feeblest accents must adore...'" he said aloud.
"What? What did you say?" I asked, dragging my thoughts away from how handsome he was as my hand found the book.
"'Childe Harold'. I believe that's Byron you're reaching for," he smiled again.
When I turned to him I somehow fell into the warm depths of those eyes. I will never forget how the coffee he left on the table filled the air with its scent, or how pleasing the conversation mixed with the dusty leather books and stillness all about us. No one interrupted our discourses and the hours flew by as we remembered anew the quips by Robbie Ross or the upstart James Abbot McNeill Whistler...
"...That's my name, too," he laughed. "Although I fear I am less an artist and more desirous of being thought a poet," James had joked.
"You truly seem more in line with the sort of man of whom John Ruskin could have approved," I replied, wondering what it was to be kissed by those lips.
His teeth were perfect behind those lips, too. "I rather doubt it! Our Professor Ruskin did not have much of a sense of humour, while I need it to live!"
"Me, too," I sighed. The man was rendering me into a puddle of warm goo. He was as dark and exciting as Byron, as clever as Wilde, and something told me deep inside that he could possibly be as heroic and noble as the imaginary Captain Mackay of my childhood fantasies.
A soft kiss caressed my forehead. "Have we lost you, Beloved?" Opening my eyes, I found my James standing over me. One of his graceful, powerful hands touched my cheek and he smiled once more, bathing me yet again in his warmth. "You appear to be daydreaming."
"No. Remembering when we met."
Even now, I can still smell the coffee, the oak shelves laden with leather-bound books, and the faint hint of dust as the setting sun warmed our faces that evening. Even now. That wonderful edition of Byron he bought me is still my favourite book.
*****
Last weekend I indulged in watching "Gothic"...even with Ken Russell's tendency to be heavy-handed, it was a glorious thing to watch once more. A dark, stormy night in a big house full of friends all determined to scare the bejeesus out of one another while madly screaming and running about is pretty much exactly what MY idea of "real fun" is, and it's how I used to spend my evenings with friends when I was younger. I've missed it.
I've been regretting no longer having a group of friends who enjoy reading to one another and playing dress-up. I HAVE friends who all enjoy that, but we don't live close enough to one another to do it.
But if I'm ever finally rich and own that huge old pile, I'm paying for all these friends to come together. We're going to tell each other frightful fantasies and pretend we're all about to die until the dawn comes.
*hugs*
Nechtan :)