I am a big believer in following synchronicities when they appear. If you see a recurring word, number, or pop culture element pay attention and investigate what it could mean. The world is full of magic and mystery if you pay attention even in our current feminist-liberal zogged out dystopia. One such symbol for me is the orange, black, and red striped pattern featured on the original bottle of Lancome's Magie Noire, a perfume endowed with occult significance on both a conceptual and personal level. Lancome saw fit to cover the box with esoteric alchemical symbols in addition to naming it "Black Magic," all things not to be taken lightly in the post-Opium world where for awhile perfumes were routinely given dangerous names with ambiguous, even negative associations--Poison, Obsession, Egoiste.
I am an unconventional Christian who was raised Southern Baptist and I am prone to slight enjoyable bouts of religious mania and paranoia based on the autistic cocoon of media and fragrances I've built around myself. In one such incident I began to believe that the numerous bottles of Thierry Mugler's Angel adorning my room, being crooked stars ergo pentagrams, were attracting satanic energy. In another I was positively hallucinating rose clouds of holocaust when I wore Frederic Malle's overrated Une Rose to watch Marian Dora's Melancholie der Engel, the most extreme act of cinematic depravity this side of legality, with two disreputable homosexuals who considered themselves libertines and gave me MDMA. The Magie Noire symbol is different because it keeps occurring, pervasively, and seems to indicate creative wormholes I should jump through to combine anachronistic elements and help others see the world in a more sensual and fluidly exciting manner.
I was on a New England vacation with one of my oldest friends. This was the week of the Kavanaugh hearings, an elemental showdown of toxic femininity and demonized masculinity, and I was in Salem, MA doing witch trial tourist stuff. Needless to say I felt nothing for the witches after enduring a year of #MeToo, that repugnant moral panic masquerading as enlightened liberal justice. One day we went to Providence and I insisted on going some twenty minutes out of the way to Chamonix Antiques, an exquisitely curated store run by Nick Rochefort of Million Dollar Extreme, the visionary surrealist rightwing comedy troupe who gave us Million Dollar Extreme Presents:World Peace, which next to Knots Landing I consider to be the highest art the medium of television has ever produced, and which was ignominiously cancelled by libtards as revenge for the results of the 2016 election.
I wasn't in the store long before I saw a set of three vintage plastic Italian nesting ashtrays in the Magie Noire pattern. I bought them along with a very perfumey-looking Polish theater poster and exchanged a few words with Nick, who was extremely friendly and had piercingly intelligent, intimidating eyes.
The significance of the Magie Noire pattern simply appearing in Nick Rochefort's store should not be underestimated. Since the left-wing cultural crackdown of the last few years intended to punish dissidents and Trump voters, I have frankly doubted my place in the world. Most of my old friends ghosted and disavowed because I was so publicly rightwing and I swore off social media for about two years, mainly in order not to get fired from my wagecuck job as the media relentlessly ran the message that Democrats should help doxx and blacklist anyone in their social or familial circles who had assisted in the ruination of Crooked Hillary. My boss was handing out safety pins. I had always simply been honest about what I thought with people I knew and suddenly it was necessary to shut up or be totally anonymous if one wanted to avoid getting doxxed by Antifa and "called out" on the Internet by repugnant, hysterical liberal beasties.
What was this appearance of Magie Noire telling me? Frankly I think it was indicating I should get back online, experiment, and put something out there representative of what I wanted to see more of in the world. My inner life is largely comprised of an obsessive fascination with perfumes, the stronger and more 1980s-styled the better, and dissident rightwing cultural takes of the kind Hillary Clinton warned about when she famously warned of the "Deplorable Alt-Right." Trump was a candidate straight out of a 1980s soap opera. His insurmountable masculine confidence and love for gaudiness and opulence made him stand out against the barren, masochistic cultural landscape of the 2010s in a big way. I loved him and openly supported him as soon as he announced he was running in 2015, to the chagrin of everyone I knew. He swept in like a Guardian Force in a Final Fantasy game to make a mockery of liberal faggotry and piousness and give the West one last gasp before we're irrevocably taken over by fertile undesirables mobilized by the Democrat Party for nefarious ends.
My concept of "perfume nationalism" comes from my idol and biggest influence, Camille Paglia, who synchronizes disparate elements from daytime soap opera to ancient Egyptian artwork to the Marquis de Sade in her individualistic, fluid vision of the history of mankind. The Right needs to reclaim opulence and aesthetics and break free from the chains and cobwebs of the limited, polarized political climate of today. While the Left suicides itself with antinatalism, Marxist inversion, transgender theory, noxious calls for the extinction of white men, and general female toxicity, we should embrace the beauty they have abandoned. Perfume is an apt symbol of rebellion because the perfume-phobic scent-free pieties of today are the direct result of liberal hatred of sensual beauty and the assertion of control through elective allergies as identity politics, the genesis of which is depicted in Todd Haynes's Safe, my favorite movie. It is always bourgeois white liberals who perform theatrical coughs when faced with strong fragrance, to assert their dominance over the space in the most needling and wimpy way possible. I want young men of the Right to discover strong 80s-style fragrances as assertions of power and identity. We have had so many years of wan aquatics and anorexic "your skin but better" Iso E Super woody nonentities; we must go around casually smelling like humidors, leather, and incense-filled cathedrals as our fathers and mothers did in the 80s with their Opium and Magie Noire and Polo and Yatagan! The deplorables literally memed Trump into the presidency and trolling libtards on the olfactory level has similar potential. Reclaim opulence and enjoy this miraculous sense they have taken from you with their specious claims to scent-free spaces IRL and dissent-free spaces online.
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