EXTRAIT de PARFUM:
Honey Black

Sillage,

of musk blackberry pine box, of Tabac Blond, stream left behind a boat. Heavy and immensely masculine.
New Orleans was characterized by a delicately composed warm rose honey, and hot dripping promiscuous jazz near the Basin St. Station at 501.
Formerly the New Orleans terminal company.
He was known to me as at least a silver
even though, in his mind he was brass and cod, deformed, and never at a high enough position to wear Panama straw.
Improvisation is Honey Black, Nola Brass Band funerals were covered in it. Peau D’Espagne, so dry, so dusty.
Resinous, extremely striking composition to wear and to grow up with.
Honey Bee evaporated milk with charisma and common love for the Jelly Roll and his Red Hot Peppers in their navy suits.
I picked up a bar of Proctor and Gamble Ivory Soap because I heard that the powder flakes could be used to make ‘homemade snow’ for jerry-built Christmas decorations.
I love Christmas.
The skin scent, the rouge, the marzipan imitations of fruits and vegetables, and the snow…

Sillage,
Nectar of two peaches.
It is of driest smoke.
Soft brown leaves with a sensitive crinkling settle in the cafe, where there is served Tuscany soup and Cappuccino.
Somebody is wearing something much more exotic and it makes me feel slightly inferior, but I remember my inspiration was taken from a man.
A very abstract balsamic male figure, and I feel better about myself.
Improvised flower water, tobacco, free of fire for the most part, imbibed through pipe not papers.
Leather, carnation, exaggerated decant, not for the faint of heart.
Lime blossom, vetiver, ylang-ylang.
There’s a little bit left in the furs she’s buried in.
It smells a little bit like blood with lemons.
Offensive and rewarding.
Imperial and grown up.
It mellows but doesn’t change.

The Hawksbill tortoise shell, mother of pearl lacquer with peonies, inkwell style or snuffbox links the bottle to its Turkish sugar orange.

Extrait de Parfum,
intimate, close to the body, not to be confused with another woman.

A true perfume is served on a black velvet strip, like a cut of meat with pears, you need several napkins, and warms with the skin.
It is a frame of mind in its gasoline accord and is never forgotten.

I’m speechless.
How can something so pearly white be so mischievous?
I want to sit in this place where this person has been.
We both have freckles in between the breasts and different stories of Guerlain.
Mine’s a ritual. Time spent alone.
Powder, sophisticated, murky, testing the patience and keeping its gospel.

It reminds me of a dream I had…
Like Mitsouko, same year, but better.
I knew from the beginning how fun it could be.
Improvisation is Honey Black ever-spreading agricultural weeds.
New Orleans speaks with its bright orange and its box theatre accomplishment.
Louisiana steamboat, Sillage, Alabama, the coppery froth stream left behind its back.

The American sweet bread, dulled black stage of Carnegie Hall,
3,671 seats in the auditorium, were lined with Breadseed Poppies.
And the whole interior smelled of wax.

He was known to me as at least a silver,
even though, in his mind he was brass and cod,
deformed, and never at a high enough position to wear an Extrait.

He just warmed olive oil and hay in his hands to wear on the back of his neck,
and so did I because it reminded me of him.
It is not a nicotine patch, it is not a substitute.
It is tobacco strawberry pine box,
hazy, deformed with base notes from sweaty Chicago and heady Alabama,
stream left behind a boat.

I love the Nola Obits, such exquisite pieces of literature.
But mostly I love the smell of the newspapers.
Improvisation is Honey Black –
Butter, leather, nausea, carnation,
not for the faint of heart.
Vaults decorated with thousands of burnt pink flowers in Saint Louis Cemetery II on All Saints Day.

There’s a little bit left in the straw he’s buried in.
A little bit like blood with lemons.

It mellows but it doesn’t change.

Natachee Momaday Gray has taken on the Alias of Tatja Lucía as an homage to her many personas of fluid backgrounds. A name that fits all of who she is as an artist and poet. A Santa Fe native and Actriz Indígena, her work focuses on the melding of art and myth, ancestry and nostalgia, food and prayer, glamour, frivolity and time. A believer in the saying “the higher the heel, the closer to God,” she is intent on composing a unique and charming color to paint her world.