And Frustration is what we need my friend.
By the Vanilla I remain.
A perfume is a mixture. A mixture like miscellanea that clash between words and materials to explain just a little, without explaining too much, the why of a perfume. Frustration.
During a summer a few years ago, while walking on the Ramblas in Barcelona, I listened to a song by Rare Bird, an English band of progressive rock from the 70s. The song was called Sympathy, and the chorus was "and sympathy is what you need my friend, and sympathy is what you need my friend cause there's not enough love to go 'round, No, there's not enough love to go 'round.. .". And there, suddenly, with the richness of a whole psychoanalytical past (according to Lacan), this same past which sometimes times my strength on others or sometimes my great weakness on myself, there emerged from the refrain a word stronger than sympathy. It planted its black flag of melancholy in the heart of my mind, and issued forthwith a word more correct, more vast, more true, more sincere, more useful since forged in the experience of life: FRUSTRATION. And then to sing again in my head the substituted chorus "...And frustration is what you need my friend, and frustration is what you need my friend."
Frustration, the eldest daughter of renunciation and the sister of perfume, since perfume proceeds like frustration in the game of love.
It gives by taking up, a fullness never satisfied, an enjoyment started but never achieved, an infinite movement of desire without completion, without apotheosis, an instillation that excites, seduces, lulls, dominates and annoys like a Bolero by Ravel. Frustration.
