desiccated wing of the pelvis.
Lou Florez, reader and rootworker, resting after his sugar skull workshop.
In which we make a novena to Santisima Muerte--patron saint, in Mexico, of love and death. She is different then your average saint, Lou tells us. She is the dead, who are also your ancestors. Who loved you fiercely and want you to have what you want.
Yesterday and today is the Feast Day of St. Rita, the patron saint of Sicily. La Santa de los impossibiles. She had a head wound the smelled terribly and no one could approach her. Said to be stigmata from the Crow of Thorns. Until the day she died, when it emitted the scent of roses. She cannot insulate you from harm or evil, but she can keep you from feeling separate from the love of God.
Neesie and Gabriel and I went in search of arancini, in observance of the day. It was unrequited, but we steeped ourselves at Trieste. Our separate loves for the Lo Coco's will have to wait.
And from B. Kapil:
"when the former person moves on with a version of the artist writer we are also still in longing to fully be. This is a trope and you must not, though it is painful beyond words, take it personally." She also asks me about what saffron holds for me.
In this blog post, I cannot get this peach-orange highlighting to go away. (Or the white highlighting either--what is digital and tidy begins to resemble my more tangible, 3-rng binder scrapbook. So, I leave it. be.)"The lyrics of Donovan's 1966 song, Mellow Yellow repeat the line, "I'm just mad about Saffron." is all I can say, today about my need for a new path through my color-cousin. And Wikipedia helped me on that. Because the internet is a kind of altar.
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