I’m a November baby; a week of unseasonably cool, rainy weather doesn’t send me to the streets shouting “apocalypse!” It finds me nodding over my incense collection in an XXL black hoodie sweatshirt and china-doll flats, sipping a cup of English Breakfast and glowing inwardly with the sense that all augurs well or at least okay. If I squint into the candles, I can almost see the unreal neon flare of wet leaves against black branches and a slate-gray sky on a blustery day not too far off from this one. Time flies when you keep track by menstrual cycles and ex-boyfriends.
It’s a Black Cashmere day in August, and it will not go unmarked or uncelebrated. Cedar for the functional gravity of nostalgia, sandalwood for its gentle voice and calm presence of mind. The musty honeyed bite of broom for packing into old wounds while they heal in their own time and dry, wry patchouli for its antiseptic properties. Cinnamon to cure sluggish blood with its warm, spicy bait, cumin to remind us that we are all human and sweat and bleed and cry, saffron to tie it all together in the warm orangey light of necessary sensuality. And that swinging censer of frankincense and myrrh carried by an invisible hand, offering the whole experience up to a higher order.
If you want to know where to find all of the girls today, they’ll be shut up in their towers practicing witchy stuff and drinking dark, bitter beer until further notice or the rain stops. It’s one of those days.
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