Aries 0° (March 20)

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback…

Here we go! I’m in Boston where I went to school. At B.U. I lived in Warren Towers, very on the nose, on Commonwealth Avenue the first year and somehow ended up on the 18th (top) floor of the A tower (there are A, B, and C) which is the most easterly tower…and because boys got preferential treatment, on the east side of that tower, which meant I had a view looking into the City. The sunrises were brutal but the rest was okay. I was on the “performing arts” floor for some reason (spooky) as I didn’t request it having already veered away from my drama-club high-school self, but there I was. Karen Kohlhaas, still a friend, who became a great teacher and director, was on my floor and we had fun then, and more fun in more recent years, togther. She left for NYU after freshman year.

I moved, for sophomore year to South Campus and lived in the Earth House which was filled with a combination of geology students, environmentalists, pseudo-activists (playing out a college fantasy that no longer existed in the eighties) and stoners, basically, Dead Heads, specifically. I was on my own trip. I had a single which I painted a sort of cocoa with brown trim. It was maybe seven by eleven feet in dimension. I tried to make it look cozy, first semester; then I deconstructed in second semester, hanging my box spring on the wall, sleeping low, just on the mattress, hanging all sorts of objects, and making stacked file cabinets out of milkcrates onto wich I fashioned “doors” with masses of duct tape, from cafeteria trays, which also served to hold families of objects—a toiletries tray, a stationers tray, a weed tray for rolling joints. I wore sailor pants and sweaters onto which i fashioned pins—my favorite sweater had been inherited from an older child of my parents older friends, Bobby, who was in the FBI or CIA, even, by then, some fifteen years my senior maybe, and the claim to fame of the sweater, beyond the fact that it was a rather fitted 1960s black sweater with thin gold stripes, like that of a subtly modish bumble bee, with ribbed mock turtleneck, was that it had gone to the Filmore East on Bobby to see The Doors. It had magic in it. As did everything I wore, owned or touched which was getting more and more minimal in this deconstructive process of mine. I still have this sort of minimalist morphing that that happens in my life, from time to time, being very much the opposite of a materialist (and an air sign) I need a well appointed space of few objects. It’s what we now refer to around here as “feeling atonal.” Ha!

I also took to running everywhere. I didn’t walk to class, I ran. When friends took the T to Allston or into Back Bay, I would run along the sidewalk and try to keep pace, grateful for its frequent stops, though, I remember. Now I’m writing this first day of the new astrological year from one of my favorite places on the map, a hotel that has become home away from home, and the vib here is ever so so good. I typically listen to KCRW Eclectic 24 online and throw it to my bluetooth speaker I travel with. There is something to be said about living in the modern age. Except the news today is about an automatic car killing a woman. Is this the first robot murder? Will it one day be traced back to this?

Had a wonderful meeting with a writer for the Boston Globe who, it turns out, grew up in the next town over from where I spent summers all my life. If you’re a reader of this Blague then you’ll know that I have often mused on the town of Spring Lake, New Jersey and what it meant to me…yeah, spiritually. It was the place to which I was infinitely drawn growing up, the giant gilded-age mansions that were made of wood. My new friend, the journalist, spoke of climbing up the outdoor stairs of a mansion to smoke a cigarette and look at the ocean when she was fifteen. I got it. In those empty, badland days of seventies anonymity, with these vacant monuments to the past, many of them, looming over you every day, you could, yes, just walk, not sneak (nobody watching) up some escalier to do just that. These places were inhabitied ofen, only, by Irish lace curtains and musty, dusty, a lot of velvet, furniture.

This new year is going to be pretty wild, I predict, for all of us. I will try to keep my sense of humor and it is my belief that the universe, said, cosmos, has the ultimate one.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2018 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

Pisces 29° (March 19) Monday

Stockholm Syndrome Okay so here’s where I really need to tell the people what’s happening tomorrow. And in so doing articulate it to myself I suppose, which makes me feel dizzy just thinking about. But, let’s face it, I’ve been increasingly dizzy for years. Tis true. Which is the old way of saying True dat and no more efficient a one. What I didn’t expect to happen is that I feel most comfortable now sitting down and writing into this Blague than I feel doing anything else or nothing at all. At first this Blague held me hostage and now…well…

So, I have been writing my daily Cosmic Blague now for three years. I began in 2015 on the spring equinox, beginning at 0° Aries, the first sign of the zodiac, ushering in the astrological new year. Blague is the french word for joke; and, the original idea was to muse on the ways in which this is a funny universe, both ha-ha and not always, where we all feel the joke is rather on us; and I also wanted to bring in a mystical element citing things that are logically unexplainable about experience, primarily, my personal own. I have surely had my fair share of run-ins with the cosmos on that score. And, whether writing books or material to perform as Starsky + Cox on stage, I’ve always strived to mix the comic with the cosmic, since the world of metaphysics and esotericsm was my ironical ballywick. I say ironical because writing and performing comedy was what I worked at magazines or waited tables through my twenties to afford. Writing ultimately paid the bills; while what began emerging in me was something else, something different if not deeper. I was like an underage new ager. I was a myth head, which is better than the alternative. Like most adolescent witches, I scoured the local libraries for anything on the subject and for spells. I did incantations to Dionysus in the attic of a summer house wearing a toga-type thing I made out of old curtains; at seventeen I began reading some fairly esoteric materials. I studed the myth of the magi. I frequented good-vibe arcane bookshops (how I miss those) and knew which darker spots to eschew. I had met some sages and received transmissions and had “transformational experiences” whereby I experienced superhuman strength and capabilities; something opened up in me that, I realize, had opened up in my immediate ancestors, and so on, the Celtic side of my family being, well, what I used to call spooky in the extreme, but what I have grown to welcome as a gift. And when you have a gift, you see, you must give it away; that is one of the great paradoxes of life; and paradoxes, akin to irony, which is a cousin to the comedic, is an expression, I believe of the inherent humor in the universe and so it’s why I wanted to make this the subject of a Cosmic Blague. But I was saying…

Year one of my Blague. Should I then reiterate the above….?

So the Cosmic Blague is back.  So I set out three years ago to mine and muse upon the workings of this, our funny universe, it’s inexplicable, mystical, metaphysical workings that so often hurl metaphorical pies in our faces, the comic and the cosmic inextricably linked. It wasn’t always easy, and year one I used training wheels—I mooned on the “Sabian Symbols” that mark each degree of the zodiac and day of the year, using that as a spring board to find the funny truth outside and in. Years two and three the training wheels were off, and it became more and more personal, and I realized I had this platform for exploring ideas, which might make their way into books or conversations or consultations with clients; and it also severed as an incubator for creative concepts and would-be projects, 99% of which will never see the light of day. Still you can’t steal them because they are my IP. Some days I wrote shopping lists but the important thing was to show up. The practice of dedicated writing of this nature has its own alchemy that takes over, asserting its necessity. Anyway, I thought to mark this milestone as I embark on year four; and I wanted also to say that I’ll be more mindful of sharing thoughts and feels, comic and cosmic, with you all more consistently. Our disillusionment with social media, its algorithms, and the world socieity now, in general, can lead us to detach, but I think that just might be an insidious plot. So I’ve decided to be more connected than ever….

I’m fucking crap at being “live”.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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Pisces 28° (March 18) Sunday

Let me put it down. While it occurs to me. A jumble of thoughts and typings up on remaining bits on paper on my desk and on the walls would be a fitting form for this entry today. Tomorrow I will set forth a new intention and the day after that will begin the fourth year of my writing this Blague and I already wish not to narrate, today. I will tweet on QC account my aphorisms and commentary on things occuring. How my father told me late in life, when I was well into my thirties, that his name wasn’t really James but Vincenzo. I said what about your social security—he said I have two. My uncle my godfather was a godfather who got presidential-pardoned by Ford. I wish we had a strong enough mafia to take out the circus peanut. I’m excited and a little challenged being out, now, in society. None of the clothes I really want to wear fit—one must resist the urge to shop-spree as a reward for losing weight—and I’m not at my thinnest. Oh well. I don’t really care which is unlike me. It has also not been like me to let my hair grow this long but it feels good to be older and free. Boston for a few days, interaction with others day one, then a solo day day two to just space out and walk around—though it’s still meant to be cold, or I should say: it’s meant to still be cold.

I do want to read O Lost or whatever Look Homeward, Angel was before the editing. Good movie about Thomas Wolfe and Max Perkins that didn’t see the light of day is on one of the premium movie channels. Genius. I feel longing. And as I tell clients that’s a good thing. It’s very Cancerian. Little wonder Penny Arcade titled her show Longing Lasts Longer, she’s a Moonchild. Longing is cardinal-water (directed emotion) and it is the thing by which we reach out to that which we desire—cue Cinderella singing whatever—it’s a bit of a paradoxical thing. Not the cardinal-fire of Aries, the previous cardinal sign, with it’s point spear. Cardinal-water longing reaches out like a spear but it has a receptor at the end. Sceptre. Have to look up the word and check it’s etymology. Notes from my wall on what sorts of things might be of interest, social-media-wise. I can incorporate my Afterglow shout-outs because it would give the Blague location. I am also supposed to write a form letter to other universities and colleges. I like also to talk about what astrology book I might be reading. And some aphorisms from our work and others.

Remember this isn’t supposed to make that much sense to you. As I wing my way through anything that might be relevant to my ritualizing making one of the yearly breaks. I have to say the equinoxes are much more powerful for me than the solstices, but each, in their way signals a shift. Ironicially the solstices seem more of a point between experience, even though they are the polarity of dark and light and the equinoxes are more lin in-door and out-door side by side. For me the equinoxes tend to mark a time when I clean slate and start again. The start of the zodiac begins with the equinox. And we just had a new Pisces Moon to boot. That really signals deep change. Because we are at the end of the zodiacal cycle, the hope is that we all spiral up a notch. That is to say that we don’t repeat the patterns of last year but learn our lesson and ease on up the cosmic slinky personifying progress whatever that means for you. Pisces is non-material existence which I will put into a word Love. It’s about trying a new paradigm and leading with love…and with sacrifice. You must be willing to let go—via Neptune, dissolution is the Piscean process—in order to ascend.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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Pisces 27° (March 17)

I used to be really good with a sort of energy work in my younger days. That was a sentence that appeared in yesterday’s Blague and, instead of following that tangent, feeling it might be big, I left it as a single paragraph….

St. Patrick’s Day was fun when I was a kid, in New Jersey, because, having parents who were the opposite of the helicopter sort, what would you call them?, more like zeppelins drifting off in their own directions, unawares, and I would skip school and take a bus, maybe, or a train, though that doesn’t sound right, to NYC, to get drunk. That was pretty much the extent of it. Nobody watching, nobody cared. Me in a lined windbreaker, prematurely garbed for spring, ordering beer after beer, day drinking at fifteen, sixteen; in those days they never “proofed” you in NYC; we didn’t say carded, or as we say in New England, cahded, we said “proofed.” I can still picture one bartender like from a movie wearing his white shirt, sleeves rolled up, black pants and suspenders, grey hair, pouring beer after beer in his bar that began with Mc, making bank as fast he could, not stopping to asking who was underage. In 1980 in NYC there was no under age. I suppose I would have told my parents, ahd they ventured to ask, that I went to see the parade. But I’m sure they didn’t know I wasn’t in school the whole day. They might be curious why I’m home from school at nine o’clock, shit faced at that time. I remember making a phone call to someone from, yes, my private phoneline in my bedroom—what, you think I was raised by wolves? (I was in many ways which is why they compensated with perks like my own private number—unlisted, thank you.)

…. I used to be really good with a sort of energy work in my younger days. Before we talked about such things, or I knew of something called Reiki or whatever, when I was still a teenager, or maybe twenty, I became aware of a certain ability I had with my hands. No I know why I wanted to write about this: I sort of forgot the fact—that this was part of “my thing”. I keep stepping away from writing about this I’m not sure why. The visual that comes up when I alight on the topic is of being in Stella’s studio apartment on Beacon Street, our senior year, back from our study abroad in France, and “doing stuff” with my hands. Now, I’m not talking about sexually, only, but that was an interesting part of it: to discover that I could, how shall we say, affect an outcome without actually touching, but rather “touching the energy” surrounding the body. It sounds hokey I know but I didn’t know that “energy work” was a thing so I thought it was only me who had this particular talent. Anyway I do remember doing this to people if they had a bad back or they injured themselves or just felt a little stressed or nutsy, I would just sort of …I dunno…work their aura? Or something like that. Meanwhile I’m not the one who sees auras in the family. Oh no she didn’t. I hate myself for that last sentence. Okay now I understand why I didn’t write about this—it was because of its boudoir elements; and I am, despite heaping evidence to the contrary, quite the prude.

I chalk up everything woo-woo about me to being a Celt. Without proof, I know that it’s that blood line which has given me any power of this kind. And I’m at the place in my life now where I really want to cultivate it. At first I dismissed it, then I accepted it rather dispassionately, not wanting to “bill” myself as some kind of psychic or intuitve of any kind; and now suddenly I find myself wanting to nurture this side of myself and really find so many creative and intellectual ways to explore this pretty wide range of, lets just call it esotericism, in its myraid forms, and to let my interest in astrology and counseling and theater and art and design and study and discourse and body and mind and spirit all come together more cohesively now. Just like all the once-considered scattered bits of myself, what might have been labelled dilletanteish (by others and even myself) pursuits that seemed to split me—well those are now each of them pretty much risen enough on their own accord to come together, like building blocks of my being, moving forward.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. I bought this book in Ireland twenty years ago. It gets one star, which unstuck itself and fell from the ceiling.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2018 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

Pisces 26° (March 16)

I’m sad Stephen Hawking has left us; but I do need to admit something: He did end up making me feel paranoid much of the time. It’s one thing that he was an atheist who believed this was it—but he also said robots would take over the world. I don’t know about robots but I will say that tehcnology in the form of cyber warfare is of the same il. And with all the WH chaos—I dunno it’s all a bit too doomsday for me.

I used to be really good with a sort of energy work in my younger days.

My heart aches when I think about certain characters in books or films. For some reason the family of siblings in Howard’s End does that to me. It’s what’s not being spoken about their past, really, before the current circumstance presents. They have no parents and are far apart in age. Such a story there. Anyway, à propos of nothing. But, I dare say, at this point in my writing this Blague, having done major catch-up, it feels natural to coast and allow thoughts to flow. I might have said this already but, I was telling Stella last night: One goes into the endeavor of producing more than a fair amount of copy, the notion being that it must begin in the brain and make it down to typing fingers, which, of course is true; however, what one comes to discover is that the writing, the actual doing of the thing, is what pulls the thoughts down, and not just in one simple way; no, the content can be created (now that I’ve passed the extent of a retelling here) where, let’s say now we enter territories we’ve not entered before in musing upon the notion of this, that or anything; and I only got here but sitting down and starting to type. So there’s that way. Then, one may find themselves writing the next word being drawn by the rhythm of the words on (we can’t say paper anymore, unless paper itself becomes a metaphorical term) a white field on a computer screen; but it’s typically not just purely rhythm. No, the rhythm is nine times out of ten the result of some sort of poetry at work, a way to catch our metaphorical eye, our metaphysical fancy. The phone flashes: “On way back now”. I struggle to keep the thought or wonder if I’ve finished it. I suppose it falls under the heading of metaliterature or stream of consciousness or both, I dunno. But I can tell you this, that there are fewer sensations so relaxing as writing in this “mode” just as nothing can be more tension making or near seizure inducing as a bottled up process of writing whereby one feels the blocked energy from brain, back of the head, down neck and shoulders, down and out arms, hands and fingertips.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2018 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

Pisces 25° (March 15)

Note to Self: Begin by Finding that list of things that would take up your whole day. (You see I have a word doc somewhere where I’ve listed all the self-helpy things you’re supposed to do each day, like drink eight glasses of water) There may be things to add to them like deleting Spam. This could constitute today’s Blague if nothing else. That was the now slightly edited note I made for myself for this day a few days ago—remember I do write more than one of these at a time, because some ideas don’t belong together so I assign them to another day, or rather suggest them to myself, or one of my many selves, who may or may not want to write about what was suggested. In this way, it’s more of a collage endeavor than a linear one. Some days I’m more collagist than others. Some, needing to following one long flowing line. Sometimes a combination of both.

This was actually another note to myself (I didn’t say there wasn’t more!): Imagine all day that you are in the new astrological year and pinpoint what needs to be done, daily, at what time. Oh I see what’s happening here. In the enormity of details much of my new routine, this coming astrological year, starting in less than a week, I need to have a clear understanding of the daily chores that now constitute each day; and I must figure out the “units of time” to borrow an idea from About a Boy, that I must lend to each of the chores that must be executed, some every day, some on certain days, in order to hit all (self-imposed) marks in this new, improved, efficient, self-actualized (likely heading for a nervous breakdown—I’m just kidding) new turn around the astrological wheel beginning on Tuesday.You will next go back to the Calypso stories and play editor and document what might or might now work for the OPS. You will be objective in doing this. Some things won’t work for the show but will string into something written perhaps. You will be in charge of knowing the difference. You will then go back to October 6 of this year and read through all those ideas for the same purpose. I think it will inspire you to write more Blagues. You will continue to do this even after March 21. Yes sir, will do. And thanks for the gentle way you are presenting this to me. I seem to recall you sitting around a fire with the power out during a blizzard when you “suggested” this all to me.

Oh, wait, what? There’s more? (I go on to say): It will be an interesting week this week. I want to remind you as well that besides clients and putting together a schedule for preparing next year’s Haute Astrology books that you have to schedule outreach for Starsky + Cox and outreach for Afterglow at the same time. These are on both the big To-Do list and the Afterglow to-do list which you so wisely put together a few years ago. This list this year requires social media, too, in the process. What also needs to go into the schedule is a plan for going through all the stuff in the basement and attic to sell, give or throw. Going through stuff up top or down below will also provide you with some visuals for social media. This is why we should start in the offices.

I wonder if writing can be considered “meta” if you keep slicing into it at various, not just one present, time. Multi meta? Did I just invent a new newthing. I thing I did just then invent a new word, at least: newthing? It’s somewhere between nothing and something.

This day is my mother’s birthday. She was deeply flawed and yet still the best. Anyone who met would tell you the same. She could change your way of thinking for life in just the first moments of meeting her. She was every friend, love, kid or colleague I have introduced her to’s favorite Everything. And this is by no means an exaggeration. She was instantly loved by All.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2018 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

Pisces 24° (March 14)

Yesterday ’twas a dark day weith a nor’Easter blowing knocking out the power most of the day. Was a first time experiencing outage in this house which meant everything was out. No water, let alone heat. Based on yesterday’s experience, I wouldn’t have made a great pioneer. The blizzard really hit in the morning and stayed that way. Now, it wasn’t my computer or devices I missed, leaving them to power back up—by the way as I’m writing this the power is out again and I am racing against battery power (but I’m feeling a bit more pioneering)—the first thing I realized is that I suffer from a very serious television addiction. Not to say that I am inclined to watch television during the day, typically, unless in some kind of funk; but without the so-called mod cons (or an unantiquated power grid not to mentionan overall infrastructure) my natural inclination is to crawl under multi-layers of “covers” and zone out in front of the box for comfort and, well, really as a distraction to pass the time. Everything gets shut off here when the power goes out, not just the heat, but any running water as well. I was in complete denial just staring at the shallow black box in quiet desperation. In the evening the power came back on and I was elated. We had heat that night. And the next day, bam, it was out again. I wonder if they force shutdowns to work on the problem but can turn on again when night falls. Probably not. But that was my suspicion.

The next day I was completely adjusted to the notion of melting snow for flushing toilets and I had a fire going around the clock, inspiring me to wonder if I had the capability (or cookware) to rustle up some vittles over it. We had a fire ranging all day. I was almost sad when the power came back on although I was glad not to have to flush with melted snow water.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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Pisces 23° (March 13)

As I was writing, two Blagues ago, I got the feeling it had to be a two parter. And the last sentence I said on the subject was: Where I really channeled my love of figurines, shall we say, was in drawing; and specifically in my rendering of the Flintstones.

Since playing with actual dolls caused so much shame and guilt and shame you see, compounded by general statements made by my father aloud about me even as I’m, hello right there—comments like “he’s really round-shouldered isn’t he”. This particular one stands out because I remember feeling its effects almost physical. Certainly felt it emotionally. In recent years I’ve linked posture issues and even shoulder problems with manifesting this malignancy heaped upon me by manipulating my own body, subconsciously, never feeling in my skin, but that I had to compensate through, yeah some kind of Marcel Marceau manipulation of myself to “appear” differently than I am. Appearing is a very Libran word, and I’m a classic conceptual sort of kook.

Anyway I digress…

Plopped in front of the electronic baby sitter I saw the same TV shows day in and day out from the moment I arrived home from school through to, and ultimately mostly through, dinner, into primetime, every night from the time I’ve been alive until, I’m gonna say, the upper reaches of high-school where I did manage to bust out a social life. I was fun! But back into those tender years, and I mean really tender, like four years old: I started to draw the Flintsones characters and ultimately took things, if not completely three dimensional, then two-plus, by then cutting all the characters out, which I would draw next to each other, to get the sizing right, and I would thicken a bit the outside lines, for ease—a clever trick that came too late—and then cut them all out. And then draw their backs, which was one of the funner parts because it required thinking. I made houses and chairs, with tabs, that I could fold down and fasten with tape so they’d stand up, onto scenic surfaces better known as paper plates or interestingly shaped cartons, that provided a field which provided me literal platforms for creative expression.

My Flintstones were really good, too. They were kind of perfect. And I became a connoisseur of the evolving styles, from the oldest episodes to the newer ones, during the show’s run, in the articulation of the characters and I tended to go for the most recent looks, though I suspect, now, I might have patterned my little figures on the older ones. But if I were to draw you a Flintstone today it would recall the latter years of the original primetime run of the series. Anway, they were my first dolls of my own. I also made a sort of cartoon Lost and Space series, another afterschool series that ran for eons in syndication. But my dollish lust was ultimately more satisfied by Major Matt Mason. Oh my god I loved Major Matt Mason. He was an astraunaut and his rides and props were amazing. I had both the red space rover and the clear blue bubble on wheels that it could two, the bubble itself being what rolled, wherein a seat for Matt, as the result of amazing technology (lol) would stay upright within the rolling bubble. The door the the bubble was a panel that slid up so that Matt could slide in. Major Matt Mason was rubber with wires inside which would lose their pluck, resulting in flopping limbs.

Later I collected mostly all of the Johnny West series which I gave someone to sell……how strange, this never happens, but I hear a call up to my lair from a voice not Stellas and up the stairs comes our friend and associate Brad. Hi Brad….twenty two hours pass, and I’m back, wondering did I finish this Blague or is there more to say…on Ebay, which they did. It fetched something, but not a lot. I could have waited. But I had carted the collection around from house to house over the decades and it was time to let go. When the letting go of things you think will hurt you doesn’t so much, it makes it easier to let other things go. Anyway, once I finished playing with dolls, I took up playing with personages. Illustrated, first, with my obsession with pantheons and mythology because, really, I took to drawing the various gods and goddesses whom I loved. Then the Justine League or theater groups or “schools” of artists, or movements, to some degree, royal families, or literary families or any kind of extended family.And I’m really into pantheons in my own life, too, whether it was feeling part of a movement myself or in the “characters” that I write about (even the astrological ones) or the “family of performers” I present and avec whom I commune.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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Pisces 22° (March 12)

Today didn’t include my most shining moments. In anticipation of the blizzard that came to be I was a bit lax in my understanding of self-care. And to be fair it had been another lonely night without sleep, staying up, as I often do when Stella is away, all the night long watching movies. The only positive thing I can say about that is: they play way better movies overnight when supposedly everyone is asleep. Which doesn’t quite make sense. Maybe the better movies are on overnight because so many people like me don’t sleep but instead lie awake anesthetizing their pain injecting the flickering light into their eyeballs held open in some kind of Clockwork Orange type fashion. I do like that film. Though I’m not a big fan of the director, a Leo man like so many. We saw a wonderful exhibit on Kubrick a few years back at Los Angeles museum…LACA? Anyway, the Leo (a sign that has many a dictator associated with it) director had made a film about the Leo tyrrant emporer Napoleon which never saw the light of day but which generated so much art work and writing in the creation that it filled rooms at a museum. It was wonderful.

Except that I almost burned the house down.

The problem with staying up all night is that you can easily fall alseep without warning. And you might fall asleep after putting a chicken in the oven on 500° for what’s meant to be forty-five minutes, not an hour, which will result in a house full of smoke and yet, strange, the smoke alarms didn’t go off; and they always normally do, much to ones chagrin, every single time I cook chicken in that manner. Anyway, I shot up and the house was full of smoke and of course, right at that moment, Stella returned from Boston, earlier than I had expected, and I seemed, and rightly so, in an instant to be the kind of person you just can’t leave alone without some kind of mini-disaster happening. In this case it could have been a lot more than mini and now it becomes a serious cautionary tale. I feel like the cosmos only gives us so many free passes in life; it gives us plenty, but these are finite, I sense.

I can feel myself really trying to change the paradigm. The breakthroughs come but they always leave us hard work to do in their wake. Which is an apt term since we are more woke about (fill in the blank) after a major breakthrough which not only presents more work as I say, that’s the head down power through part of it all, but also a portal into the achieving of the concept this is comprised by the hard work and vice versa. It’s like you have to have a hook, on which to hang everything involved in any particular venture; and you surely have to kiss a lot of frogs. But you can’t just sell any idea, you have to also find a way to start achieving it and to have it ever the more flesh out as to be able to sell it. People like to buy very fleshed out ideas. We provide an experience, this has to be front-loaded not just as a philosophy but as a practice. As they say, no manure, no magic.

Anyway, let’s just say it ended weirdly, this day.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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Pisces 21° (March 11)

There has to be a real switcheroo right now. Things will be coming to a head. And if John Bolton gets anywhere near decision making things will really go pear-shaped or, perish the thought (and everything else) mushroom shaped. I feel that we are nationally hitting a rock bottom. The country is a sick addict and it must enter recover. Of course we must first stage an intervention. This is what I think we should call what used to be known as a protest. We need to tell our fellow citizens that the country is powerless over its addiction to sex and greed and rage and bullying as personified by the circus peanut in chief. I’ll come back to this later I don’t want it to color my whole Blague entry.

I was speaking the other day about learning later in life how much my father prejudged and hated me for not being all boy. And doing it so, so early in my life. It actually made me wonder (as I saw a documentary on this recently) whether there might have been some kind of question as to my gender, or something, at birth. I remember my earliest Halloween costume was “football players” which now seems like an overprotestation, speaking of protests. I see a lot of my father in the circus peanut; and of course my evil, estranged sibling is born on the same day as it.

I loved dolls as a very small child. Five years her senior, the fact my sister had an array of Barbies and Liddle Kiddles, I remember getting into them when I was home all day. That is to say pre-school. And I started pre-school actually at the age of three, so we are talking very early memories of me. There was some kind of hair dye thing for her blond Barbies. Now let’s not get started on the fact that this must have been a toxic substance with which I was left alone, age three, in my room. But I do remember dipping her dolls hair in different dye mixtures; moreover I remember her violent reaction to my doing so upon my return from school. I totally got where she was coming from. But get over it. I’m three and I’m left alone for hours by an extremely checked out Pisces mother whose credits include falling asleep with the gas burner on, starting a kitchen fire; and leaving both my sister and me in a car, at the supermarket, in neutral instead of park, so we rolled backward into a concrete block in which a street light was lodged. Ah memories.

Anyway I remember being made to feel a great deal of shame about the doll thing from my father which gave license to my sister to create whole rallies around making me feel like I was a freak by the time I was four. But, I suppose this is a testament to my resilience—and this is something that only occured to me for the first time in my entire life—I channeled my doll envy into something creative. First of all I don’t think the doll thing for me was about loving girly things per se. It was the fact that they only dolls we had were female. Really it was just about playing with something that was a human replicant. This was far more interesting to me than playing with objects. The only other toy, up to this point, I obsessed on were toy soldiers—I had this amazing United Nations forces set up of soldiers, in varying positions, some shooting rifles while kneeling of course (that’s a classic) that came in a package with this great U.N. white army truck. And there was cool military paraphenalia like plastic army bags and utlitiy belts you could put on the soldiers before loading them into the white metal truck that had a canvas U.N. blue canopy on the top. That was rad….but I digress…..

Where I really channeled my love of figurines, shall we say, was in drawing; and specifically in my rendering of the Flintstones.

This is becoming a two parter. So tune into the next Blague on the subject which will be March 13ths entry. You see I already have some words written into the one following this one because, well, let’s just say I’m floating between days here. (I did mention that I tend to write a few paragraphs at a time within entries….well I also sometimes write a few entries at once and I didn’t expect this to be a two-parter, anway)…

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2018 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox