Aquarius 28° (February 17)

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 27° (February 16)

All is and should be poetry. That’s the two-way channel, the one I prescribe clients open, while, for many reasons, I must practice what I preach. If not for the preaching, I think that my system sensitivity needs to be considered and better cared for. And anyway it’s time; so what to do but keep that foremost in my frontal lobe. Okay, all is poetry and “all is copy” as said Nora Ephron. I’m awake sometimes at 4:30 attesting to the fact.

Creatively on the workfront today I am considering the enitrety of my arts and entertainment enterprise, which is run non-profit, and what it might achieve. We have accomplished x, y, z and we now seek to become more self-activated, through partnerships, in proliferating works created at festival in Provincetown, through grants from the New England Foundation for the Arts and the Massachusetts Cultural Council, one of which is a touring grant whereby we will produce work in combined academic, museum and theatrical venues; and one shall fund the more portable Glow, which debuted at the American Repertory Theater, in Cambridge, in summer 2017; and is “a moveable festival” we hope to bring to venues around New England.

I feel this is the only part of the country I could live. I want to say I could live in California, somewhere too, but, before long, I get strung out, stretched too thin, there. Though meanwhile it is bliss. I’d like to experience Northern California. Only thing is I don’t like driving over bridges. I think it’s a vertigo thing. I used not to be able to stand up in balconies as a kid. I get all turned upside down. Seriously, my gyroscope goes completely off and I can’t feel steady; so until I do I will either not visit places, find away around, or hire a chauffeur. See…I was talking in the previous Blague about how, as a writer, a cook and a cleaner would come in handy (but then again no—not for me—as cleaning and cooking are therapy for me that perfectly counter sitting at a computer. But if I lived alone and all that I would first hire a live in chauffeur, because they can do other things too.

I’m feeling highly sensual that is for certain. I’m ready to begin putting the pieces together on this life collage. I really am interested in starting and staying small with the design projects. And be a bit more sweeping when it comes to the non-profit world. More the architect. Must keep it all very simple. Budget-wise as well.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 26° (February 15)

Ran to the computer to start this new Blague and the idea left me as I was confronted by something social media still on my screen. Proof that ideas do indeed go right out of ones head. Will it return we shall see. To be honest I couldn’t tell you if it does (or had) depending on what time zone I’m in. Any-wig, I’ve got to be me. Who that is I’m not quite sure. I couldn’t compete with the jocks in high school and now they’ve been replaced in my life with a large part of the gay male population. Either way I feel potentially bullied.

Today we decided at the very last to go out and grab a pizza at this place everyone goes to but we had never tried, despite living around here for the last twenty years. And it was just okay. It could have been delicious but the crust was too burned. And yet, get this, there brand and signage says things like: We cook our crusts well done and so forth. They seem to fancy themselves New Haven style. I really don’t know enough of what that means to criticize them or not. My accomplishments are such that I am still lagging behind and chasing clocks; but on this day I had to stop the madness and relax. And so we did. These past several weeks being the most paradoxical of my life.

I’ve had my debauches and my brushes with divinity, and I dare say they have oft come wrapped together. I am, as I say, acutely aware of the workings of my body while those of my soul go unpronounced. I like when words find me. Beyond what is labelled “deep work” it is simply shutting oneself away, an element of that work, that is the only key, really. The rest is affectation. Sacred space. There is nothing like it for productivity. There are writer billionaires for whom waking up and shuffling into such a sacred space is easy, as every other manner of life is taken care of. It must be difficult if not lonely. The rest of us must create it. Luxury may be living within your means, but it doesn’t mean not prioritizing having ones house cleaned and meals prepared. That said I enjoy cleaning my house, it clears my mind. And really, whose food would I rather eat than my own, besides Stella’s easy or Pascale’s elaborate fare.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 25° (February 14) 129

When I was a senior in college I had pretty much already ammassed all the necessary credits to be a double major in English and in French. Boy oh boy do I need to sharpen those latter skills. Anyway, I was thus free to take a lot of graduate level (600) courses. I took one called Atonality and Abstraction which focussed on four characters—composers Webern and Schoenberg and the aritsts Kandinsky and Mondrian. What the course description didn’t say was that the professor, whom I now imagine was a lesbian in her late sixties. I just did a google search and found her by typing int he name of her class. Her name is Roye E. Wates and she is/was an amazing character. She is a professor of music. Whatever possessed me to take the class I can’t tell you. But what the class catalogue didn’t say was that the connective tissue between these four artistes was that they were all Theosophists. I will get into that subject, no doubt, in ensuing Blagues.

It’s just that I wanted my brain to keep evolving and though I don’t regret anything about my life I do think that I would benefit from higher learning. I just need to figure out how. There are simple things which come to mind that could help. Becoming more warrior like. Aries takes a warrior approach to life, entering into forms of training, if even of his own devising, that will keep him on the straight and narrow toward goals. He has difficulty when goals shift; being so rigid can make one easily broken. Anyway…I was thinking earlier about the approach to these chapter headers which will serve, in draft form, for next years H.A. books; but can also be a template for the next big book—you will hopefully soon learn what that is. Anyway all is poetry and that is kind of the point.

I think back to my salad days in Boston and those summers, before junior year, and after senior year, spent on my old red Columbia bicycle, riding all over the city. I loved tha bike though I left it to rust outside back of my Newbury Street apartment as I moved to Paris after school. I had this idea of changing my name to Pan and becoming a cabaret singer but I wouldn’t actually open my mouth to sing on a stage until twenty years later, and only once, in between, at an audition for Hair where I sang form James Rado, whom I knew, along with Jerome Ragni, from the restaurant I worked in Hoboken, after moving there slash New York in 1987. But this was 1985 and my bike sat rusting. I had bought it from a shop on Commonwealth Avenue called Bicycle Bill’s when I was a sophomore at BU when, as one might expect, my nickname likewise became Bicycle Bill.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 24° (February 13)

I just read that one of the girls in First Aid Kit is allergic to gluten. I’m beside myself with grief and terror as a result.

Growing up my favorite person in the world was Dave Verm (an abbreviation of his name). He was the son of my parents’ best friend. He was four years older than me and had a sister five years older than him, as I did. I wanted to be with him all the time. I hated my own sibling and i loved him and his. His parents grew up in Jersey City as mine did; and both our families moved from there to Wyckoff, we followed them there. They moved to Illinois then Ohio but they always stayed with us when they visited back east. I looked so forward to their visits or when we went to the midwest to see them. And then they visit us every summer, “down the shore”. I was in David’s wedding—he’s divorced now. He came to see me in my first (and only one of two) Broadway shows.

He became an alcoholic. I talked to him as often as I could ten years ago. He would be whispering saying he was hiding in a dark room. From who? His kids, spparently.And then he disappeared. He tweeted something and it was very God-y. I hope he’s okay. I have reached out to his kids and nobody ever writes me back. It’s so strange. I can only speculate. Did he become born again and the fact that I am a queer astrologer and performer living parttime in Provincetown made me diabolical in his eyes? Well it’s not impossible. His sister is a great grandmother. She had her first kid in the 1980s while I was in college. That’s a lot of procreating.

Oh I don’t know folks. All is entropy I suppose and there is no clear understanding why things have to get so much worse in life. I can’t say: I’m tired of all the problems, deaths and health scares—because they will only become more frequent. It becomes increasingly difficult to look forward to things. Sometimes I wish I was a drug addict or alcoholic so that I could sit in meetings. I’ve gone to them in my past during times of hitting the wine bottle hard; and I learned a lot, but it wasn’t applicable to me and I found people mostly complained and their lives never changes. It was all about maintaining the status quo, not spiraling upward which I feel we are meant do to.

I loved Dave. I miss Dave. But at this point I suppose I don’t know Dave. He had everything handed to him in life—his father was a superachieving waspy game player who made sure he got his, even, stepping on others to get it. But he was rather self-made for being something of a worm. He was also pretty gayish. Dave was all boy as folks used to say. But he was a bit Dazed and Confused. He was an outsider. He was immature. And come to think of it he was an alcoholic already at the age of thirteen. Still he was the closest I ever had to a big brother and he was reckless and dangerous and rough and tumble and I loved that. He turned me on to Elvis Costello when I was fourteen and everything sort of evolved from there really.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 23° (February 12)

This was my grandmother’s birthday, same day as Abraham Lincoln, and she actually ended up looking a lot like him believe it or not. When I was born her husband had just died a few months before and so I was named for him: William. I was the only grandchild not have met him. Her maiden name was Brennan. She was a large woman. She and all her sisters looked a like. They were imposing plump mountains. But my grandmother was always sick and for the last ten years of her life, probably, she weighed something like eighty-five pounds. She had sticks for legs, her stockings always fallen down, and she was curled over like a shrimp, her face super sunken. A cartoon old lady. Her hair was a shock of white, worn with a side part, held in place by one barrette. She had bush black eyebrows, though, which seemed incongruous. And she absolutely had Lincoln’s bone structure.

I have a picture somewhere I will have to find it. I should have found it already because I was meant to go through all the stuff in boxes in the basement so that, when it came to it, we could move on a dime. I don’t want any more to do. I want to use the time to go through everything I have. I am coming up on a very good spate of time where I don’t have to much think about more than what is directly on my plate. I am so into letting go of the past, and to do that I have to mine and make my piece with it, throwing or giving objects away. I’m really interested in doing all new things, I truly am. Vin da Bona. He is seventy three and went to Emerson college. And you don’t need to know why that is or isn’t relevant.

Meeting with Sebastian. Biz Structure. ECommerce. Hard to sell something people haven’t touched. Ideas to Wholesale unless independents. Valery. Trunk show. Commish too high. Deck Foundre. How has the whole marke changed. Exoticism. Sixteen percent eighty dollars and up. That was all meant to be nonsensical to you.

I need to say that: The MCC, from which we get a rousing $500 under the festival grant, has a $2500 one that I didn’t quite get to last year (as you know) for Glow at Oberon in summer. It is a project grant, by the way, and I asked MCC last year if we could apply next (meaning now this year) or was it for new projects only. It isn’t apparently. It would be for a project between June 2018 and July 2019, so a thirteen month window. I’m thinking that we should go for it and use it for the next incarnation of Glow which we could do in another Boston location in the coming year, maybe May or June 2019, some place like Jamaica Plain. I just can’t tackle all it takes to go for it myself but I would like some help so I’m wondering if Anna could look into it for us. But before I ask her I wanted to find out what you paid her hourly and what she was paid total for what she did for you (because we should be reimbursing you this in any case) and if she is into this sort of thing she could go from strength to strength finding us more and more grant money, which helps us and pays her!

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 22° (February 12) 126

N/A

An appointment with a client in L.A. in the morning; then will set off to Provincetown for a wee sojurn. Must get air in my tires and schedule an oil change. Aren’t you happy, dear reader, to know all that. There are larger things brewing in my mind as well. I have some alone time and, being so fleeting, I scarcely know what to do with it. I am determined to stay on the straight and narrow and continue my fairly radical life style (if not diet) en route to getting back into the hot room by Thursday where I’ll remain for all time. I don’t know with what else I’m occupying my time but for going through so many papers all piled up. It seems though t that I can be at the end of that process today and I must face some big questions.

Like do I truly have enough to say to write this next big book. Or do I have too much to say. I can never tell. I know I need do things differently this time around and that is to start writing. I want to send out memos to my fellow employee on all the different departments of the brand need doing what to. We have so many spokes in Wheel Atelier that just amping them all ever so slightly could yeild great creative and commercial reward. On this is what I shall focus. On this and the snapshots of the signs which I’m writing into as we speak and will constitute a spate of 24 signs somewhere behind me in this Blague in January.

I must also read the grant which Brian King has sent me as it includes Afterglow. I will need to apply this subtle tweaking of departments to the festival doings as well and then speaking to the tweets should constitute the meat of the letter to sponsors. I think that is all becoming demystified as well. We shall see.

I must admit I am one of those people who is prone to magical thinking and it’s one of the patterns (no doubt found in my astrological charts) that I come up against, again and again. I am without a doubt a major excitement addict, living frugally on the surprise of the great next thing that’s going to happen. Which is delusional but for a fractional element of Belief. It’s the other 99 and 44/100s that I have to look out for. Becaus it will just wait around for the .56 to do it’s thing. And either just stay in some isolated form of limbo or act out, meanwhile, in anticipation. I dread things and long for things. I want to do neither.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 21° (February 10) 125

Okay so when I was a junior in high school the open faced Jeep I was riding to school in was hit by a school bus. The road leading up to our school at the late time of the morning we were arriving had full busses, also late, tricking in and empty ones shooting out. We were stopped at the little road that opened onto this bigger road and the last thing I remember is my neighbor Jeff, who was a senior and brother of my friend, Karen, said “I think we can make it.” And then the next thing I knew was only two things. The smell of bananas and Bruce Springsteen. I had amnesia. Karen had been eating a banana and Bruce was on the radio. My head was bleeding profusely. What happened was that we got hit by an empty school bus and we flipped, rolled, over. I was the eighties so I didn’t have on a seat belt. So when we flipped upside down, imagine, I’m upside down, but I hit my head against the “roll bar” on the jeep which bounced me back into the car, against gravity as we continued the 360-degree roll that landed us back upright. I would have been crushed probably if I hadn’t bounced off the bar on my head and face, huge gash, many stitches in my head.

Thinking about what an operator he was, I now realize my father would have done something tricky. I remember my parents suddenly becoming friends with Karen and Jeff’s parents—and they weren’t chummy with anyone that lived in our still fairly waspy suburb of Wyckoff. I know now those things must be related. Something to do with insurance money I’m sure. My father was a district manager for Metropolitan Life and he was a tricky Gemini so something would have come of it. Karen was among my besties for sure. She was in love with this guy for whom I too had bromantic feelings. We were upwardly mobile, socially, together, and went from drama school nerds to pretty popular in a rather short stretch together. We were self-taught sophisticates and the object of our affection was French, a super soccer athlete who played varsity freishman year and went to college on a soccer scholarship. He was also something of a sophisticate. We went to see Bent on Broadway. We did mescaline. We spoked pot together daily. His the father was the chef at Le Cirque. He had a brother, three years older, and all their combined friends were like male models, many of whom went to Deerfield and other “academies” and whose girlfriends likewise attended private school.

Only later, when I moved to Paris, and was invited into BCBG enclaves did I get a taste of this kind of world. I didn’t know at the time that his whole vibe was just really French. Funny that as I write this the band Soccer Mommy just came on doing their song “Cool”. What can we make of life’s little synchronicities, right?

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 20° (February 9)

Ready to start reviewing last year’s black book, into which I write ideas. Oh right! I was saying that I was into mining my own stuff. This is one way I’m doing it. It is on yesterday’s theme, too, of I Use, which I touched upon or rather bounced off of like a pinball. It’s one of the elastic elements of my psychology or my psychosis, the twain of which seem ever to meet. It is definitely an action item, with a Capricorn theme, getting folks to Use what they have.

On a totally unrelated note I’ve decided the “color story” this year for the festival will be olive and pimento; and so i picture a burst with a red core that bleeds into orange and yellow and then green-yellow and then olive green into a darker green-black and then finally almost red-tinged at the periphery.

Some words regarding the design project include Ted Mueling, hair items greek Jane Austen Neo classic. Things “conjured into being” like the Middle Earth rings of power. And once we get into this next phase of Blague it will be on the theme of “A Year of Living Cosmically. It might have nice things about born this week. I need to redesign the Twitter pages and there should be something to do with a “consciousness caché sort of thing. We are the fairy godparents of the mysticore movement. Also there is the blue book idea and my color-idea, you know what I’m talking about. All of this has to be packaged and trumpeted to the masses.

One of the stories I put into OPS can be the story of how I was hit by a schoolbus. Maybe that explains it. It is a good story. I’ll write about it tomrrow. It occurs to me that I don’t have a problem completing things I have a problem not completing things.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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Aquarius 19° (February 8)

I don’t know if I’ve ever said this before but sometimes the voice in my head is an old African-American woman. She will blurt out things suddenly like: “Teresa”. Or sometimes she will scold or impart advice in a weird, wood-cabin Southern vernacular. It’s just the way it is if you’re me and you really listen. There are other sounds though not voices. And hers doesn’t make me question my sanity…much. Not this noggin which has been stretch to psychic limit more times than I’d care to admit. I have come closer to an actual Altered States experience than anyone I, you, or probably anybody, know. That will certainly go (back) into the show. I need to wipe the slate clean and get things close to the edit. It will be a bit of a challenge but it has to happen. I would like to get the sponsor letter out by Friday. and I really don’t see why not. Put it on the list! Along with create Wikipedia page. I am going to figure out a way to hire a new assistant. It is way overdue. Bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan.

It has been on the list to go through last year’s Black Book. And it relates to what we were speaking about the other day which is the metaphorical mining. I have many ways to do this, mainly, because I’ve been writing this Blague for, count ’em, three years. I am entering my fourth year. Before the new cycle begins, I will be mining some of what was written last year, just for a couple of weeks, reading back, and collecting certain “data” to layout the o-p-s, the ops. Isn’t their a god called Ops. I will look this up. I get a feeling it’s someone important associated with a chief god with a more recognizable name. Even the god of the Jews has a name. In this way the Christian “father” is more abstract, distant. Or perhaps I project the qualities of my own biological father onto the Sun. You wouldn’t have liked him much, trust me. Okay going to Google Ops. Wiki says: “Ops, more properly Opis, (Latin: “plenty”) is a fertility deity and earth-goddess in Roman mythology of Sabine origin. Her husband is Saturn, the bountiful monarch of the Golden Age. Just as Saturn is identified with the Greek deity Cronus, Ops is identified with Rhea, Cronus’ wife.” Like I said. It’s the archetype of the Capricorn woman and I was just musing on the fact that Capricorn women really do use what they have. The sign’s motto is I use and while others might get something new and seek to preserve it, Capricorn women love to begin wearing things in.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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