Month: November 2020 (page 1 of 3)


Sagittarius 7° (November 29)

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1211-1215 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

We were out the door at 6:30 and it was quite good walk. Not as good as tomorrow. I just know these things. Thinking about the gaslighting thing. And of course my mind made a joke of it. It makes sense that John Derian has a nineteenth-century aesthetic and vision because, as long as I’ve known him, he’s operated by gaslighting. It just might be something that Marthe Svenjördt could get away with.

Jokes of intros for curtain speaches. Definitely doing the Provincetown thing and the Wellfleet Jewish joke. Perhaps add a thing in about surfing.   Maybe also the Manafort joke. I can’t watch tv anymore because you know it’s the same repetitive story and images on a loop. The one image that unfortunately stuck with me is that Manaforte walking shot where he shoves the cameras out of the way. His body language is so sick.

Went to the PAAM to see the Biala and the Helen Frankenthaler and both were amazing. It makes me so proud that we have such good art right here in river city. Sorry. I’m a bit punchy. Grabbed some salmon with cauliflower and spinach salad made dinner.

They used my sleigh joke tonite on Insecure. I like the show although it does sometimes seem to move sideways. I just hope nobody really caught it because it’s one of those jokes that’s so up from grabs Zeitgeist wise. Anyway, right now this Blague is designed to get my head on straight with only thirteen days to go before this fundraising year turns into a pumpkin which people in New England tend to put on door steps way too early. They probably do it in New Jersey as well. There is plenty of time when there is “collection time.”

I was struck in the letters Helen Frankenthaler wrote that she and Bob (Robert Motherwell, her husband) were working 18 hour days. Nobody ever really works 18 hour days. 12 maybe but not 18. There is a lot of faffing about in an 18-hour day, and one is so damn tired, they’re beat before they’ve begun. Like waking and baking, remember? How it used to just make you tired for your whole existence. Did you ever wake and bake? You’d walk around like a zombie. But there was that comfy cushion of it all. I liked pot before it became a super drug. Not that I liked really fatiguing dirt weed or anything; but I did like the kind of pot that didn’t make me feel like my arteries were about to explode sending me crutching, kneeling in the shower, running water over me bargaining with god if he would just make it stop. I don’t find that kind of marijuana very fun. Oh but I was talking about “collection time.”

“Collection time” refers back to when we worked in fashion and S aka L had her own sporstwear collection. Designing two seasons a year for a young designer is actually a lot and despite the unavoidable faffing about that was part of the picture (due to her partner, a too-rich-and-thus-totally-dysfunctional-and-immolized-creature who would show up to work wearing two differnt shoes or carrying the trash she was meant to drop down the incinerator in her building but instead took for a ride on the subway to their 40th street studio and showroom. Anyway….”collection time”, two but especially the one week leading up to the show/defilé required one live on about four hours sleep. Apparently, Helen and Frank got in a good six hours, which isn’t terrible, and they considered putting together party lists as part of their “work.” I do love both painters though I must say. But their party list reads like…oh never mind…there is no good way to make this joke without seeming completely anti-Semetic.


Another beach walk first thing this morning. The bittersweetness of the season has already descended. It was one of those magical mornings where the light twinkles like crazy and you feel like you’re inside Wrinkle in Time or The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. The walks have been spectacular although they are surely touch on the feet, I must say. I believe I can begin to make myself easy, but to do so I should dedicate this Blague, today, to my to-do list and just record all the random notes that have once again began to crowd the surface of my desk. We have one appointment today with a client in Munich and then I have a phoner with one in L.A.; though it’s cliche to say the one in L.A. could very well flake out and just not call at the desginated time. (As expected.)

I will aggragate all random thoughts and I will tie up all loose ends such that all runs like clockwork starting now (it already does). I needed to get sparkler level from Bai and perry’s and figure out who to approach vis a vis missionary sponsorships and update that doc, which I will do today. I will keep writing until my nerves calm down and I’m in the final stretch and trying to make sense of it all. I think I’m managing okay, all in all. And on deeper thought, I’d say, pretty well. I will sketch in Thursday for Hotels and Realtors, as they are an untapped but important source I ignore most years for fundraising because they are just so dire. Also the hotels already pay tax to help, so the best I can hope for is a little accommodation and anyway, theirs are the perfect places to peruse to make sure they have cards and such. Seaglass is especially on the to-do list.

I will indeed be introducing Marthe to the world tomorrow so I’m excited about that. I’ve put together three different mailers that I’m hitting everybody with and then next week I’ll go even wider for support. I have to also make a third doc for Brian King that combines Nefa Info up Front with Poster and Bio Info and send to the Nefa peeps to make sure all looks kosher. I can borrow from the Endicott release on that score.

Ugh I just got a note about our upcoming court case vis a vis the accident we had three years ago when some stupid idiot while texting plowed into us going a mile a minute while we were stopped in traffic behind a long line of traffic. I hate insurance companies and these kind of sick venal institutions that try to fight you for money when it is all their fault. I don’t know. I really am losing my faith in this country and the way things (don’t) work here. I used to be so proud of our functionality, dating back to Rondald Reagan who was a horrible person and president. Even his son, junior, seems to think so. What are you supposed to do with these kinds of people I mean really?

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Suffering Samsara

Sagittarius 6° (November 28)

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1206-1210 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

It’s (not according to the above date, which would make this yesterday, bacause I had to do some justifying since there are 366 days a year, nearly, and only 360°) Sunday morning and my high school friend David came to visit with his girlfriend Tracey. They are both biologists and very interesting and we have great conversation and food and wine and song together and it is a joy to be with them. A rare, true joy. It was supposed to be really lousy weather but they cam anyway and the whole weekend had a sneak-between-the-raindrops kind of feel.

I was about to close the roof and windows of our old Mercedes which we’d taken for its yearly gas-up and spin through Provincetown when our friends pulled up about 7:30. We had some lovely Lambrusco and I had made two chickens and potatoes and green beans; and we drank Rioja and played music, singing until three in the morning. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I awoke at seven with a start remembering I never closed up the car. It was just starting to drizzle; I made it in time. But I couldn’t fall back to sleep.

Bacon and eggs, trying to start this Keto diet I still have to read about. Then we headed to the beach as it was quite nice out, certain we would never get onto Newcomb Hollow, that the lot would be full. It wasn’t. Crazy. So we went for our full three-mile walk and drank lemonade and saw seals and a whale and various sea birds. We then went into Wellfleet town and harbor and settled at the outdoor Mac’s down by the water. They ate proper lobster rolls and tofu burritos and broiled salmon with steamed vegetables while I ate a bowl of chowder. Poor me.

We came back and tried to nap; but that didn’t work; and it began to pour, pour, pour. So we cancelled our dinner reservation at Baie; but then we had to shop for food and wine which meant Provincetown anyway, so off we went, just the three of us. S. stayed back and got collected. We did our one-stop-shop at Perry’s for pasta, nibbles, sauce, wine, Labrusco, cheese and crackers; and then Dave reasserted the art stroll, which was something they were really keen on doing. Tracey is a collector of sorts, so it was nice to see her enthralled. We got a spot right out front of Ken Fulk’s house and hit a half a dozen galleries. Tracey really connected with Pete Hocking’s work which made sense. And today they set back off to Ptown and purchased one before heading back to New York City.

The synchronicities also abound(ed) this weekend. Because the first night they were here I was saying how my favorite record was the David Byrne and Brian Eno: Everything That Happens. I have of course sang songs from this album and it has inspired me show-wise. Then last night, while we were eating our buccatini and marinara we enhanced with artichoke, S. said that while we were in Provincetown she saw that Neko Case had put on Instagram that it was the tenth anniversary of the record’s release and that is was in her top five records of all time or something. These things always happen to me.


It was interesting running into Shania. It would be fun to hang out. I feel an affinity there that I don’t much feel with other people, always have. And I find it to be worth exploring. We are officiellement now working the Keto and I think it will yield some good; the thing is I don’t eat much differently, anyway. Ah, that feeling you have as a young person when you can eat and eat and eat and nothing would happen to your body; I didn’t know I would miss that visceral experience quite so much.

I was thinking this morning how I just need to move through writing on my subject rather than thinking about the world of agents and editors and publishers. Oh, my. I’m just going to continue to create and go slow; my rushing ahead is only ever about fear of not leaving no stone uncovered to cover my ass-ets. But this has funneled, along with other obsessions, into a full river called Hypervigilance, and it no longer serves me.

I know I will slowly be moving mountains this week. I have much in the way of writing and editing and emailing to do to pull off this festival. Doing so as best I can at this point really does constutute success. And I have to keep the book-writing going as well. On that note I muse on Aries:

He can’t deal with rejection in the least (while his so-called opposite sign of Libra’s whole being and existence is hinged on negoatiating it, along with all things one-on-one relationa)l. No sign takes what life may bring more personally than does Aries. Impuslive. He sees the world/existence as possessing the same qualities as he—that reality/existence is impulsive, competitive, dog-eat-dog, raw and rather random.


Vulcanalia the First Day of August. I once wrote a whole thing about this. It was a for a variety show we hosted as opening night to the Afterglow Festival in 2013:

Enlightenment. Revelation. A Turning point.

A turning out.

To everything, turn turn turn.

This is a great turn-out

This is a real nice clambake

A revelation is a turning out of cosmic Truth and Grace

And a turning out of Self to receive it (Stella puts arms up in Y) See you are the chalice. You are the holy grail ready to be filled

Giving up and over


Total faith


In Love

Love, Love, love

A Sudden, Spontaneous Connection with the Divine

Not organized Religion

A word that actually means to re-link, the root word lig as in ligament, connective tissue

A re-linking implies then that there’s is a disconnect (aha moment)

See, that’s the enlightenment part.

And as far as the entertaining goes, it’s not just that we love to sing and gotta dance and (Jimmy Durante) tell jokes just like everybody does.

Ah, well, everybody should. But not every body does.

It’s that the performing arts and spiritual practice, ritual, used to be one and the same.

All coming under the heading of “lifting spirits” if you will.

Re-linking our own indivial divine sparks with the eternal flame of the All.

You’ve seen it happen. Whether a performer on stage or your math teacher in class suddenly blurring-out, becoming a pure aura of energy against the green blackboard.

Oh, beam me up, Scotty. Or to your ancestral Edinburgh home.

To be sure. That divine energetic connection will be made. As above so as below.

If we journey inward, microcosmically we find tiny central orbs being orbitted by even smaller orbs, if we journey outward, macrocosmically, we find central orbs being orbitted by smaller orbs….and


We are stardust (a la Joni)

Yes and Hu are we, (realizing they have come full circle in conversation)

Huuuuu (singing)

Hu-mans! Hu. H-u is the most ancient “name” for “god”. It’s the divine sound of the universe. We are man and we are hu. Both animal man and divine hu put together but…

there is a disconnect

…which we can relink by chanting, singing Hu, the

singing Hu activates our upliftment.

singing Hu draws us closer, in our state of consciousness to our divine being…and so we going to re-lidge, here and now, theatre and temple, stage and sacred space as well as our own man=ly sides—and I promise you you have one….

and you my dear are totally good to go

with our Hu-sides, all together, and and and we will also connect our divinely dual individual selves with each other so I want everyone to hold hands or lay your hands on one another in some fashion, those on the aisle can grasp the shoulder of the person in front of you and Stella and I will grab hold here

oh I know, you hate to be touched, that’s okay there is a simple remedy for that. You turn it out. When you don’t want to be touched, right, you recoil, your energy goes in.

So just turn it out

I use this technique especially on the subway. If someone mindlessly or intentionally rubs his leg against mine, or if i’m straphanging on a crowded train and I feel some lumber rising into my own sacred spaces i don’t recoil but instead I Turn It Out and express the full energy of my being from the area and, well, my whole being really, and the power of my energy emanating forth first relieves all my stress in the situation and it actually disallows any intrusion, repelling unwanted advances….except in those rare instances where the connection is more than you bargained for and you end up getting off …the train…a few stops earlier than planned and then have to call your girlfriend later to apologize for having had to miss your lunch date but, as I say that rarely or really never happens, but when it does you know the energy was gooood…..well it’s like you with telemarketers.


yah, yah…(increasingly pleased with himself) well I did figure out the best way to get off those pesky call lists. It’s very easy. The phone rings. And it’s like: hi it’s Ashley from Foreclosure Village or whatever and instead of hanging up or yeah recoiling in some way you Turn It Out and start getting into it like oh yeah Ashley. oh yeah I am so glad you called right now cuz I was just toying with my own foreclosure was actually just feeling… lib…..all kinds of pressure building up and I would totally love for you to talk me through the issue that needs to be worked out before it blows up in all our faces.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.


Sagittarius 5° (November 27)

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1201-1205 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

I’ve decided on a new tack for my intros which I think I might have mentioned; but anyway nobody is reading this but you and me so you’ll forgive if I repeat myself.

I get on the plane feeling better than I have in my life. I was so happy that I began working steadily starting in September on our Christmas show for Joe’s Pub because we have never had a bigger, more appreciative house; and though we were spot on for the holiday, with song and narrative, the performance speaks to our larger scope, now, as individual storytellers with, in my case, burgeoning, and, for S., continuing solo show work. And here it is, January, and we are starting a new chapter of our lives. The plan is to spend a couple months solid here, building the consultancy, which we’ve also been steadily working on since September.

Good thing we had pictures taken this Fall because they really make a difference in approaching French press and so forth. We will let out the Paris flat when we go to Venice; and make a list of those who we can gift the place too—Pete & Ted, Susanne, Pascale & Matt, others, over the coming months. And in summer, we will really work out something with someone we meet, maybe through Susi, to let people in and out and otherwise caretake for us in our absence. With money coming in now, salary wise, we should be able to have half the full amount down for our New England house, within the year—I have and we have been saving . And, with all our outreach in regard to our products, we will in the process of building the event business along with the other elements of the brand. I can’t wait to get to the apartment but I’m going to enjoy this plane trip, having sorted out a way not to travel like cattle.

I will have a car waiting and make my way to the flat. Tomorrow I will shop for some foodie basics and flowers as we will have at least two clients the day after and three more by the end of the week. We are going to focus exclusively on our own design ideas for the coming months, and I’m putting together a very short list of performers for Afterglow 2019—Frank DeCaro, Molly Pope, Dane Terry, Bridget Barkan, Stella Starsky, John Jarboe, Jibz Cameron, and then a smattering of biggies. Easy peasy.

We will enjoy Spring after traveling, and get into a steady rhythm, focusing on the major design markets and other times that press and buyers and potential clients come through this beautiful city. We will coordinate with P + M and J + N and J + L and maybe D + G. The Nelsons could take the apartment at some point. There are many Americans and others in Paris who will likely come and see us. I need to reach out to Wachsberger in any case.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Thor’s Daze

Sagittarius 4° (November 26)

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1196-1200 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Day 16

It’s weird waking up in a hotel in the airport, especially in Vancouver, where you are basically at check in. I went to the pool but it was a drag due to father and little daughter taking up a lot of space. Never mind. Sauna would have taken too long to get hot. I got dressed and we grabbed coffees fro Starbucks, heard of it?; then finished up and headed out; I hate a smoked salmon sandwich from that chic plane, yesterday.

We were able to fly through inspection and plop into the lounge where lunch was just setting up. I started with soup because these places always put the soup out first. Thai Chicken. And they do the bar last. Bloody Mary’s have been spoiled for me since the boat, but….Check in was a breeze. I had the beef. I watched the Shape of Water? We arrived in Toronto and it was a bit rocky, both coming and going. It killed the mood. That and the Canada Air lady who looked like the character Stevie on Schitt’s Creek which is a Canadian show. Oh I give up. She was a crueller de ville. We cleared customs and it was off to Boston. Pretty quick through baggage and finding driver.

It isn’t a so happy a thing when you get home but it’s not your home, it can be an uncomfortable limbo. Am I making excuses. No. So what I was cranky. Sue me. I’m already thinking about the press release which I hope to have complete by, say, next Thursday. It’s a guilt thing on some level. I will drive S. to NH tomorrow and somehow it might be fun.

A frosty morning of eighty some odd degrees. But we get a smooth start, heading up 95 to veer off, just before Portsmouth to head to what is referred to as camp, sort of. N. has rented the house on the site of what was her and S.’s aunt’s lakeside property. Their aunt is no longer with us; in fact neither is her original house; because not long after she died lightning struck it and it burned to a crisp. Her sons had a new house built and then sold it and that is the house S.’s family has rented. It is ideally situated on Great East Lake, to be sure, but, when I go there, I was so glad I had already arranged not to stay. It was small and stuffy with plaid and leather and I get a panic attack just typing about it let alone living in it with one, two, three, four, five, six, and one eight-year old, inlaws. I, who got not much done on the boat, need to head back to Reading to tackle some things.

I drove back down listening to Yacht Rock and upon hearing Cool Change by the Little River Band I knew the songwriter was a Cancer with his looking “at the full moon like a lover.” I stopped in Lynnefield at Whole Foods and got provisions. At this point I’m feeling exhaustion but soldier through. I get some wine. I stop in town for a CVS run and make it back to the house, feeling a bit like entering the batcave, given the garage scenario. Anyway, I’m not a suburban fellow in case you cannot tell. The guacamole I thought I bought turned out to be tomatillo something (with a little avocado but it’s not the same).

I caught up with Brad, West of the Rockies. He said he’d be dressed a certain way and then someone else was dressed exactly the same, walking in front of him, with white sox in sandals. The recognition came slowly. And to this day my instincts about this being some extra are correct, though I can never fully remember the exact why; all I know is that the dream never lasts long.

I never want to have a colostomy, needless to say. And I never want to be odorous on purpose. Sometimes a dinner of chips and tomatillo dip is enough if not more. I keep turning the temperature down and I think it just automatically keeps going up, which turns out not to be the case; as B. is controlling it from his phone or something. Whatever.

I will begin on booking the artists travel and get some laundry done in the meantime.

After the strange synchronicity of yesterday, I am in an expansive mood. I am happy there is cold brew and I keep turning down the thermostat. This morning might be the last even luke-warm bath I’ll draw. I don’t need anything in particular and I’m getting into the solitude. What’s that Madonna song about San Pedro? That gets stuck in my head and other places and I’m on a jelly roll. And lo and behold here we go again. This reminds me of the Lance situation. Delibery. Really not since Ghana. These are the fragments in my head. And it’s impossible. There has never been anything even remotely like it; but somehow it always happens. I cannot explain how as it seems to defy every law of nature. And then briefly you find a way to make what shouldn’t be interesting and it’s kinda cool.

That was the threefold dream I remember of today.

Somewhere I am happy for Young Jean Lee and a lot of other people. But it is becoming not only increasingly clear but urgent that I must focus on my own creativity. Seriously. I’ll get to lie in the sun a little and I really should make some fresh pasta with sour cream and smoked salmon; I don’t see why I wouldn’t. And I don’t much see why I wouldn’t eat it for the next three meals, if I chose to. Tonight for me will end in some kind of heap watching tele. And it’ll be a somewhat slow realization that I have gained a ton of weight now, being away a solid three weeks. Oh well. I might be a bit over my head. But when has that ever truly stopped me. Besides I feel there is more fun to be had.

There was something about Thom Lussier. He had a brother who had a wife who had a sister. Anyway, there was a Pisces man and he of course looked like a combination of Matthew Broderick and Don Knotts, as they all do.

What dreams may come. I need to make the focus of these book intros and the outline for the new Xmas show more, respectively, a love letter and a survey of superpowers. That really is the answer.

I did eat more of the pasta, sour cream and smoked salmon and then went to the store, this time myself, to get what I needed. I’m working through the day and trying to scrape something together but the words won’t come.

I haven’t bathed in hot water and its hot in here and I’m just going to try and make some shit happen and I fall asleep. And I wake up and I’m starving but I am not cooking, so I look up local restaurants, find a place and call an Uber. It’s time to catch up on the David Sedaris book in any case. And three hours pass and I’m closing the joint having steadily drunk a bottle of red.

My dreams were about this apartment that was sort of nowhere, kind of like Reading, no color houses; and some dark skinned guy with a kind of newsy cap and it might have been about Jersey City and Edna, our housekeeper, whose son started Kool & The Gang.

Very fitfull sleep, in and out. I’ve now seen not all but the same parts of Murder on the Orient Express three times. I watch the show about the Browns, Hard Knocks. The weather is really good but you can tell it’s switching it’s all switching.

Being on the boat is not even anything I’m thinking about. This always happens. It switches so abruptly that it will take a week or so before I begin musing about the boat again. I really could use a hot bath. What’s with this place.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.


Sagittarius 3° (November 25)

After all I’ve had my fun. And there are no external hits to be had right now. Including from the wine cellar or social media. So I am letting it all go. I want to say I gave the work at hand my absolute all while it is happening. The rest is uncluttering, unfriending, merchandising, packing, organizing, casting spells, playing piano, giving to charity, researching, playing ukulele, dancing and singing, sleeping and reading and cooking and cleaning and shopping and dreaming and scheming while keeping the barbarians at bay. They have no power here after all. The age of the bullies is over. I will no longer be gaslit or available to the abuse. This has all made me stronger, especially mentally. This is the thing about being a Libra. When we are mentally fit, the power of our mind is muscular and mighty indeed. You do not want to fuck with me, because I am too nice, and when crossed I will cut you. It has been nice to connect virtually with more people but it is a very pale substitute for being surrounded by friends and family, a word representing a concept that has eluded me in this lifetime. But like this isolation I must accept it and channel it and let it deepen my self-understanding and my resolve. A sentence like that makes me think that it is that same brand of insight I must offer those in my chapitres. What then should we come up with. I know that I am in it for the long haul. I am not just writing one book. I want to write a book a year for the next twenty odd years. That is the way to do it. To always be writing and always searching the interior. All the more reason to live more remotely and have nature at one’s disposal. There are many roads and the all unfortunately lead to the same place, if you catch my drift. So what’s the use of worrying. Everything always takes longer than it should but at least, for now we are protected. I have just a few more minutes before I dive back into work and I guess I just wanted to say that, well, a couple of things: First, it does feel good to feel which so much of so-called normal life dulled us to doing. Second, that I’m pleasantly surprise how quickly my psyche adjusts to changes in lifestyle and I think back on the fact that I was probably at my worst when I was at my healthiest. Thin and doing a ton a yoga in a given week let me off the hook to indulge in winey dinners out and the like which really didn’t feed my spirit in any kind of significant way. The humility of our larger situation and being forced into doing for, and right by, myself feel like an around unto itself. Even as I have friends, the couple variety, specifically, I get marginalized be heteronormality because so long as “the gals” keep in touch with each other it ticks a box for being in touch with me as well. Which it really totally fucking does not. So my form of isolation, already magnified by not having any family to speak of, is made all the more profound. But you know what? Good. Because I am letting the darkness and isolation move in and me and allowing it impact my psyche, to pressurize it, like so much deeply embedded rock and stone, churning in the heat, close to the magna core, where diamonds are being wrought. And when I rise with them in hand they will be mine, all mine.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1191-1195 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Day Eleven

Well, again we woke up earlier than everybody, except Neil who had to be up at dawn today as we are getting a new pilot on board and Al will take us from Alaska into B.C.. We spoke to Neil about his Uncle Dave, the hairy potter, and he asked me about Afterglow and I mentioned the whole 333 synchronicity. And we deconstructed The Godfather. Had an ask from Ben and Rizo about booking something in Boston, which was a great excuse to reach out to City Winery in response. Not to mention the venue they are playing in Portland. All this sort of thing is coming together. And I had a breakfast parfait of fruit and yoghurt for breakfast.

I put out a ton of feelers regarding next week; and City Winery got right back in touch with me which is also great. Only thing is I had to stop the works because J. needed wifi again allow the newest version of the movie to come in, which is right. And anyway we’ve been sort of stuck in customs for the last several hours. It’s just that weird kind of day where nothing is really moving. We had cous cous and halibut and steak for lunch with a cauliflower salad which really was quite delightful. Apparently A. had something of an upset in that her tenants didn’t pay her, which is too bad. Jill and Flo left just yesterday and they are probably already back home now in Zurich. How fortunate we are that we live in a time of air travel. It’s weird to think that just one hundred years ago the miracles of our lives would be impossible.

Anyway, in the spirit of stalled momentum I thought I would insert something I wrote in my green journal by hand some days before we set out on this excursion:

I have been four miles on the beach every day on average, which is challening; and I haven’t been drinking or eating sweets; and yet I’m not losing weight. Still as I build lower body muscle my upper body is beginning to slim down. I am, though, shaped like a frog and there is nothing much I can do about that. I will continue to eat light during this next few weeks on the boat. I need to stay clear haded and abstemious for a number of reasons, all under the heading of confidence. Look, I know I’m a mental case, and that I probably have o.c.d.—all the more reason to give myself positive messaging. I won’t be able to spend the day on the beach today and just to act up my look a bit.

I am aware of the irony of having written that paragraph a couple weeks ago; and the nonsense of the last sentence is due to my inability to read my own handwriting; and there is more:

Today id d start with an annoyance frrom a new arist; psychologically I need to get ahead of all the projects. I have been spinning simultaneously it all comes back again to units of time. And this trip has got to be a mga reset for me. What if I think starting today that I will bring in 2K per day. I don’t see why I can’t affect that. I will be writing people in my downtime for contributions in the coming weeks.

This was followed up with:

I can’t get over the lack of support from the new crop a gazillinaires who have washed up on our shores. I need to start vibrating on a much higher level. And the intros for next year’s books should be a “general year ahead for the sign, drawing from old magazine features we have done. It will go on the list to outreach to magazines.

Anyway, I’m glad I got that bit of old diary entry unstuck as we wait here for some kind of go ahead to sail further south. The cloud cover is so thick and so low it isn’t even worth photographing anything outside. We shan’t even sit at the table tonight; instead it will be movie night, where we eat whilst watching, which is also great. Some folks are having a dry night. I myself am not.

Day Twelve

Last night was a bit of a blow out. I think because of feeling stalled, as I said yesterday, we might have gone a bit to far. We weren’t really supposed to. After a late night last night after canapés of beatroot and cream, and salami and truffle, and a dinner of squid ink linguine with shrimps, and some kind of berry pie, ate in front of the tele watching Godfather 2, puntuated with crunches of popcorn (I gave our cheesey variety we picked up in Ketchikan to the crew). Anyway when I got up to pee everyone but Aine was gone; so we finished watching G2 and drank more red wine and then we watched half of Bridesmaids with some brandy. She didn’t really watch the TV; instead she was texting her boyfriend I suppose. I kept redirecting her to the screen until I just gave up. Anyway it was nice to hang out with her alone; I was feeling a bit like she was angry at me since we got on board. Maybe because I suggested she not feed the dog while at the table lest Bronte not leave her alone for the rest of the trip. Anyway I know nothing could be further from the truth and that, if she was irked, she was irked in a way that friends can be with one another. I have true affection for her and I believe it’s mutual.

Anyway, I still got up early today, which was another foggy semi stuck day. They were peddling English muffins but I stuck to fruit. It seems the only time I have any wiillpower at all is at breakfast; actually that’s not really true. I seem to be doing okay. The whole John Derian thing has been bubbling up in me again. I feel so hurt at what happened. And I wish I hadn’t retaliated with such force as I had. The fact is he was an abuser all the years we were friends; and a gaslighter, which he continues to be. I’ve noticed a marked change in what might be labelled our mutual friends. But my challenge is to transcend it. I can’t be stuck in that sort of crap. I have such good friends and such a good consultancy and even the festival, though it is like pulling teeth this year, provides some sense of pleasure and purpose. I just want more of it. And who would have seen what was to come this day. Wow.

So lunch was a delicious chicken cacciatore with white asparagus salad and roasted potatoes and some kind of sorbet i don’t remember what exactly. I did a lot of outreach in advance of my work-time in Reading and that felt right to a point. It is easy for me to overdue this type of work. It’s where I get a bit addicty. Anyway this was the day I stayed in room mainly; and I sort of waited for my head to clear which it ultimately did. And then suddenly, with the time change I guess, it was dinner time and boy oh boy. We had canapés of crab circled in cucumber sheets—delicious and light—and then very lean lamb loin with veal sweetbreads, which I normally don’t eat, but did (also ate S.’s) and what seemed like drugged Rioja. The dinner theme was sort of creature-like, we all had masks, and we were supposed to come up with a name for our character and also a mythos. I got as far as naming myself (a leopard) Silenzio; and S. who was a deer/stag called herself Batchel. The conversation centered on what kind of man men are. We had the story about “dégage” and Mr. Big Voice which, thankfully, I didn’t have to employ; and J. told story about her creepy uncle. We were planning on playing charades but instead the crew had set up a game for us the name of which escapes me; but it was good fun and took hours to play as Rioja fueled conversation welted and weaved through our foggy, cabin fevered brains.

The next thing I knew it was nearly 5am and I had fallen asleep—and snored!—on the sofa whilst Aine and J. and S girl-talked for hours. The latest night of all and it ended with me munching down on a thousand pistachios as I made my way to bed to sleep for four hours.

Day Thirteen

The thing I have to remind myself is that I have gotten up quite early most days. True I have yet to get into a kayak or to go fishing, but it’s not something that necessarily motivates me. Perhaps in the next day or two before leaving I’ll ask for some kind of lesson on that score and see where it takes me. Ah, the perils of a city boy in the wilderness of Alaska and British Columbia. Today started off a bit on the slow side and on the late side. I did not rise until 10am; and S. stayed in bed. I was rather shocked to see J. at the breakfast table but she did go right back to sleep after. My arm has really been bothering me and today I noticed a giant bruise. I’m trying not to be Movie-of-the-Week about it but it doesn’t feel great. I can’t really exercise it as it seems to make it worse so the most activity I’ve done is slip in and out of a hot tub. I suppose I could request a massage but I hate to push my luck about these things. There were vegan blueberry muffins but I didn’t eat them.

Up on the top deck this morning trying to catch up a bit on writing while also just wantintg to sit in the sun and read magazines. The fog cleared readily and we headed to put the bow into a waterfall which is always nice. And as N. says maybe more about the captain than it is about us at this point. There were threats of seeing spirit bears (white black bears?) but it didn’t happen. There was also mention of a ghost town which apparently came and went. It is absolutely beautiful here but very, very remote. Still one wonders what opportunities the area has to offer—or one would if one were twenty not nearly fifty five. Good lord how did I get to be this old. No wonder I have some kind of ache and pain. Otherwise I feel as if I’m twenty five. Actually better probably.

I did manage to draft some letters to sponsors and sparklers for the festival and to put together a document whereby setting up travel for the artists will be simplified. I don’t think I’ll try to do any of that on the boat however and will instead wait until Tuesday at the earliest to make that happen. I will try to make that all work in just a matter of two hours; the only potential stress at this point is fundraising and the book intros. But you know what. It will be what it will be. And I will have a month when I get back to the Cape during which time I will amil to make $30K in 30 days. All the while taking our beach walks and otherwise trying to enjoy ourselves.

My nerves felt a bit shot and my arm was really acting up at lunch. I could tell because even holding fork in left hand felt challenging. Lunch was delcious take on fish and chips with homemade tartar sauce. And I employed liberal amounts of malt vinegar. There was (again I think black cherry) sorbet. S. tried to sleep during the day, several times, here and there, but to no avail. K. had a big breakfast of bacon and eggs. I could almost bring myself to have that tomorrow. Dinner was to be an astrology theme and Cat asked if we would deliver some kind of presentation, so I put my mind to it. Why not.

We had a lovely salmon jerky again and a warm goat cheese with bread sticks. J and I had bloody marys which were so smokey and spicey and dinner with red wine was venison Wellington and the pudding was something I can’t quite remember. Oh well, there has to be one thing that slips through the cracks, eh? The astrology bit went over a little like a lead balloon but that’s okay. Oh I know the dessert was a sort of semi-fredo with strawberries and a kind of icing. K. wanted to play charades but people were tired so I suggested we watch Romy and Michelle. Actually I wanted to watch K. watch it which she said “wasn’t too creepy.” Wow it is really dated as a film but still people enjoyed it I think. We went to bed relatively early and I slept weirdly knowing that Sunday would be my last full day.

Day Fourteen

The last full day of anything is tough, never mind saying goodbye to dear friends and the incredible holiday they provide by having us on a luxury yacht. I mean come on. It is such a gift and I pinch myself every time we come on this boat. I feel strangely used to it which might be a bit dicey for a close friendship. But there are few people I trust more in the world than these wonderful folk; and I cannot say how beside myself with joy I am at having had the oopportunity to do this.

S. was given some magesium last night designed to help her sleep and I think it worked; so I tip-toe’d out by around six o’clock this morning and got a little bit of writing done. Let’s face it: I’m not hitting required marks they way I need to be hitting them but what the hell. There is nothing I can really do about that. I needed this holiday more than I realized. And I have to say I’ll need a few days to recover from the fun of it all.

We travelled quite a few (six) hours down to the bay we are in now. I had fruit and eggs and turkey bacon for breakie; and I tried to get a bit of work done in the morning. Lunch seemed to be minutes after. It was light however in that we had lobster tails, king crab and scallops with a bean and greens salad with lychee sorbet for pudding. Then we had a few minutes to change clothes and throw bathing suits into a bag and head out in the tender for this tiny cover where there was a 1.2 km path up to a fresh water lake. A big lake it was, called Scaget or something, and the water was filled with pyrite so it was literrally gold. And there were others there, Canadians of mixed white and native blood.

We noticed some of the locals were actually floating atop logs, as if they were rafts or rustic boogie boards designed for no wave water. I was wheezing a bit on the way up which I think troubled N. whom I had to reassure that my lungs need to acclimate to woodsy environments, my brain deciding what is really an allergen or not. It settled pretty quickly. Still I could do with a bit of cardio make no mistake. I’m going to take the month leading up to Afterglow to go completely carb free. And after this trip, alcohol free as well me thinks. I could definitely need a break and so could my liver.

There wasn’t much time between tea and dinner which was actually a buffet and party for “crew night”. We all submitted stories about ourselves and divided into teams, N. on one and J. on the other. We won. Stories included being almost abducted as a child, peeing in the woods when a plane crashed just hundreds of feet away, sending a sexty pic to a coworker accidentally, and other less interesting things. Some of the food was pulled pork ban-mi, fresh summer roles, terayaki beef, bbq’d chicken, pizza which i didn’t get to eat, followed by all sorts of cupcakes. The galley staff were the real stars tonight.

Everyone got to elaborate on their stories and the crew learned much about their proprietors, I’d say. The kids were cute and funny and I really feel a stronger connection with them. We then watched the first Monsters Inc which I had never seen. It was totally cute. To bed….

And up too early

Day Fifteen

And up too early…for what needs happen today, but such is life. We drank naught but champagne last night which means I feel good if not a bit nervy. Woke at 5 o’clock and it’s seven now and I’ve just been sort of faffing about. I want to leave here with total optimism and I hope that will be achievable. I think Zak and Aine will and we will head to the airport together today. We will fly out of Bella Bella to which we are sailing now. I’m going to throw on some clothes and go grab some coffee now…..I just want to get my packing done and take a nap. It’s challenging being on different schedules sharing the same space because one person typically ends up having to drag themselves around in the wake of the other person’s habits, which I find tiring at best.

It was just me and A. at the breakfast table, N. came through to take the doggie ashore. I did not have the banana bread. Funny how people write a daily blog; but it isn’t always just me talking about what I’m doing on any given day; however, these past weeks, I have enjoyed just recounting, pretty vaguely, what’s been happening. Because it’s important to me: this time. I have never so thoroughly enjoyed myself (in both meanings of the word) as I have these past weeks. I am concerned about money and my shoulder but really that’s about it.

We did some packing and took a hot tub for a super short time; and then dried our swimsuits in the sun while I finally took a few minutes to read a magazine. Everybody has decided to go into the town on the island off which we are floating, but I don’t like doing things before I leave. I like to do nothing before I leave anywhere. I like to Zen my packing and my eating and my thinking and just let things fall into place. I will look at the pictures today. And I will be happy to go to lunch totally packed and just relax into this day. I felt like I was drugged almost, I was so relaxed. And I was curious about lunch which turned out to be jerk chicken and, uh-oh can’t remember. I know I had some kind of sald and roti which was a repeat and very delicious .We had the Haut Pecblah, blah bla rosé which was a return to the beginning of the trip. And after an espresso we got a tour of the galley and the engine room which was really quite something. We watched some Pixar shorts and then waited for S.’s white shirt to reappear and then the grand goodbyes which I really love/hate.

Zak, Aine, S and I were tendered to Campbell Island where we got a taxi to the airport. I had spent all morning online looking at the airline that flew out of Bella Bella, only to find that we were not on that airline but were on a special charter which itself must have cost a pretty penny. I’m always surprised and I hope I’m never not in a sense. We had to hang out for a bit in the “airport” and then Chris and…forget the other guy’s name, Karl maybe, (he was probably the pilot) walked us over the tarmac to the plane and we took some photos whilst boarding. It was luxe. Almost like nothing is luxe. It was surely the combination of this tiny plane from nowhere going to Vancouver and that pretty penny. We had wine on board and fruit and Zak being eighteen gobbled up the available food. It was my favorite flight of all my lifetime, seriously; just the four of us on board seated family style across from one another. S. stared out the window and didn’t speak which I’m used to, but I don’t think they were. But A. totally got it. She’s such a good person.

We landed in Vancouver and were taxi’d to our terminals which were adjacent but we had to part company pretty much straight away. Aine and Zak were in the international departure area and we were in domestic so we kissed and hugged and rolled our bags onward to the next connected terminal only to find our flight was delayed due to weather in Toronto. As it was we were going to arrive Toronto in the middle of the night; and have a three-hour layover. Now it just seemed disgusting. So we rebooked ourselves for tomorrow and rolled our way back through the terminal to the Fairmont hotel. They gave us a room for their supposed half a price. We had a weird but kind of good snacky dinner of crab cakes and chicken wings and Caesar salad and local wine and went to bed. Banal? Perhaps.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Trouble Shooters

Sagittarius 2° (November 24)

I do think that the alchemy is changing already and, after a short spate of panic, I’m ready to devote every waking hour to the project at hand. It will be my industry, my creative outlet, my obsession, my vacation, my dedication, my magic formula, my protective fortress, my ambition, my transcendence, my spirituality, my deep dive, my magic spell, my indulgence, my porn, my psychologist, my hobby, my art, my religion, and my partner in crime. I don’t know what I dreamt exactly but I do know that Gary C. featured in it and it revolved around having to get to a movie theater in time. It also centered on Paris in some sense, some magical apartment in a building with a series of them, my mother perhaps also living in one of them. There were wood beams in the ceiling. It was very fifteenth century meets flimsy 1980s drafty. The thing I learned already today, having been awake for only an hour is that: If you just stay inside a project then the ideas are available to you. I don’t necessarily feel like getting a tree this year. I mean, I do, but I don’t want the hassle to be honest. I am going to spend an hour a day throwing things out. And a half hour shopping online because daddy needs some stuff. I am forgoing all other things. All other needs. All other everything. An hour equals a page whenever it occurs and there are thousands of hours still available to me. Come July, when all will be in boxes, we will slip away, and make it clear that we are under a vast protection of terrestrial and spiritual forces. We will inform the legal team that we are dehors. So for the next four hours this day I will read three chapitres and draft the front-of-book material. Okay now my love project beckons.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1186-1190 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Day Six

Oh the dream I had—I had to wake myself up from at 5:15 this morning: I was yelling at Peter Belsky. I had two desks in his establishment which looked like a sort of chic lounge with modular red furniture. It was an entire store front with a downstairs where I also had a desk with more stuff. I almost have to jump to the end to describe the beginning. He knew I was there to talk. I kept waiting for him to finish with other people. In the meantime I made my way to the kitchen area where there were other people—it was sort of a party. (This all might flash me back to a dream I had about him many, many moons ago.) There were creepy, crappy people at the party, specific ones with whom I was doing mental and verbal sparring. All I wanted was a clean plate for lasagna while I waited for Peter to be done. Lynne had left me (she was driving a yellow taxi) outside and was to return in an hour. I had a real face to face confrontation with some hardbody guy who could have taken me a part but still I remained in his face ready to fight until we both backed off a little—I could feel that he was physically ready to do battle by way of his tensing the muscles of his core and inner thighs (I felt it as if it were my muscles that were doing so, which doesn’t make real, only dream sense). Peter wanted to get Nora Burn to be editor he had told my earlier and I went quietly ballistic saying she’s a no talent and I’ve been working there since 1987, the premise being I was meant to be editor in chief of this magazine that was always threatening to get off the ground. It was a dream of being undervalued, overlooked, being the one right there the whole time doing all the work and yet not the one desired for the reward of the big job whatever that means or meant. There was a woman, whom the hardbody was presumably protecting, who was real trouble and it was as if I was alerted to her being an anti-us by Laurie who, even in the dream, I believe, was no longer with us. Again I flash back to a dream dating to the early nineties perhaps, when we were losing Laurie, where this type of tightly packed and populated dream was set in claustrophobic quarters (the setting was the upstairs three bedrooms of the house I grew up in which must have doubled for the claustrophobic tenament interior of Laurie’s apartment on west 43rd of 44th to which I had a key back in the late eighties such that I could edit on the one computer DV8 owned. Anyway, I finished my lasagna….Lynne showed up in the dream in time to eat it with me/us…but this did not supercede the fact that I would still be waiting for Lynne to pick me up in a yellow taxi which was part of the original premise of the dream. Her arrival to the kitchen was through another (back) door in the space, while Peter at his desk, working with hipsters, was in the (store)front on the front side of the store, if that makes sense, where he sat at just one of the modular desks others were also sitting at, workers for him. Then I saw his desk was empty and learned that he was gone. And I went super ballistic. I went outside looking, I went all around. It was still to early for front of building Lynne to pick me up in her yellow taxi. I was fuming. Then I saw Peter coming down the road, after leaving me high and dry for over an hour, because now Lynne, too, was late, and he was driving a brown Deux Cheveux, contently oblivious as you please (stopping at a dumpster?) then we are at his desk. I’m aware of some of the women who sit around him at their desks because I think I already vented some about him in their presence; and then there was this hipster in front of me, perhaps the same hipster I walked in on as he was readying a shower for himself, half naked, when I looked for Peter in the bathroom before going outside and finally spotting him in his French car. I yelled at him for never following through on his promise! (That must be the psychological key to why this dream now.) That I had worked for DV8 since 1987…that I had worked on Seen (conflating him with Jonathan whatever his name was) winning the magazine a Graphis award…that I had been waiting around (apparently all these years) to finally function, paid, as editor in chief of what this next enterprise would be, my desk here (which I was clearing as I ranted) and especially the one downstairs filled with work already completed or semi completed. Now, awake, it might be seen as all the work I have ever done, designed for this sort of enterprise—all the work at The New York Social Calendar, all the lists of pitches for The Face and other publications, all that stuff I dragged (and still drag?) around all those/these years. And how he never paid me or anyone. I appealed to all the people in the room at their own desks, asking them, am I right that you’re all here working for free? And then I gave him the biggest dressing down in dream form I have ever delivered since reading my sister—when that happened it became talking/yelling in my sleep in that way where you’re talking through the veils between the sub- and conscious worlds. I referenced his family (wife and daughter) living in Wichita, Kansas and the expense of going back and forth, and the Deux Cheveux which he presumably had to ship from France, and on and on and on, citing his selfhisness and so forth. The Deux Cheveux could be Eric Delancy or Ryan Landry or neither. Anyway I railed on Peter and his expression was cryptic, a combination of really feeling the truth of what I was saying and not really caring and just waiting for it to end. Anyway…The lesson here is that I must be paid. And I must be valued.

Morning was crumpets—I didn’t have any. We travelled to Wrangell. We had a Turkish lunch of halibut (caught by K.) and beef kabobs, elbow macaroni and grilled aparagus with parsley, kale and sweet balsamic. We went into Wrangell. I bought a back pack and a tee-shirt. I am still in need of getting some work done!

Day Seven

Last night’s dinner was delicious Spring Rolls and Pho Noodles and Iced Coffee Cake. Ginger martinis, sake and white wine all in one go. And then it was the “Geese” night of Cards Against Humanity.

I did manage to finish the Norse Mythology book by Neil Gaiman, so that’s something. But otherwise I am really behind on just about everything. I don’t know what to do about it. Also I was feeling pretty rested and now I’m feeling rather shattered again which isn’t all that fun.

The morning was fantastic however. After a brekkie of banana bread: We went to see the Bears of Anan which is something I shan’t soon forget. It was a bit scary walking through the woods where we saw a bear climbing a tree; but the actual outlook where you could watch the bears catching and killing and eating salmon wasn’t at all frightening. There was even a bear hanging out under the wooden shack of a ranger station. But make no mistake—these animals are in no way acclimated to humans—they are definitely wild.

After watching them eat salmon we got to have Alaskan salmon ourselves. I left the skin on because it was perfectly done. And it was served with a salad of tun and canneloni and celery and squash roasted with basic and almonds. Gr-yum. Sak and Aine arrived in the late afternoon by seaplane and we had tea and flapjacks and then I tried to get a little something done before dinner which began with lovely cocktails—I had a dry martini—and oysters which were a bit cramy and delicious. Dinner was fantastic. Homemade parsely garanelli with a ragout of beef which was sweet, likely, with balsamic and almost bordered on bbq, with delious bread twists with olive and parmesan. After dinner there was an olfactory game planned with prizes of gorgeous colognes. Delicious Napa Valley wine and brandy into the late. Aine told us all about her new squeeze long afer others had gone to bed.

Flo and Jill have decided to leave early—Wednesday instead of Thursday, so I’m a bit bummed about that I must say. I really love them both and they will be so missed.

Day Eight

I have kept a rather low profile today, trying to get some work done and otherwise transcend the epic fatigue I feel. We are going up in a plane tomorrow to the Misty Fjords (a fantastic dragname) for J’s birthday and that should be a lot of fun.

I unfortunately realized that our graphic/web designer has as yet not gotten our site up and running; and he tends to disappear at crucial times, just as he did when we needed him last winter for a project. I feel I am too forgiving of shoddy work, but it’s selfish on my part, because I don’t want to have to go through the slog of finding someone new.

After breakfast yesterday I disappeared to tackle some of this work. I didn’t get very far unfortunately and the fundraising especially is uncharacteristically not forthcoming. I need to find a different tack. And it starts with a mental picture in my mind. So I’m going to try and re-write the headline. I don’t know why I got into a negative head. I am very sensitive to energy and I really try not to judge, lest I be….I get triggered easily working/interacting with people who remind me of my sister for sure. Next year I will avoid hiring certain figures. It was frustrating punching my way out of paper bags; I know I must have made some progress but it’s so hard to tell.

Breakfast featured waffles with black-cherry ricotta—I had none of it. Then lunch was Tandoori chicken, saffron rice, pureéd egglpant, burgies? (I don’t know Indian food the way the Brits do) and mango chutney, yoghurt sauce, naan, and pampadun. White wine. Then the kids and Aine went fishing. I went back to work. Went online and saw that my friend Ruben had done a FB Live from Ketchikan which is basically where we are! How cosmic is that? He is performing on the Norwegian Bliss.

More work. And my stomach was really hard and swollen and I knew this would put me into a bad mood unless I pre-picked out my clothes for dinner which was a Winter Wonderland theme, for summer in Alaska, which does make sense. I went haute lumberjack. Nibblies were amazing: a salmon jerky and chicken remoulade—like little chicken and mushroom stews inside fried balls. Martini. Then delicious white wine again.

We spoke about Lumos something to which I really want to find a way to contribute. I will bring it up again and maybe speak to Billy about it. Dinner was halibut with tomatoes four ways and baked Alaska for dessert. Movie night on the top deck: Passengers. I fell asleep about forty minutes in.

Day Nine

Not only is it the last day of the month and exactly six weeks to festival time but it is Jo (and Harry’s lol) birthday. And we have been talking about Caddy Shack since we got on the boat and I just say today is also the 38th anniversary of its release. These things keep happening. As if Ruben starring in a musical on the Norwegian Bliss we keep passing int the night wasn’t enough.

We had prezzies for Jo over brekkie. And everyone is sort of doing their own thing now. I am still trying to get work done but it isn’t easy. Anyway I am not here to work so it’s fine. I need to get my brain around how it is I can bring in all the money I need in the last month. I will go down the list and make a huge plea to all the big sponsors. But for now I need to focus on having fun and just keeping up enough as not to get ridiculously behind.

Lunch was a birthday party with balloons and hats and noisemakers. Fun. We had cous cous with vegetable and steamed cod with herbs and chicken kabobs also with herbs and a salad of lettuce tomato cukes and onion; dessert was a cocoa sorbet; champagne and Whispering Angel.

Then the sea plane arrived and we tendered to it and wow it was way beyond what I expected, thankfully, because I might not have gone if I knew how we would be flying over mountains that we sometimes seemed to barely skirt. We went through Salmon Glacier to No Name Lake where we landed and hung around a bit, the pilot immediately putting out his fishing line. We had listened to John Williams music and Enya and so forth on the first bit of the flight. Then on the second bit it was all kind of rocking out music. I only found out later you could turn the music off in your headphones. I actually got the feeling that the pilot might have had more than coffee in his mug. I took a ton of video. After taking tea upon return, we prepared for the Norse God murder mystery night. Jo was Hel and seemed very much in character, characteristically, as was David, as Odin, who never dropped the ball. It was revealed last night, as I suspected, that he will go into the acting profession. I imagine what it would have been like for me to have parents of such enormous means actually supporting a child’s desire to become an actor. I have to take that primal pain and turn it all around.

I can’t get over how much I am reminded of my sister. The triggers are harshly real. And that is enough said about that. Other than I must not be dragged into any fight that someone else might be itching for. I must go even deeper into compassion. Dinner was something of a blur because of the game. For canapés we had salmon jerky again maybe? And some kind of creamy soup as a shooter? It was a ball of confusion with all the “gods” sussing each other out; and the crew making very graphic appearances. Cleo who organized the evening stressed the feminist aspect of the stewards as Valkyries which was fantastic—the male guests were prohibited from making eye contact with them while the female guests were required to do so. I was Loki (exactly who I hoped to be) and I was of course the murderer, which nobody guessed, stressing the point: don’t avoid the obvious. Afterword we played a bit of Cards Against Humanity but it fell flat because I think we’re all now too acquainted with the several, now, entire whole decks of cards.

Day Ten

Woke up early and really would have chosen to fall back; however, today was the first day there was mist and a mystical feeling in the air, which is how I imagined the weather would be for most of the trip. We are heading to Ketchikan today and I’m looking forward to being in a larger town for a few hours. And then Jill and Florian and Graeme and Matt will leave, after Alistair arrives. So the day will be characterized by a natural human shift which might shake some things out energetically speaking. I need to do some timed writings which I’ll do right now, having already had a breakfast of smoked salmon (which was caught by the kids and A. the other day) on rye bread.

I’m a bit coldy today, which I hope will pass. I might hit the hot tub which might help….time passes…and it did! We went into Ketchikan and S. and I decided to avoid the commercial bit, so we headed up a hill into area people seemed to live. The town seemed a bit poor on the one hand with giant cruiseships (and the blocks of tourist traps the cruise companies own) on the other. We came upon a bridge and a waterfall with a wooden walk way so we took it. As it turned out it wove back into town, all along this walkway on stilts, to a more charming, but still commercial bit. There were some nice jewelry shops and a great book store and a cannabis shop and a cabaret venue, if you could believe it. We didn’t have much time as we had a rendezvous time back at the tender; but we ended up waiting another forty-five minutes in any case because J. got rockignized. But I had bought some cheesy popcorn so we snacked on that until the fam arrived and headed back to the boat.

Lunch was a bit sad knowing Jill and Flo were leaving. Pizza and arugula/beet salad and roasted vegetables. I know the Brits aren’t always super effusive, I don’t know about the Welsh, but I love Jill. And Flo gave me another kiss, and he’s Swiss! And we also said goodbye to Matt and Graeme, wecloming Al aka Cap’n Bumpyon board earlier. We then hopped back into the tender and went back into Ketchikan and tooled around for an hour and hit the highlights—cannibis shop, cabaret, bookstore. Then tea with chocoloate chip pumpkin cookies. Oh boy. Canapés were sushi and dinner was black cod and rice and a bun with bean paste for dessert. Conversation was all about trans versus gay. The kids, I thought, had the most interesting perspectives. And then we watched The (first) Godfather. I went back to our cabin to pee and never made it out again, face-planting into bed where I spent a good part of the night, apparently, snoring.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Monkey’s Uncle

Sagittarius 1° (November 23)

One of thirty, as well, before I get some tests done and, look at me, I ate bad food (old sauerkraut and maybe even older smoked salmon) which means I have been running back and forth to the loo so yay on jumpstarting the weight loss as well. My dreams were fucked. They were a combination of trauma surrounding my parents’ friendship with the Vermes (and by extension my own with “brother” David) and being on the boat which I know, given what’s been going on around here, must be a subconscious stresser because, hello, I’m afraid of leaving all my stuff here. I have a nice contact for Belfast which I will use. We had a fruitful client appointment. I have all that “manifesto” stuff under my belt. The officer from town did call me back. I created the entire menu and I did manage to get through one of the chapters. Well, nearly. I know I can be done with all of that by noon tomorrow and then I’m in and staying in and the next stop will be to put all this stuff in place for round two. I have to do two things. I have to write finished copy as best I can on the first go, like any professional writer would; and I also have to let it be light and lively and make room for more room. It will come back to me in August and September and then I will have November and December to make a physical move (using August and September as the springboard for doing that. July is going to be packing and vacation and getting pretty much everything out of the basement so that it can be easily taken with. This is going to be quite a challenging year to say the least, and I do well to make the most of every waking moment, and also to have it be that I don’t get weighted down by the usual stuff in the meantime. 

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1181-1185 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Day One – Boston To Juneau

What a relatively easy day considering all the traveling. Grabbed a taxi from the Eliot around 7am and made our way, no traffic to Logan. Alaska air is in a small terminal; there was no wait to get through security which was remarkably thorough. We were in first class—one of the perks of being flown by a wealthy friend—and it was a smooth six hour flight, with pretty lovely food, for the airplane variety, to Seattle. We had less than a half-hour to board the next plane which was just steps away from where we were let off. Amid hopes our luggage was on board with us, we then flew to Juneau just two plus hours. The airport was quite tiny but it didn’t have that third world feel. It had more a dystopian vibe and there were pro-life posters in the actual baggage claim area.

We were collected by Graeme, the boat’s captain, and taken down to the harbor where Calypso was moored. There were bald eagles in the treetops, casually, like crows; and it felt quite red-statey overall but not uncharming, despite the obvious queues of tourists off of Alaskan cruise liners. My weak airline bloodieshad made little impact other than to make me feel abdominally distended; we had a nice chat and then went ashore to see the Mendenhall glacier and waterfall, which was a stroll more than a hike. Got to speak with Dayne, the first mate, who is a special character among special characters on the boat.

We weren’t going to await dinner for Florian and Jill to arrive, but managed to in the end, which was great. (We were meant to meet them a the Seattle airport and take the flight to Juneau together. But their flight from Frankfurt, to which they got late last night from Zurich, was delayed; and they were stuck in immigration. We boarded and I asked the flight attendant if she could inquire after them—there was a ground crew member on board who chimed in: “What are their names?” We told her and she said “yeah, no” they were not going to make it and in fact their seats had already been given away.)We lifted anchor and set off up to Tracey Arm to see what would be far more major a glacier. Drinks and smoked salmon before a bowl of light tortellini with peas and vegetables followed by what seemed to be a fancy version of donut holes. We chatted a bit but everyone was bushed. I don’t really remember falling asleep. My arm really hurts and I’ll have to get to the doctor sooner than later.

Day Two – Tracey Arm

I woke at four but didn’t dare budge from the room that early, even though it was already full daylight. We are having just about four hours of darkness per night seems like. It would turn out to be quite an eventful day which began with me on the upper deck, wrapped in a cashmere blacket, at five a.m. It was really too cold so I came down and started writing and doing a bit of fundraising and awaited breakfast, buffeted by an Americano, once Cleo, the morning stewardess, emerged. As determined as I was to just have fruit I had to go for the fresh waffles on offer with what I believe was orange-infused ricotta. Two more Americanos and a bit more work as we made our way up to the glacier.

By 9 o’clock, I believe, we had smoothed our way through the calm silky water to where we wanted to be: faced with a giant wall of ice straight out of “Game of Thrones”. There were loud moaning sounds coming from the glacier at first but no visual accompaniment. And so Neil in one and Jill and Flow in another set out in kayaks to skirt the glacier closer up; and inspired by Jo who arrived on deck in a terrycloth bathrobe, we ducked below decks to become similarly attired, all stripping off to our swimsuits and slipping into the hottub. Before S. and I did that, newly arrived back on the upper deck, Jo was in a bit of a flurry because a huge chunk of glacier had broken off and made a giant splash and the subsequent waves that rocked the big boat and therefore most certainly the kayaks which were microscopic in comparison and way closer to the setpiece of G.O.T..

While still in what was an aptly named hot tub, the temperature of which did ultimately send me out first, resulting from strange sensations from it in my arms, one of which is already comprimised from some kind of pinched nerve, Neil returned from his marine adventure really shooken up, heart pounding. I don’t really know and forgot to ask if indeed they were wearing life vests, the three of them, but anyway, the sheets of ice falling off the glacier, an occurance which had now become regular, created mini tsunamis and they really struggled, phyisically and psychologically, not to tip over. I have still never tried kayaking and I’m very happy that I rethought my original impetus to make a virgin voyage in one this morning.

Lunch was a Mexican fiesta of pork tacos and fish tacos and quinoa salad and another one which was a medley of sweet corn, black beans and cherry tomatoes followed by a sort of team of coconut mexican cookies in a yoghurt sorbet. And there were tiny bottles of Patron tequila placed at our plates with a side of salt and limes. I think only one of us had their entire nip, I had about half and thus took an afternoon nap; but not before playing MarioKart, my first lousy but comical attempt at a video game, and a competitive one at that. The appeal for me was choosing my character and my vehicle both of which were very cute; but I do not know how to work the tiny joystick device with multiple ancillary buttons they provide you. And David, a cheeky fifteen, followed up each game with “highlights” of my (not everyone’s, mind you) race, sometimes in slow motion, showing my cute character veering all over the road in a manic manner.

The nap lasted about an hour with Streetcar Named Desire playing low behind the veil of slumber. Then it was time for afternoon tea—we are eating again already?—featuring a rhubarb cake. And it was off in one of the tenders to try and find some whales with an axe to chip off some ice from a berg for cocktails. This would prove a very bad idea indeed. We didn’t see any whales on our rather long journey out of site of the boat. (I learned later that a few of us—we were only six in our party plus the crew member driving—were thinking this seems a bit dicey, being so far out of site of the boat, without any life vests, given the fact we might sneak up on whales; this was an instinct that would be justified, however not in light of the whales but in respect to the unsuspecting iceberg we were seeking to hack with an axe.

We came along side a rather big blue one which was beautiful but it didn’t allow one to reach it with outstretched axe-wielding arm which specifically belonged to the fifteen-year-old David. So we set our sites on a “tiny one” which was roughly the size of a large refridgerator; or at least the proverbial tip was, emerging from the grey-green sea. David was poised on the bow like a cartoon masthead; but before he could even graze it the bow of the boat struck the submerged majority of the berg which resulted in the following scene: Suddenly the managable fridge-sized block of ice rose up to a great height before us, like some Norsegod come to life, or as if the iceberg was on some kind of underwater elevator, growing to a height four, five times its height—what was actually happening was that the boat’s bump into it had caused the iceberg to flip back from us, the refridgerator submerging and giving way to what had been the enormous submerged side increasingly towering, in the kind of slow-motion reserved for near or perhaps full-on catastrophes, bumping in the boat back in seeming retaliation, crunching into the bow and bending the metal ladder attached to it. In that eternity of a moment we were all silent, expectant, frozen and utterly and helplessly awaiting our fate which we have thought would be a proper capsizing into the freezing drink. We came through it muttering things like “oh my god” and “holy shit” and “that was close” and “wow, wow, wow.” And then we set off to see if we could find some whales, which we did.

There seemed to be a humpback whale on its own, or maybe it was calving, or something of that nature; because a small distance from said whale was at least one, maybe two, orcas or killer whales which are quite a different animal. And it was like dualing marine mammals where the humback would creat a flurry of activity, slapping the water with her flukes, and then the orca(s) would bubble up and spout and make some separate kind of commotion. It was very strange and we didn’t quite now what was what. We later learned that orcas are predators with proper teeth who will hunt other marine mammals, seals, mainly, but also newborn calves of other “real” whales which aren’t predators but gentle krill-eating giants with giant brushes instead of teeth that filter in mass quantitie of smaller aquatic life as sustenance. And as we watched this random, avant-garde whale choreagraphy I know that the bulk of our brains were still processing the David versus Goliath iceberg that had moments before played out.

We did have cocktails that night with an hors d’oeuvres of a fresh tuna paté spread on cucumbers, which was followed by a delicious dinner of seabass and garlic potatoes and a good deal of delicious Pouilly Fumé. People were drinking a bit more than usual and we played Cards Against Humanity conversationally puncutated by details of the ice incident, thoughts and impressions and admonitions of true terror. All of which resulted in “new rules” that entail: always wearing life vests when out on the tender and always being within sight of the boat itself when out and about on the smaller vessels. This is a good thing.

Day Three

I woke up to the following email from a first cousin on my father’s side—of which I originally had seven and now just four, two of whom I’ve only seen, like twice in my life, but not for decades, and probably will never see again…actually that is probably true about all my remaining cousins on my father’s side. This from the one, of all of them, with whom I once was closest and whom, even so, haven’t seen in over thirty years…the subject line of the email was “Branding” and I represent the body of the text in full:

Funny how much money is spent on branding and how some simple brand memories last decades

Today, I had a thoroughly crap day that Monica had an inkling about.

After dinner and sitting on the couch to relax she walked up to me and said.  “ I know you had a bad day and when I went to the store earlier I thought I would get you a special treat to brighten the day.”

She was holding a box of Haagen Das Ice Creme Cookie Bars.

Special treat. Being the recipient to   Numerous fat genes need to minimize carbs so it was a nice unexpected  surprise.

When I looked up first thing that registered was how much your mom liked Haagen Das.

I looked around since not everything from shopping and asked her “ what else did you get?”

It was then I saw Band de soleil.  Over the weekend we talked about how I get a red bronze tan and Monica gets a yellow tan. I asked her to get a bronzing tanner.

Bingo just like the Haagen Das can’t think of band  de soleil without thinking Aunt Peggy

Probably because she also made her rice with noodles, butter and College Inn Chicken broth

Ok I’ll get of the reminiscing diatribe and seems like people sometimes are better branding advertisements than any commercial ever made.  

Have fun and enjoy 55

To deconstruct, in my opinion, he “sounds” drunk. And you can see that he “edited” it as certain words mid sentence are in upper case, still, supposed remnants of previous versions of lines nad phrases. It’s very odd overall that he would write me and begin with “Funny that…” as if we are somehow always mid conversation, which we are not. He also has some facts quite wrong. And though I appreciate (which has proved to be) an ongoing obsession with my mother, his romanticism of her is wholly narcisisstic and rather intrusive. I don’t appreciate being taken, as I sometimes am by him by email, perhaps once a year, down some memory lane in a park whose theme is my mother not his, especially when it’s revisionist, if unconciously so.

First off, my mother didn’t eat Haagen Das, the spelling of which, I trust, might be correct in his email and which I thus replicate here. She either bought and relished Breyers “vanilla bean” which came in a square box or, more often and later in her middle age, she would buy pints of different flavors, though typically also still a supplementary pint of vanilla as well, from one or other of our local seaside homemade purveyors of the stuff. I will concede that she might have at one point purchased a box of “cookie bars” but it wasn’t a signature move that would have defined her, but perhaps something she tried, drawn by the promised convenience of being able to unwrap one and not have to struggle with scooping. That is entirely possible. But I doubt my cousin ever spent multiple nights, let alone one, at my parents house during whatever time he cites from his faulty mists of memory, whereby “cookie bars” (did he misspell creme or was it intended and perhaps Googled for clarification?) would be some kind of ritual of hers in which he partook, parenthesis: I didn’t.

Next, she didn’t wear the misspelled Band de soleil. She did wear Bain de Soleil. However she did not, being fair skinned and freckled, red-haired, 100% Irishwoman, wear the greasy orange variety (that might have created a bronze effect, even, in part, from that orange being something of a dye) which was basically hard oil; but instead she opted for the white somewhat more protective—although this was before SPF percentages—white cream, which I chose to spell thus—accented by zinc oxide on her nose and lips, which would nonetheless have been shaded by a cap. My mother did “tan” in a sense, but it was really more of a result of her ubiquitous freckles being brought out by the sun and banding together in solidarity into some kind of overall semblance of color, which was my mother’s actually word for it. She never said “you’ve got a tan”, or “you’re very brown”, she would say, “ooh, you got color today” and it wasn’t spelled colour.

As I’m in a snark I will add that I don’t believe I ever met “Monica”, my cousin’s wife, just as I have never met the two daughters I believe he has with her. The only child I know that he has is a son called Daniel who was born in the late seventies and whose conception precipitated Joe marrying Cheryl which was his girlfriend dating from the Saturday Night Fever era and who would have, by the late eighties, been a model for some friend character that the main character in “Working Girl” would have left behind in Staten Island while the Carly Simon song played to sweeping scenes of a crossing ferry. Daniel had big blue eyes. Joe did not. And in order for Daniel to be his biological son, Joe’s father, “uncle Joe”, my father’s sister’s husband, would have had to have blue eyes or else no dice. I do not remember if he did or he didn’t. I think that is perhaps a grace.

And in case you’re wondering about the final kicker to that email: Yes I will be 55 this year and, yes, my cousin wants me to know he knows that. But there is an edge to ending the email that way, too, don’t you think? To me it says: Even you, little Billy, whom I envy for having the mother you did (and whatever better life he imagines I had over him) will shrivel up and die, and you are well, now, on your way. So enjoy that….

I must also tell you and remind myself that breakfast today was fruit and a delicious egg and spinach filo pastry tart which I tried and failed not to eat. (There is always tomorrow—yeah right, who am I kidding?) The boat continued to make its way south and we happened upon an island of noisy sealions we could also smell from a distance. Then we went seeking whales in earnest and found them in abundance. We spent the morning, all of us, watching a feeding frenzy that entailed groups of humpback whales “bubbling.” This is what they do. They all dive down deep below and release air from their blowholes which bubbles krill and other yummies up to the surface….then, they all head to the surface straight up, like rockets, with their mouths open, such that, all of a sudden, a group of giant whales emerge together, straight up, into the air which is terribly exciting. Then they dive down to do it again, and again and again. As they’re below seagulls on the surface bob and wait; then the seagulls all take to the sky, calling out to one and other, and hover over the spot where they giant black heads, mouth agape, will again appear, giving all of us with fingers perched on the red buttons on our phones to start a new video some semblance of a heads up, no pun intended, but there it is. That went on for hours and we watched some of it from the bridge, where we also got to see some naviation maps detailing where we were and where we were going.

Then lunch of a rich mushroom risootto with morels and black truffles with both breaded veal cutlets and breaded cod cheeks and a delicious minerally rosé from the Languedoc. Nary a vegetable in sight but who cared. While we ate the boat made its way into a little cove where there were apparent hot springs. Post lunch and very full and even a bit swollen from the gluten I was now consuming at every meal—I didn’t mention there were giant breadsticks laced with anise seeds of which I gobbled two—I needed the kind of lie-down that I got: one where I sweat out, mainy around my upper chest and neck, whatever my digestion couldn’t filter on its own, feeling slightly nauseous slash fluish. So I made my excuses and didn’t go ashore; neither, I learned, did anybody but Jill and Flo and Kenzie.

It was apparently a more treacherous climb than anticipated, and there were some “old geezers” (Florian’s words) already there when they reached the spot. The water was scalding in spots and resulted in actual burns; but they did find a place to wade in without being boiled alive. We have surmised there is a literal hot spring which derives from far above and cascades down to these “baths” which are really man-made soaking ponds. But it gets better or worse depending on your perspective: Neil, who didn’t join the trio, later went ashore to walk the dog, the cutest white Westie in the world. There he saw a house on stilts which turned out to have three, let’s call them, cubicles, each of which was outfitted with a “domestic bathtub” not porcelain but probably plastic, that was also continually filling with the steaming hot water, but simulataneously emptying as well, through it’s unstopped drain. I have to say I’m a bit intrigued and might have to check that out on the morrow.

Day Four

Last night cocktails was delicious Beluga on blini with champers—yum. Then two lobster tails that were in a delicate thin pool of broth. Followed by a delish banana chocolate (flourless I assume) pie. Incredible. [I think I wore a blue shirt…jeans again?] We played another quick round of C.A.H., this time writing some of my own. I did not win. I felt a bit cranky going to sleep, as I have every night—not cranky in the sense that my mood is bad, but in the manner in which I seem to fall, and really not stay, asleep. It’s all very episodic. And once again I was fully awake this morning at four o’clock and went upstairs at five.

I tried sitting on the upper deck, wrapped in some blankets. It wasn’t even cold but there were hundreds of no-see-ums and mosquitoes the size of 1970s-era Buick Electras. So I came down stairs and did some writing there and requisite catching up and that’s pretty much where I am right now. For the next several days I need to marry my Blague writing with other needs of characters strung together, for the festival, and for the books-in-progress. Having had a taste of fun I’m a bit preoccupied and on that score feel as if life is happening somewhat elsewhere. But I’ll work through it. There is some vague interest in our projects but I’m not going to bank on any of that having made such a mistake before.

I sat in the Sun after breakfast which was crabcake benedict, wrongly named. It was tiny crabcakes with hollandaise sauce, so I ordered some poached eggs to go with. And I had my fruit and coffee and politics dominated the breakfast conversation, which might have been foreshadowing as some real shit has gone down today apparently. Namely, Michael Cohen says that Trump was in the Trump tower meeting and other things are unraveling. I really hope so. I started reading Neil Gaiman’s Norse Mythology and it put me in something of a bad mood. I shouldn’t compare myself because “comparison [truly] is violence”, as our friend Taylor Mac says—he might have gotten it from somewhere else—and it really is up to me to be as big or small as I want to be. We don’t even have a Wikipedia page which makes no sense. Everyone I know seems to be getting theirs and I’m going to let that inspire, not discourage, me. We all have our sadness and we all have our own timing.

I had a nice donation today from a friend. A client who was a youngster a decade ago when she first come to see us is experiencing some major successs and credits us in that coming to bear. Alaska is ridiculously beautiful and I truly cannot get over the daily views off the decks and through our portholes, if that’s still a word in operation. Lunch was scallops and lamb, surf and turf being a Chef Leo theme. And we are in the sign of Leo and there are many Leos on board, including one of the most famous in the world whose birthday we shall soon celebrate.

We have a Murder Mystery tonight based on the game Clue, or as the Brits call it: Cluedo. Attached is a picture of the menu.

Day Five

Okay so last night was really a lot of fun. I realize these murder mysteries in the end are less about what the plot is and more about the characters, and specifically, how they draw out the people and lend license. J. and I always seem to be at odds, funnily enough. One time, during a Greek gods mystery, she was Athena and I was Dionysus, so right there we were archetypally disposed to humorously clash. Last night was the bit of the same and it really is fun to exchange barbs with friends in the course of the created dramedy. A total hoot. D. totally emerges from his otherwise normal teenage-boy sulk and really hams it up—he is so funny—while M. really takes her signture ingenue roles so serious. Jill and Flo were totes fantastic; Flo was the perfect Colonel Mustard and he really seemed very much in his skin, again, a byproduct of having a character to both veil you and access elements of personality one often keeps under wraps, for reasons of politesse.

The crew girls did such an amazing job, with the game and the food pairings with wines, choreographing their service into a serveuse ballet. We sat outside for a bit afterward and had a wee bit more wine and then some brandy. Post that, Flo and I stayed up for another hour talking which was a rare moment of male bonding and our burgeoning bromance. Complete with innocent peck good night. Adorable. Overall such a perfect night.

This morning my nerves were slightly frayed but not really for only having slept about five hourse. There were banana pancakes for breakfast which was short and sweet as we went to a salmon hatchery which was fascinating. It is called Armstrong-Keta Inc and I’m telling all my friends to visit their website an learn more about it. The owner? Ben gave us a tour that lasted about fifty minutes which was perfect, and now, as I write this, we are headed to El Capitain (where the operating system got its name?) to explore the largest cave system in Alaska, and one of the largest in the country. Cannot wait. I will top the Blague off with a recap of the day. Meanwhile I have to get my brain around the work I have at hand today…..(which turned out not to be today).

The boat was pretty lurchy as we hit a bit of open ocean and it was too nauseating to work. I did manage to ready a hundred easy pages of the Norse Gods book by Neil Gaiman. (More feelings of undervaluling to fight.) Lunch was cous-cous and cod fritters and veal balls and salads of actual lettuce. Rosé. The sorbet seemed to be mandarin orange. The boat ride to the caves took about half an hour. We were the new life “vests”. We hiked up many many steps with two guides Brooke (who I swear knew who Jo was) and Jessica, whose second day it was and who had obvious native—Klinkit?—blood. S. got through it. The steps down made ones legs shakey. Jill brought tip money, something I wouldn’t have thought of doing. I’m sure I’ll be able to take everyone out for a meal or some such when we hit a town. I don’t know when that is but I suspect in the next day or so. In two days we will have been here a week and Jill and Florian will be gone forthwith. I would like to see them in Europe this year, hopefully soon.

It turned out to be a Hawaiian themed night and luckily they provided flower shirts and leies (sp?). Speaking of which my clothes are beginning to not fit and I will have to start slimming down. Anyway I really want to get back to yoga in the coming weeks. We had poke in spoons for our drinks appy, and I had the best blood mary of all time. Then crisp white wine for dinner of rockfish with rice and endives and steamed bun of gingery chicken filling. Dessert was a sort of souffle cake with almonds (I think) anyway I ate everything. Then we watched Anchorman 2.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.


Scorpio 30° – Sagittarius 0° (November 22)

Last night was another doozy. Woke at two with the mind racing and bracing. This time the prevailing thought was all about taking a solid stand. I ran the notion by S. and wrote it up. We had a delish cassava linguine clam sauce last night and I’m super excited knowing there are leftovers to finish with a salad of butter lettuces. My dreams were so freaking bizarre. I pulled off a piece of my foot. Yeah not good. I am really happy to be launching this new live-it this week, and I feel much better being in Sagittarius. At least that’s what I’m telling myself: It’s a lesson in expansion. This is why writing some of the front-of-book matter might feel quite good. Otherwise it is a perfect time to power through. To go deeper into the yoga (and Yoda). It’s been such a long time, now, since I was in true farmer’s hours mode, falling early, sleeping through and up by 4:30, working with breakfast from 5-11, doing my exercise having lunch and then letting the rest of the day unfold with some winter cleaning, errands and the like. All this worry has caused me to live completely upside down. 

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1176-1180 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

We didn’t get the beach today. I did manage to get a haircut from my ancient barber, Raphael, who told me the texture of my hair had changed. He recommended buying a huge tube of Nexxus from Amazon because it is only $25. His hours are 7:30 to 11:00 only four days a week. He starts his day at 7AM but sometimes clients are there at 6:30 waiting for him because they’d rather wait that half hour than three hours later in the morning; the place gets packed, mainly with elderly men, and Raphael takes his time.

I keep rejigging my schedule (which I shall continue to do for several days no doubt) the law of diminishing returns being levied on me, as I realize my idealistic notion of fitting in all the work I need to do before I leave will happen. It won’t. And so I’ll be taking it with me, which might be fine, lest I get too far behind (which I shall!). What I have managed to do is to get the website into some kind of shape. And to get all our graphics under way. I think I am in decent shape, not just with the festival, but with all my works; but I really won’t know until after this trip.

Traveling with work can go either way. You might just drag it with you and spend the whole time torn between the jobs you need doing and the beckoning holiday doings or the off-site-ness of the journey can provide some proper perspective for plowing through and hitting your marks in such a ways as can’t for the time being happen at home base. We hit walls when we look at the same four of them, day in and day out, trying to make professional magic—stepping away for a few weeks might just be the tonic the proverbial doctor ordered, even if you don’t actually do the work at hand (and so long as you make your peace with not doing so). But I have a good feeling this time out. Erin Markey is totes persona non grata and this juncture and another performer is now exhibiting signs of not following through. Given the former situation I have a short fuse with anyone making those kinds of waves; I think I might be on the defensive. Anyway I must have slapped her down enough that the grumblings stopped. And then of course, because I’m me, I felt bad. But I would have felt worse if I had to replace someone so there.

Got up at the crack of dawn and finished packing. And we were en route to Boston by 8ish. We checked our luggage in a day early to the Eliot; and I dropped La S. off at the bottom of Newbury Street and set off for my doctor’s appointment. My blood pressure was in the okay range which is better than it’s been—and I haven’t exactly been super careful. Gave some blood. Got a wee lecture on my weight and then headed back in to meet S. for lunch—a little pho—before meeting with the dean of the Museum School. I didn’t know much what to expect, but it surely turned out unexpectedly, and not in the greatest sense.

Some months ago I had Joseph Keckler to Harvard/ART/Oberon as part of our series. We brought him up a day early, I thought, so he could tech. Then I started seeing promotion on social media for an event he was doing, the day before his show, at the Museum School. The person posting it created a poster listing all the places he had performed but no mention of Afterglow or Oberon/ART on whose dime Keckler was in town. Nope. They just piggy-backed off our dime. Such a sleaze-oid move. And I definitely took issue with it. Well the dean, Nancy, who started the conversation about how she had a cancer scare and how her mentor had died actually had the nerve to bring the subject up and to tell me that Danielle had told her not to work with me.

So here I was, having to go on the defense for myself? Which, given the momentary shock of the situation, I sort of did. Which later missed me off even more. Then the Dean, Nancy, offered up as an excuse for Danielle that she was “mixed race” and gay or whatever word she used to describe her sexual identity—was this supposed to be an excuse for her being a total sleazeoid? I guess so. I guess she is so much the victim due to her race and her sexual proclivity that me, the supposedly straight white guy, is supposed to be like, “oh, okay, I get it, it’s fine—I understand why she’s a fucking asshole….no problem.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. What kind of narcissistic bullshit is this? All excuses and accusations. I left with a very bad taste in my mouth I have to say. But I’m not surprised. So many people are acting like this these days. Forget seeking forgiveness instead of permission—they don’t even seek said forgiveness. They just throw it in your face and act like you’re the culprit for taking issue. And I would bet my bottom dollar that if I weren’t white and male (and they I suppose presume straight?) this wouldn’t happen. Meanwhile during the meeting this Dean, Nancy, spouted off about her book writing and being a Simone de Beauvoir scholar, and about her husband and her son, Max, who was working for “Funny or Die” and was “really smart and funny and a real character”…and…yet…she was fawning over Brian, calling him a weirdo and a queer and all that sort of thing. I thought it was insulting as did S., but he didn’t seem to think so, so who am I to be offended form him?

Anyway we headed Nahth and had dinner with the Corbett family. We had stopped for some organic red and cheese and Nancoise had put out a picnic of cheeses and hummus and raw veggies and we had a nice ravioli, of which I regretted not having more. I fell into conversation about the visit from my high school friends, some short weeks ago. I can’t quite muster the energy right now to elaborate on that. But I will insert it here later, maybe, after cocktail hour:

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.


Scorpio 29° (November 21)

Really have to get this sleeping under control. I should feel better today but bit blue. I will put my thoughts on list for Roman, who is helping quite a lot. Googled him and he’s a Capricorn. I was going to ask him if he was yesterday based on the shape of his eyes, but restrained myself. It seems he also is a registered chess player. Capricorns play the long game. I will set up another week’s worth of Blagues and read what I’ve written so far. I have to go slow and go deep and just let myself be. Thirty-one days of massive recovery time. There was no news good news about a medical procedure I had done. It is a use it or lose it time. FF is an abuser and he will not be allowed to get away with it again. I must remember that. I’m so conditioned to wonder why it is that people treat us this way or that. It’s a self-punishing thing. The truth is he is a menace and he cannot be allowed to cause us any more pain.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1171-1175 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Dear Quinn,

First off I wanted to say I think you’re doing great. You reallly are more ahead of the game than you think (despite the obvious setback you wrote about yesterday). Within a short period of days, you will have drafted all of the introductions, and well, really, all of next year’s books, still nearly six months ahead of the game. So good for you for being so staalwart in face of the shifting sands of a schedule. You always pretty much weather life well.

The loss of your parents didn’t really hit you hard. At least you haven’t manifested it as such. I think the loss of other people in your life, however, might be devesating, and you might want to think about that, just as you push yourself to think about your own demise. That was always the beauty of the reading you did in your youth. Starting at quite a young age you read about seers and magi and the like; you read your Vedas and Upanishads and about various pantheons and symbol systems; and that has certainly served in your work as a writer and counselor; and it shall serve you in the course of creating tangible designs, now, as well. You must think of it all holistically and authentically. Just as you have to power to create a powerful herb conconction so do you have the power to create beautiful talismans.

So keep that in mind and know that the busy work is almost over for the year. On the boat you will write your Blague (exploring pas Blagues by reading through, going back to the beginning, marking the dates where certain stories arise, cutting and pasting in those stories, and reworking them a bit, if only smoothing them for storytelling gigs or fully realized performance pieces. That will be an hour of your morning on the boat. And then you will work on smoothing the intros, that will be another hour to two hours of stolen moments—you can likely get through the first six signs in about two days, right? Then you have the whole rest of the time to devote to fleshing out the others. It will be fun and it will keep you focussed. So that by the time you hit New Hampshire, on August 8, you are already editing and drawing out the books, per day, finished on your end, surely, by the 20th—and then you’ll have ten full days of working on your Christmas show while finishing your fundraising. Sounds fairly doable. And, again, I think a simple schedule of work as such will keep you grounded while on holiday without at all interfering with it.

When I first thought to write you this, which was only a few days ago, I was going to see that: “on a deeper note, you’ve gotten really far away from yourself and you need to get it together”; however in just a few short days you have proved you can still rely (albeit decreasingly) on your bounce-back ability. So bravo for continuing to watch your diet and for exercising and getting out and enjoying nature in the process. More than in any summer I can remember, you have gone to the beach more often than I can even count, going back to spring. This is another reason I’m so proud of you. I know it’s painful to fully open like a prismatic, cosmic flower without anesthetizing yourself against the angst and fear, nay panic, in doing so, but it really is better that you operate from this particular station at this point. I don’t often say I love you but I want you to know I really do. You’re a very good person and the irony of being (and no it’s not just your imagination) treated as less-than or discarded by others is not lost on us. You might say it’s proof positive of how powerfully wonderful you can be. So keep up the good work of being yourself! XX

Ah Bastille Day. I have memories of almost winning a boule tournament one Bastille Day, playing in partnership with chef Alan Harding against dozens of teams from all the top French restaurants in New York. If I remember correctly we came in third or fourth.

I am having terrible writer’s block in attempting to meet some important project deadlines. I think it’s because there are so many different things going on at once; I always think I can stick to set “units of time” but, alas, I never have. Still everything gets done; and I must remember what I told myself yesterday. Meanwhile I am front-loading health and exercise. The day has been starting with low tide so it’s up and out to the beach for the next few days, which really helps keep my head on straight.

This time next week I’ll be setting off to Boston for the weekend and meeting with the Dean of the MFA. I look forward to just being able to focus on all things Glow-y for awhile and to get cracking on the fundraising which is seriously lacking this year. Provincetown has never felt more changed, filled with day trippers while Ryan Murphy and his ilk continue to buy up houses they don’t live in. It’s become such a status symbol for rich gays. But the arts outlook is becoming rather dim in the process.

Ooh, I haven’t in so long a time felt such a spirit of excitement and élan as I am currently experiencing. Even in the mindst of the mountain of work I’m facing, somehow it all seems manageable, due to how much effort I’ve already put in. I’m quite proud of myself and my accomplishments thus far this year, and I can say so here, publically, because it’s only you and me reading this. Ha! And who cares. I had an artist bag out on me, or rather never even have the courtesy and decency to tell me: you know what thank you for your offer but I can’t do it. Just threats and recrimination and then a big silent fuck you. Well, I’m not going to dignify these actions with any kind of retaliation (except for venting here). Still, this morning, I was asking why me? Why do people feel comfortable. They definitely shouldn’t. Anyway, I can only keep my side of the street clean…

Today is my friend Matt’s birthday. I wrote Happy Birthday Matt to him in a text. I went to see if he got it, and when I checked, in the box wherein you would type a text to send, were the words: I am not coming home. Isn’t that kind of spooky. I think it is—it flashes me back to the kind of freaky feelings I’d get, always in summer, reading books like The Amityville Horror or Suffer the Children, which I mainly did, in the summer of 76.

You have to include everything—you can’t be so black and white. You are not good nor are you evil if you indulge in certain behaviors. Whether or not they are good or not for you, they needn’t have resonance beyond the scope of the action itself. It is its own thing. It doesn’t mean anything more about you. It surely isn’t a sign you’re spinning down in any way. Especially when coincidence or synchronicity brings such things to you. You must accept them. They have no moral assignation.

You don’t have parents looking over your shoulder; and you’re not in trouble. And though it is comforting that friends might play that knowing, authoritative part from time to time, you have an off-switch. You understand how to monitor yourself. Like now: You can ritualize your experience, not only including it but empowering it to empower you, instead of rationalizing it, embarrassed by expressions of your true nature. You can do this. It is all a choice. All choices are a choice. Imagine guilt not playing a part.

I will read the Bhagavad Gita (again?) while on this trip and read nothing else. It will mark the beginning of new spiritual sustenance. I have often read great books on boats. This is the essential book and I will not not read it. Alaska should be something of a spiritual journey. It should absolutely not be anything that resembles a debauch, by any stretch of the imagination. I am looking forward to seeing my friend Florian most of all (to be honest).

I have not had the best taste in friends over the years. It really is an area where I am really terrible. I didn’t much enjoy the weekend having all my high school friends to visit, I must be honest. It was way too full on. People are so selfish and narciissistic. I don’t think I am, but maybe people say that about me. Who knows.

It just takes a moment for things to go completely off. I was doing fine enough. But one false move and then everything goes kaput. I have to learn my lesson this time. I can’t keep making the same mistake over and over. It’s not a good look, and it puts me in deeper danger than I can rationalize. When I’m not in the correct state of mind I am simply too uninhibited to know what’s what. I feel for me I really do. There is a huge part of me that is, for lack of a better word, missing. And so I take scraps, but I realize that I might really be living out some trauma, or retraumatizing myself, to use modern vernacular.

I need to treat this vacation as a vacation. I think I need to really rest and recuperate and let myself be taken care of a little. Maybe something has finally switched in me for the better where I realize that I know longer process the same input as I did in the past. I am beginning to know what is detritus and not to repeat patterns on the them of that definition of insanity. I am not going to make things better this way. I have to keep my head screwed on straight if I’m to navigate my personal and professional life and this increasingly crazy world. Otherwise the proverbial they win. They are trying to wear us down. And we can’t let them.

All this while we watch our illegitimate president suck Putin’s cock on international TV.

I won’t get into it. I can’t get into it. Our leaders now have to step up and prove that we are stronger than this one man. Meanwhile, I have my own goals to achieve, my own battles to fight, only I’m not fighting. I am tired of speaking about myself and giving a daily account. Something has switched in me and I need to speak on more metaphorical and metaphysical a level. I must begin to achieve what I need to achieve and to sleep when I’m tired. I cannot keep coming up against the same obstacles—it’s not doing anybody any good. Especially me. I’m the one who truly suffers and I’m kind of sick of it.

And so I go to the beach and I walk three miles in sinking sand. I eat healthfully and sleep nine hours. I sit back at my computer and resolve to do better. I make my plans for the future with more than hope, but resolve The general atmosphere these past two years has trickled down, even to members of our so-called community. I see an uptick in selfish, venal, mercenary, self-aggrandizing behavior across the board to which most people have not been immune. There is the overt and there is the insidious. The result of feeling universally persecuted unfortunately results in fearful dog-eat-dogging. You are only a victim if you choose to be; and if you do, you are likely going to victimize others in the process. I choose kindness, increased compassion, community and, most of all, I choose forgiveness and Love.

I’m going to focus on the positive. I’m going to clean slate myself and stop living in fear. I have plenty of time and I have done all the heavy lifting already. Everything else now can just be icing. And downtime, even a wee trip down the rabbit hole, is a necessary part of the process. I actually feel renewed and thus ready to keep up the good fight. I must find a way to activate S+C against what is happening politically. I must find a way to give counsel to people, more widely, as I do for our individual clients. I feel it must now be a calling and I have to get that mechanism moving. I ask for guidance on this score.

Next year will be the crystal anniversary of Sextrology and I’m thinking up a bunch of fun ways to promote what will definitely be a new ebook edition, and hopefully a new print one; it requires getting a wee bit more respect from that powers that be at HarperCollins. They’re owned by Murdoch that fascist reptile so, really, if they don’t pony up, they can go fuck themselves. It dawned on me today how many people I know who are powered by phony fucking money. I have been so naive whe friends have mine have had houses bought for them, school tuitions paid for them—and I’ve seen them elated and celebratory. How to remain friends with people you know are succored by what would be blood money. To be honest, if I think it through I’m not really surprised. Some of my best friends for decades I fear might really be quite, how do you say, elitist (in the true sense not in the insdide-out GOP-spin sense). Of course they are the same people who give to Christian charities, which, unbeknownst to them, are likely human trafficking outfits. You think I’m kidding and I’m not. I need to get more involved in Lumos and other organizations.

This week is not turning out to be what I expected and I keep rejigging my daily planner. But you know what—fuck it. Time has to work for me not the other way around. I will get through everything and all will be done, so why stress. Why stress anything really. It’s all made up. The important things now I find are exercise and eating right. That’s the simple first stepness of the Zodiac as well, it starts with Aries which rules the first house of, among other things, the physical body. The physical body, according to the Zodiac is spirt made manifest. Anyway, I’m not going to go on about astrology right now; I’m more interested in remaining terrestrial, here, today.

I’m going to miss our daily walks here these next three weeks. Wow that is a lot of missed walks. I won’t be getting much exercise on the yacht I can tell you. I suppose I shall have to learn how to walk on a treadmill—perish the thought. I miss the sand and sea and seals and so forth.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Farm Monster

Scorpio 28° (November 20)

Was very anxious this morning to a level I haven’t been in a while. I think the problems on the farm are really weighing on me more than I imagined. The lawyer will pay a visit today and that will prove fruitful. I will unlikely get any actual work done as I want the place looking sparkly and I need to move my body around in any case. Going to make delicious flounder filets with spicy bok choy and white turnip mash. Finished Queen’s Gambit which was truly excellent in the end. We are managing to have fun through it all. It is really stressful though, to be sure. Anyway, let the healing begin. Went down a very deep English Beat rabbit hole, which felt fantastic.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1166-1170 I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Capricorn Man

Capricorn man is a throwback. He is cosmically steeped in tradition, born with an old-world sensibility, a practical penchant for tried -and-trued methods, and reverance and romanticism for former grandeur in any number of forms. This is archetypally ordained, it would seem, as the sign is ruled by Saturn, the deposed king of the god’s and ruler of the mythological golden age, that of the Titans, before being overthrown by the classical Olympian gods. Though more primitive a time, the reign of the Titans was something of a paradise, as there was no vice in the world, everybody did the right thing; there wasjust peace and harmony and prosperity; nobody worked to survive, the earth providing in abundance, and people lived to a very old age while retaining their youthful appearance, dying peacfully, though living on as ancestor spirits. Nothing wrong with that; unless you forever long for a world while living in this one, something Capricorn men do in a variety of ways.

Capricorn might live by a solemn moral code—rules and regulations, long-held traditions being attributes of the tenth astrological house associated with his sign—while indulging in certain decadences—decay being a hallmark of his own artistry and aesthetic. There is an inherent wistfulness to his character, fittingly, if not a sorrowful melancholy that is suprising motivating. For, Capricorn is not a defeatist; rather he won’t easily venture that which he’s not pretty much guaranteed to achieve; as such he is highly realistic about what talents he does or does not possess; he never strives to be something that doesn’t come easily. That which does will be given his total all—he’s never one to put eggs in multiple baskets. And being so narrowly focused, he doesn’t entertain. the notion of competition, that is except for the self-kind of beating his own personal bests.

In contrast to Jupiter whose energy is expansive (ruling over the previous sign of Sagittarius), Saturn’s energy is restrictive, containing and retiring. It is about preservation. And Capricorn surely paces himself, like an elder getting through a long day’s events. His tastes tend to the elegantly leisurely—no man perhaps possessses as many pairs of loafers. He is not out to prove…anything. Still, his own self-imposed goals will be as high as the standards of personal conduct he sets for himself. Like the metaphoricaly deposed royal that he is, no matter his worldly origins, Capricorn comports himself with what can only be described as good breeding, which, biologically speaking, is a most vivid example of tradition. Carrying on, in fact, is something Capricorn is wont to do, in every sense of the term. That is to say he can succomb to wailing bouts of melancholia so abyssmal that he must fight to climb out of them. In some ways Capricorn man seems not so much a scapegoat as an escape valve through which not just his own but a sort of collective grief is expressed. Like he’s mourning for all of us. That sense of hurt lends him a serious air, pulling on heart strings and contributing to his overall appeal and profile as a seasoned, experienced, mature and sophisticated a man.

Even at a tender age, this, the Zodiac’s Holden Caulfield, has a wizened lens on the world, which motivates him to gather his rosebuds as he may; which manifests in something of a paradoxical manner: Capricorn, whose sign motto is I use, will waste not a moment in pursuing his dreams, working every wrinkle in time for accomplishment; while, at the same time, he sows more wild oats and samples more earthly delights than any man in the Zodiac. Of course, if doing so conflicts with that notoriously strict moral code, he may wrestle self-loathing on that score. For the most part, though, Capricorn doesn’t find his lofty aspirations and licentious affectations to be mutually exclusive. Like the goat god Pan living in Arcadia, even the most urbanite Capricorn has a pastoral view of existence—simple and quiet but for the rutting of satyrs and nymphs. He is, in fact attracted to rustic types with whom intimate relations will smack of certain corruption. He likes to have the upper hand in relationships, as a rule, often partnering with people who in no way threaten to get up in his goatish grill. Let’s bring the catcher Caulfield back in to illustrate the Capricorn male paradox: He wants to at once save and slaughter the innocence of life, to preserve it so to savor the spoils thereof.

Like his mythic ruler, Saturn, Capricorn is all about divine decadence. Saturn is god of seed sowing, and yet, with his signature scythe, he is the prototype of the grim reaper. Also of Father Time, which seems to be on Capricorn’s side. He is an enduring character who moves, albeit sometimes at a tortoise’s pace, from strength to strength. Even when suffering a personal fall, he rarely slips so far that he can’t pick himself up to continue his ascent toward his next milestone. Capricorn David Bowie even rose from the dead, Lazurus-like. And we may find that young Holden recovered from his own breakdown—depending on what Capricorn J.D. Salinger may’ve published posthumously.

The most monumental of women, even pint-sized Capricorns pack an iconic punch. She is at once a staunch and capricious character, depending on the stimuli. Most people will experience her as the former, only a handful of intimates getting glimpses of the latter. Much of the ongoing Capricorn condition is hinged on affecting a certain flow between the more rigid and more carefree sides of her personality—to find the freedom inside her infamous self-rules and -regulation and to employ them as solid scaffolding from which her boundless spirit may safely soar. Ruled by Saturn, the planet of structure and containment, she is born with healthy boundaries. Whereas Capricorn man draws on the archetype of the mythic Saturn, Capricorn woman derives power and meaning from his female counterpart, Rhea, whose name means “ease.” This might be music to Capricorn ears as, from youth, she is used to hearing and feeling that life must be hard. In truth, the mountaineering Goat is drawn to great heights of achievement, tough roads to hoe, but this is Capricorn’s happy paradox: As she matures she increasingly finds success in her professional and personal callings the more she eases into their processes. In our book Sextrology we call Capricorn woman The Sleeper. She is, by would-be cosmic decree, something of a late bloomer, all the hard work of her youth contributing to what might appear, to outsiders, as latebreaking overnight success. And they’d never seen her sweat.

In mythology, Rhea is goddess of motherhood; she the “grand mother” and “goddess of generations”, plural. Her husband ate her first five children; she managed to save her sixth, Zeus, who overthrew his father and freed his siblings. She embodies the passing on to others—she even mentored and gave her grandson, Zeus’ inheritor, Dionysus, her full “estate”, that is to say her brand of power, making him a male nature god, plus perks like her leopard-drawn chariot. She is the embodiment of traditions, endowments being passed down. She comes to us in fairy tales as the fairy godmother, a kindly all-powerful being. All of this goes a long way to illustrate Capricorn woman’s character: Whether or not she herself ever gives birth, the grandness in the she-goat’s character dictates that she play universal mother to a great many, nurturing, mentoring and administering to so-called children on a vast scale, in the abstract or both. Even if she is a literal mother, she is somewhat eccentric and detached. Though thoroughly loving, she imposes a healthy formality, on guard against codepency, you might say, taking a more grandmotherly approach, with one cool remove, to motherhood.

The mythical Saturn, with his scythe, is the symbol of the grim reaper, but Rhea’s brand of “passing on” is in the form of a baton. Likewise, Capricorn’ ambition always includes others. She learns things she can impart; she gains wealth to share it. The Capricorn motto is I use, and she does so for great purpose(s). Born under the cardinal-earth sign, symbolized by a mountain, Capricorn is sure-footed, enduring, in it for the long haul. Rhea’s home is the mountain, also called a horn—Matterhorn means mother mountain. Capricorn is the cornucopia, the goat horn of plenty. The previous sign of Sagittarius, ruled by Jupiter, is about abundance—Capricorn, ruled by Saturn, denotes containment, seeking to preserve the bounties of the world lest they overflow and spoil. To be exact, Capricorn is the Sea-Goat, mountain and lake, a reservoir, a container of all that is abundant and pure. Capricorn woman is reserved and conservative in the truest sense, a cosmic holder of that worth preserving. She is a keeper of postive traditions, generation upon generation, be it knowledge, customs, codes, mores, all such things that will serve the future. She is a human time capsule, a classic, a golden girl from the get go.

Being likened to some kind of grandma, even in her youth, is common for Capricorn. She leads with her serious self, intending to be respected and never trifled with. (If you catch her in a rare moment when you get an opposite impression she’s taken off her granny glasses and down her bun to let off a little steam.) She grooms herself into a person of importance, learned and refined, with ethos to impart. She is culture incarnate, the best of the past, present and future, three points drawing the circle of time (eternity). The cornucopeia, the reservoir; the Petri dish, in which select new growth is cultured . (Never mind that Capricorn Mary Tyler Moore played Laura Petrie on TV in the 1960s, evolving the culture, panicking the patriarchy, by insisting on wearing Capri pants.) The word panic comes from the goat-god Pan, whose wailing melancholy speaks archetypal volumes on Capricorn man. But Capricorn woman is so on guard against would-be gloominess, constantly climbing out of sinking feelings, this becomes the main motor of her self-empowerment. She will overcome. She’s not only been to the mountain, she is it, monumental. As a biproduct of her own edification, she Sherpas others and elevates the ethos overall. She personifies all that is enduring, meaning: lasting and worth suffering.

If the previous sign of Capricorn is all about a past worth preserving, Aquarius is the unwritten future, a time-space from where Aquarian man seems to have been sent. He will be regarded in his youth, distinguished in his family, as being different from the rest. His is a unique brand of signature high intelligence which mightn’t conform to conventional standards; and he tends to latch on to specific areas of interest, typically new, groundbreaking ones, where he can play a part in pioneering a field. In this way he is unpredictable; otherwise, he is a creature of routine, though one which might be considered unusual, working odd hours or otherwise marching to the beat of his own drummer. He will have many aquaintances, or what is more accurately termed followers, but very few close friendships. He may be something of an outlier, and buck whatever system he was brought up in. Whether on a hippy, spiritual or techie type of trip, he finds comfort in the company of other fringe or niche dwellers. Frequently suffering from ugly-duckling syndrome, this awkward geek, more often than not, matures into an alluring and rather imposing figure. Appearances being deceiving, he will always possess a deep sensitivity, a gooey center of vulnerability. More often than not, though, he will adopt a countenance of detachment or even a cliqueish disdain toward others, on high alert for getting hurt in relationships, which tended to be a source of even mild trauma in his youth.

The sign of Aquarius is ruled by Uranus, named for the primordial sky god, that of the univere (space). Uranus means to rain or to urinate which shares the same etymology. It’s assignation to the sign of the Water Bearer is thus thematically in line. Uranus was castrated by his son Cronus (Saturn), and from the severed bits sprang to life several beings, including the goddess of love. In biblial myth John the Baptist is the Water Bearer who also, through baptism, causes others to be reborn, paving the way for his cousin JC , who also is love. What, you wonder, has this to do with the Aquarian male? Well, seemingly from outer space, they are frontrunners, lone voices in the wilderness, bringing what might register as radical news, sticking their necks out, often losing their heads, for their convictions. The only fixed-air sign in the Zodiac, symbolized by a star—the Star card in the Tarot depicts the Water Bearer—Aquarius espouses fixed ideas, facts, truth and convictions; the paradox being that these truths aren’t necessarily evident, but of the as-yet-unproven variety. Cue that saying: Science fiction of today becomes science fact of tomorrow.

It’s like the advent of evolution itself. In the present will surface certain mutations, which, now, are the quirks, the ugly-ducking bits; however it will be along these mutations that evolution, and the survival of any species, will rely. Aquarius man is mutation made manifest—he is the oddity now but his uqnique visions will be the mainstay of the future. He is a walking-talking aha! moment, pouring out new life and understanding to anyone who’ll take a sip. The shadow side of the sign—we all have them—can see him become something of a guru with his own flavor of Kool-Aid. He requires a kind of vague adoration, while he finds one-on-one bonds to be challenging, for a variety of reaons. Sometimes it’s the notion of variety itself—all the romantic and other type possibilities out there—that prevents him from entering into constructs like marriage or monagamy. He might always keep his options open, even when in a commited bond, and bid a partner do likewise. More often than not, though, this laissez faire attitude toward emotional connections stems from having fallen hard in love and lost. Loss is not an emotion Aquarius will care to repeat if he can help it.

I know is Aquarius’ sign motto. It points to his emphatic conviction, while it also speaks to his encyclopedic knowledge about thinks of interest. He really seems to have a computer for a brain, and once he locks in information it is loaded for life. It is difficult to alter his first impressions of anything as he is quick to assign hard and fast labels for people and situations, refusing to waste time on second glances or guessing. This mainly serves him well but it can limit his experience, which, again, isn’t so bad a thing for him. Aquarius, the Star, as compared to his opposite sign of Leo, the Sun, is most comfortable at a distance, but he likewie expects everything to revolve around him. He is patient and will bide his time, happy for a cult following for his ideas, art, invention, activism, creation or even his friendship. He knows instinctively that he is ahead of his time and that others will always need to play catch up. Instead of making this a source of frustration, Aquarius also stays ahead of his game, even enjoying a certain obscurity in which he can further his craft or evolve his art or otherwise devise plans that will, even in some small degree, define our collective future.

In our book Sextrology, we call Aquarius man The Visitor, for oh so many reasons.

Aquarius Woman

She is a contradiction in terms: at once conventional to the point of unironic nerdiness, and yet the freest, unfettered freak on the astrologial block. From childhood, she is folksy, a homebody who revels in the company of close family, finding synergy with certain members, productive and creative ways to spend time bonding. For instance, if she plays the violin and a parent the oboe, she will form, and musically direct, a burgeoning duo. And this will become a theme in her adult realtionships—she likes to do things, perform activities, and otherwise share in the happenstance of life, with others. She makes her friends, meets her mates, in settings where she and like-minds gather, whether at work or play. Many Aquarian women partner with people who perform the same job, role or function as she does. It might be a symptom of wanting to share deeply with an object of affection on as many levels as possible. Some people can find her choice in other people to be questionable. It can seem that she isn’t aspirational enough in relationships. She is, after all, like The Star card in the Tarot, which pictures the Water Bearer, a naturally exalted, twinkling figure, an elevated fixture in her loved ones’ lives. Aquarius is ruled by Uranus, named for the god of the starry universe, and it’s fixed-air status, translating to a point of light, is indeed symbolized by the star; it is the axis- or so-called-opposite sign of Leo which, ruled by the Sun, our home star. Aquarius, with her far away eyes, is forever coming from a different place, and yet she is looked upon as a beacon, a north star, who helps others navigate their own human condition.

Stella (meaning: star) in A Streetcar Named Desire seems, on the surface, to be slumming it with Stanley. But this literary dynamic has mythic roots. The classic Water Bearer is Hebe, goddess of youth, and “daughter”, the maiden form, of the goddess Hera (Roman: Juno). Hebe is indeed divine but falls for the mortal Heracles (Hercules) which means “beloved of Hera.” Hebe is a “descending goddess” deigning to love a mortal who, by that love, is made divine. We see this, too, in the myth of Iris, another “descending goddess” who fell in love with a mortal. Iris is Hera’ messenger, goddess of the rainbow, her path for bringing good news to mortals, and thus elevating them. The seven colors of the rainbow correspond to the seven colored veils of Salome, the female counterpart to John the Baptist, the biblical waterbearer. So? So, archetypally speaking, Aquarius is designed to share her awesome inspiring rainbow unicorn-ness with those who mightn’t realize such magic exists in this world. Also, by raising up, enlightening, even one significant other she has removed from the world, and potentially saved it from, just another brute. To the untrained eye, it seems that she is casting her pearls. Both things can be true. And this is Aquarius woman’s most poignant paradox. For all her starry notions she is bound to play on the ground so raise up those who might feel low. Her sign’s motto is I know and we all look to the Aquarius woman (Oprah, Ellen) for answer.

What the Water Bearer pours out is a balm, a salve, certain salvation, saving grace. This is Aquarius woman’s superpower: She does honor and credit to others by her very presence. She personifies the principle of free and unmerited favor of a kindly cosmos and divine intelligence. Whereas Aquarius man draws on the primordial archetype of the mythic sky god Uranus, Aquarius woman’s metaphysics derive from his female counterpart, the goddess Gaia who is both his mother and his mate. Gaia is the most primeval of classic deities. She is the Earth incarnate, while her name more literally means “life”, “world” or “the totality of all creation,” which perhaps sheds some light on Mia Farrow’s mania for adoption. In ancient art she is depicted as reclining on the earth surrounded by countless Carpi, winged Cupid-like infant gods of earth’s bounty. In the present neopagan view she is the divine spirit of the Earth, which would seem like another paradox, being that, she’s also likened to a distant Star. But was not all of life, all of us, here on Earth, indeed made out of stardust, long ago and far away?

As essentially life-giving as Gaia, (and Aquarius woman) is, she is so sweepingly so as to be impersonal. Yet another paradox of the sign: the Water Bearer feels strongly for the world and for people in general, but she is comparatively cavalier in one-on-one bonds. Like Gaia, who has countless lovers beyond Uranus, Aquarius woman is probably the most free-wheeling amongst women—did you know Uranus is the only planet to roll through its orbit while all others spin on their axis? Stella probably didn’t stay with Stanley, but enjoyed the earthy engagement while it lasted. We joke that Aquarius woman always has a packed bag stashed under he bed. When she goes she’s gone. She personifies Uranus’ brand of energy which is sudden and deviating. It is not only that of evolution, via sudden mutation, but of revolution by way of awakening and revolt. Being such a giver, she won’t waste her grace on the unappreciative—she’ll go where the love is.

Pisces Man floats in and out of your life at will, but he’s always totally present when with you. Years will go by with seeing him, but it feels like no time has passed. The most knowing and yet unknowable of the signs, Pisces functions best unanchored, allowed to materialize, or fade into the ether, as it suits him. However, if he wants in to a certain milieu, just try to keep him out. He has a way of permeating situations, getting through the cracks, like a gas, appealing as a shameless but selfless creature, at once obsequious while taking up a lot of space—he can be very on—often being whomever you want him to be (if not your own personal savior). Pisces is the sole mutable-water sign, which is symbolized by the salt sea, foam, mist, fog and vapor. In our book Sextrology his chapter is called The Drifter for numerous reasons. Besides being unbeholden by nature, he is like a lucid dreamer, holding some overall vision in mind, nothing specific, otherwise giving himself over to experience and letting it take him where it will. The sign is ruled by Neptune, the planetary energy of dissolution; and Pisces man does tend to dissolve into life, giving himself over utterly to experience, letting go and letting…belief carry him. The sign’s motto is I believe, and Pisces embodies it, believing in himself, generally, and in his broad skills and talents to find their ultimate expression. He is impressionistic, nonlinear, taking a big-picture perspective, letting opportunities emerge from the field of his experience. More than most, he lets life dictate his journey, walking the path of least resistance. If he wants to be a fine artist but receives an opportunity to, say, design sets, he will go where that love is, unlike the more singular minded folks among us.

Pisces seems to absorb knowledge as if by osmosis, boasting an encyclopedic understanding of anything and everything. He is typically a visual person drawn to vocations that fall under Neptune’s rule—art, design, film, photography, media, all which deal in certain imagery—given to some fantasy, illusion, enchantment and imagination, as it relates, not just etymologically, to making a little magic. In life and career, Pisces is who he imagines himself to be, typically characterized as a departure from his origins. He is a revisionist in the purest sense of the word, reframing his life to suit his soul instead of trying to fit in or make peace with the circumstances of his upbringing. From the moment he can walk, he is set upon a unique journey, constantly morphing as a result of his many influences and references, erasing from his memory-banks life circumstance that doesn’t support his ever unfolding story line. He sacrifices for his art or other callings but he doesn’t subscribe to a down-and-out lifestyle per se. Pisces tends to put on lofty airs, a signature manifestation of his self-art-direction, adopting a yah style of speech to match his seeming omniscience. He is drawn to rarified enclaves and aspects of culture that might smack of an upper crustiness—at the same time he may frequent certain “underground” realms into which most of us would never care to set foot, but he usually keeps that to himself. Pisces man has seen it all, or at least he’s trying to. And nothing surprises him. Again, like a gas, he seeps in everywhere, achieving a certain omnipresence (to match his omniscience), which is right up his archetypal alley. The Pisces fish are the mythic animal totems of the Aphrodite, also called Mari, and her son Eros, at once the oldest (father) god and yet the eternal babe (son)—see where we are going with this?—yeah, when Pisces Lou Reed said he felt like Jesus’s son, he wasn’t kidding. The itinerant messiah figure fits Pisces to a tee; as does his ability to fall into the arms of the world and let the universe decide his cosmic plan, without struggle but not without sacrifice. And, though he may be god-complexed, he identifies with the marginalized, often surrounded by disenfranchised souls whom he inspires, even at cocktail parties. The twelfth astrological house of Pisces is the poubelle, the trash bin of the Zodiac, and it rules outcasts, pariahs, the forgotten, the exiled, castaways, and misfits.

There’s something magnetic about a person who lives life like he has nothing to lose and everything to gain. By the same token, this can rub people the wrong way. He seems to get life and, well, everything better than the rest of us—and he’ll have us know it. He can’t resist letting the steam out of stuffy situations, with clever and cutting remarks, even when doing so with signature lockjaw-aw affectation. He may feign a jadedness, mastering the eye roll, but, in paradoxical Pisces fashion, it will be false people or faulty situations that become the target of his censure—something that will always have a comedic bite to it, as if to say there is nothing that need be taken too seriously. Pisces may be the one human most naturally programmed with an understanding of his own mortality. He is the wise and powerful Oz of the Zodiac, working his world of illusion for all it’s worth, ultimately revealing certain truths in service of helping the small and meek. Because, maybe, he’s the most accepting of the fact that all roads lead to the same place.

Pisces woman is a delicate creature who in time learns she is tougher than she ever imagined. Naturally soft-spoken, if not a silent figure in her youth, she is an old soul with eyes that seemingly gaze inward. She is the most introspective of the signs and, let’s say, in tune with the more subtle vibrations of existence. Many a Pisces experiences psychic flashes in childhood, which can scare her, ironically causing her to try to shut down that part of herself. In more practical terms, Pisces is the most empathetic of creatures, which can cause her to isolate or otherwise lose herself in social activity or substances or all of the above, at various points in her life. Pisces is the only mutable-water sign, which has various interpretations. First, it speaks to the primordial soup from which all creation comes, whether in terms of the evolution of all life, or the embryotic state in which we are gestated. Pisces’ symbol opposite-facing fish signify the womb-tomb, the alpha-omega, the great beyond from whence we come and to we which will return.

Pisces’ mutable-water is also the salt sea, from which all earthly life crawled, and the foam and the mist and also the fog. Pisces’ female archetype is that of Aphrodite (Roman: Venus) who emerged from the foam of the sea—the Pisces fish are the mythical totems of Aphrodite, goddess of love, and her son Eros (Roman: Cupid), also a god of love, the eternal babe who is also the oldest of the gods, just one of the sign’s many paradoxes, which Pisces often beautifully personifies. In our book Sextrology, the Pisces woman chapter is called The Dream, pointing to the intangible, misty stuff of our soulful reveries, at once elusive and signifying a certain oblivion, while also being the state via which we most probably connect with the proverbial All. And Pisces woman is likewise dreamy, hard to get a hold of, indefinable, and yet so palpably powerful on a level one can’t quite pin down. We become lost in our dreams and yet they save us; and Pisces, the Siren of the Zodiac, has a way of making others lose their footing while being the most inspiring and muse-like of creatures. The word Siren means cord, rope, to join and to bind—those Pisces fish are bound by a central umbilical chord, how Aphrodite and Eros stayed connected—and we sense from Pisces woman a soulful need to connect, not just one-on-one in relationships, but with humanity as a whole as well as on a spiritual level. Many Pisces women become spokeswomen of causes aimed at helping those who are most marginalized or forgotten by society, the gravely ill and other so-called untouchables. Pisces’ compassion for others is rivaled only by her proclivity for leading a dramatic life—no woman has more soap operatic an experience than she.

Like her Pisces male counterpart, Pisces woman tends to be something of an anomaly in her family of origin, cut from a finer cloth than other members of her clan. She is an autodidact and takes pains to better herself, presenting herself as mannered, tasteful, cultured and refined. Often an artistic ability, as a dancer, artist or musician, exposes her to people and prospects not afforded others in her family, where she is groomed for “better things.” She is often unfortunately susceptible and subjected to dominant figures on whom she comes to rely, the transcending of these dynamics and relationships, though difficult, building the kind of emotional muscle that comes to define Pisces’s signature survivor status. She may prematurely run with a fast crowd, swept away by promises of glamour, pleasure, ease and luxury. In time she will learn to provide herself the right amount of all of these elements as fringe benefits to a meaningful life; spent making a difference, typically, in the lives of those challenged to help themselves. She feels and thus takes personally other people’s pain and suffering. And others generally make a great impression on her—she all too easily adopts the personality, cadence and rhythm of those with whom she spends long stretches of time—which is why she oft opts to be reclusive, limiting how much of other’s energy she absorbs.

Ruled by Neptune, planet of dissolution, the mutable-water sign of Pisces speaks to non-material existence, that of the purely spiritual or energetic. (Scientifically, we now know that all matter is energy, anyway.) She is like a spirit in the material world. And she can often seem a blithe one, that is to say casual and indifferent; this being a demeanor she adopts as protection against the extremes to which she can go, whether dragged down by an undertow of despair or riding giant waves of exaggerated, exhilarating emotion. Meditative practices (or even being an avid reader) are ways she can keep, or rather not lose herself in a sea of world problems or, closer to home, in an ocean of emotion. Her love life tends to be tempestuous, but that is, typically in part, by choice. Even a little drama is in this department goes a long way to keep Pisces and her partners on their respective toes. She can’t abide a status quo romantic life. So she may inflate issues so to inspire deeper connection on them, only to then surface and float more blissfully resolved.

I want to once again fall into the arms of the universe, which for me means letting go of all attachment and moving around the world at will. I feel I have to look on the next ten days before heading off to Alaska as a work-holiday of sorts. I must continue to rest and diet and allow my organs some respite, while I get the entire mechanism of the festival totally up and running. Challenge for the Actor, to be sure. Anyway, I know all is doable if I just do what’s right in front of me and take it from there.

TK dropped out of performing at Afterglow; rather she didn’t sign on, spending months finding excuses not to. I would say to her:

Let us agree that you found excuses and unuttered reasons not to send your contract citing that you had no printer. Still when I asked if you were “for sure signed on” so that I could get posters with your name on it designed and printed you said: “YES.” Despite having patiently waited monthys amid many a number of attmpts to get that plus show information and photos you simply never did. In the process, you kept saying “next week” or “after the show opens” and I tried as best as I could to work around you.

Then suddenly most recently you tried to blame the festival for putting some kind of financial pressure on you, saying you were “broke” and “busted” from doing shows back to back this spring and summer and “don’t you [me] know what you’re asking me [you] to do?” as if I was somehow the cause of what you seem to consider your own financial planning.

All I did, months ago, was offer you a slot in the festival, which you accepted; we settled on a date and you confirmed that both you and TK, your accompanist, could do that date. And I sent you a contract. That was April.

You know as the months ticked by that I need you contract and meterials; you knew I was spending donated money on designing and printing. You kept having me wait and to meanwhile bill the show generically. I suggested wording to you on that score and you told me it was wrong and I changed it. Then suddenly last week you say you’re having second thoughts but that you will “update me after” your show opens. It opened four days ago. I emailed and texted you and you didn’t respond. You try to make this seem like my fault—perhaps I’m seeing your process of your trying to convince yourself, yourself.

I, who have championed you for the last seven years, most notably to ART/Oberon, having you several times at festival and in my series at ART/Oberon, which resulted in a subsequent run of your show and a bucolic workshop. I have built audiences for you in Provincetown and Boston, and this is how you treat me. I may have been gaslighted and ghosted in the past, but not at the same time by the same person; and not by someone whom I trusted to be kind and fair to a friend and colleague.

I will add that I now have to redesign, reprint and redistribute materials with your name on it. And I will refrain from sending you the bill. You will pay without my lifting a finger. I feel bad for you. Anyone who does any combination of Starsky + Cox wrong always gets what they give one-hundred-fold. I apologize in advance for what the universe might deliver.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

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