Aries 0° (March 20)

 

Happy Spring! Pisces 30° (that link takes you to the last Sabian Symbol post from the first year of this Blague) is one and the same as Aries 0°. Now, the Sabian Symbol corresponds to the day leading up to the degree. This is why that, at the bottom of this (and every day’s) post there will be a link from the first year I wrote the Blague that corresponds to the next degree than what is listed above with the date. We are talking about the same spate of time. Again, it’s just that 1° of the Sabian Symbol means from 0° to 1°. If you don’t understand what I’m saying I’m sorry. I’ve done the best I can. To reiterate what I said yesterday, I am reading five days worth of the first year of this Blague every day for the next year. I have already written five years of this daily Blague, so reading five entries a day means I’ll be all caught up to myself by the time we get to Spring Equinox 2021. I have never read any of my Blagues to date and so this is a way for me to review what I’ve done and maybe pull some things out that might make good content for future live shows or books or for personal use. As I stumble upon some good stuff I’m going to cut and paste it here and maybe write into it or add to it. What I will likely do is not cut and paste anything specific about the Sabian Symbols themselves (metaphysical expressions of each degree of the 360° circle of the Zodiac) because there will be a link to those entries at the bottom of each of these daily posts, taking you to year one of my Blague writing where I daily addressed the Sabian symbols. You might click back and read yesterday’s post if this is making no sense at all to you. I was pretty smooth in my expression about it in a way I feel I’m failing to be now. Clicking the link below to the 2015 Blague entry will give you specific information about the Sabian Symbols themselves. This has become bi- or even tri-directional. And I promise you it will be a lot more fun than the present tone would suggest!

So an update on what is actually happening on this day. S. and I got up at the crack and packed. We heard yesterday that our angel friend is going to fly us back home on a charter jet. We couldn’t be more grateful or more blessed. Just got to Stanstead and we are awaiting to board the Global 5000 airplane. I will tell you more about it tomorrow!

I wrote the following blocks of text in Blagues 1-5:

Then this winter I lost my wedding ring. I’d lost about thirty pounds since I bought it and it was my own damn fault for not having it resized. There were moments of foreshadowing when I’d wake up with it not on my finger only to find it had been flung across the room when I turned abruptly in my sleep. But on one of the blizzard days in Boston a month or so ago I returned home from a walk with it gone from finger. I couldn’t quite feel my fingers because it had been so cold—it may have come off with my glove, or just fallen from my super shrunken frozen digit. I was very upset. Very upset. Despite the fact it wasn’t one of the set of rings we actually exchanged at our wedding, it had more significance still. I mean, we were married in 1989 so our first rings were what you’d expect: wide silver Robert Lee Morris jobs; mine was so thick i couldn’t bend my finger for years. If I didn’t have an allergy to it, I had an energetic repulsion. It never felt good on me and I stopped wearing it not many years after marriage. For more than a decade we didn’t wear wedding rings until one day…yes it’s about to happen, folks!: a big synchronicity is making it’s way into my storytelling, albeit not unheavy-handedly:

When Stella and I graduated university we moved to Paris where we established a group of friends with whom we are still quite close. Jo was one of that number and just over a decade later she would begin publishing a slew of books under a penname. In 2005, she was already world famous of course and though we had been in touch with her, recently-ish, it had been a year or two; and so when we had a two-night trip planned to Edinburgh for the first time, from London where we were staying with our friends and godchildren, we weren’t about to let Jo know that we were coming, as it was going to be a quick thirty-six hours; and it would have taken some doing to reach her as her lifestyle had changed a bit to say the least. So we didn’t try. As it was, we had just one full day to explore the whole city and I was resolved that we shouldn’t even stop to eat—we should just keep moving and grab snacks and streetfood along the way. So, of course, being the Libra I am, by noon I was famished and wanted a sit-down lunch. We had stopped into Harvey Nichols—I think I needed to buy socks—and we thought, let’s go upstairs to the cafe. Well it was a crush. The place was jammed and the host pointed out that he only had one small table for two free, which was smack up against what looked like a univeristy student, scribbling away in her notebook, head down, and I asked: Is there not a more private table opening up? There wasn’t. So off we trundled, my left upper lip in a sneer, to sit down next to the scribbler twisting her hair. Stella didn’t sit but dropped her bag and beelined for the loo as I sat down, with my attitude, harumph. I noticed the scribbler was dressed all in shades of acquas and blues as I swivelled my eyes left and down. Nice boots for starters. And as I started to scan upwards, planning to sneak a peek, if I could, at the face, she was doing likewise, and our eyes met in a dead on stare. We both gasped or at least we thought we did. In fact we screamed, and Stella came running back thinking I’d had some sort of seizure or attack. Then we all three screamed more, quite audibly, which drew over the host and waiters who thought perhaps that the two Americans newly seated were accosting this lady customer whose identity was not unknown to them. While, in truth, the Universe had simply arranged a surprise lunch for Jo, Stella and me in so wonderfully easy a manner that we could never have planned for ourselves. We slammed our tables together and sat and ate and chatted for hours. Jo asked why it was we didn’t wear our wedding rings. We told her. And she said we had to go directly to her jeweler on George Street, Hamilton & Inches—she had just come from there as she was having a real golden snitch made for a charity event—and we were to tell the head clerk that “the golden snitch lady sent” us, and that we did, to which he, replied, “yes well, let me sharpen my pencil,” meaning let’s see what kind of discount I can offer on the two rings we’d picked out. I loved my ring. It looked like the ring. As in The Lord of the…but I lost it this winter after nearly exactly a decade.

But here’s the weird thing. First, since I lost my ring, it made the loss of those aformentioned people pale in comparison and it completely cured me of any pangs or angst on that subject. The second thing that happened was that I kept getting the phrase in my mind: The ring is a Horcrux. Now I’d like to say I know so much about the Harry Potter world that I could immediately rattle off to you what a Horcrux is, but I couldn’t, and I didn’t bother to even look it up until this morning, despite the fact this phrase has been being repeated in my brain since my ring’s loss. What I did have the greatest sense of, though, without knowing what a Horcrux really was…was..that somehow the ring being flung out there into the snowy world amplified a certain spiritual power and connectedness. I can’t quite put it into words but I’ll try: It has something to do with my mother who passed around the time I purchased the ring. Okay, however strange this sounds, my sense was that the ring, flung out there somewhere, instead of being on my finger, was taking on the form of a remote receiver, like a power station, and that it is actually functioning as a transmittor between not only me and my mother, but me and whatever powers from which I draw my own brand of psychic ability. And that the loss cum sacrifice of this ring, which I came to possess in the first place by way of a very lovely and entertaining cosmic joke, not only provided healing and closure on some pretty serious emotional pain, but it has become far more a source of strength and power than it ever could have been in my sweaty-palmed possession.

So, as I said, I looked up the term Horcrux this morning and it does serve a similar function to what I sensed my ring was providing, in that it is an object of power in which is hidden a fragment of the soul of the person who created it. The Horcrux anchors one’s soul to the earth if the body is destroyed and the more one makes the closer one gets to immortality. The upshot is they’re evil and only created by a Dark witches or wizards. Any opinions on my person from certain quarters not withstanding, I am a very white warlock and so I believe my ring to be the Light version of a Horcrux, designed not for some future immortality but for a very present sense of divinity. Interestingly, the Greek root hor- has two meanings: the first being boundary, as in the word horizon, which seems to define J.K. Rowling’s Horcrux, being that it is bound to its creator, and it binds him or her to the earth; the second meaning of hor-, however is hour, as in the word horoscope, something not unfamiliar to me. I cast my horoscopes as I cast my ring.

And I wrote this:

As a Libra, the Scales being the only “inanimate” sign in the zodiac, the male archetype of the sign being Apollo, the god of abstracts like: art, order, music, reason, prophesy, light, I’m sensitve to seeming too conceptual, not real, to others. And yet I’ve come to understand that the true nature of the sign isn’t about being inanimate but to animate, or to reveal as animated, that which is supposed unreal because it’s inorganic. What is Art? What is good Art? What is good Abstract Art? Why do we attempt to equate, compare Life with Art? Seriously, why do we do that? Why should Art be akin to Life? We might judge the merit of a piece of Art that falls under the heading—gotta love the term—”abstract realism” or any purely abstract work—a Mark Rothko piece comes to mind—on whether or not it seems alive or, in Rothko’s case, breathing. There might be something real in this. The artist working in absract forms may indeed be giving life and on the whole we, as the observer, sense, if not know, when s/he has. Characters in a play or in a novel are brought to life. Or perhaps they are revealed to be living—that they embody, giving abstract form to, archetypes taht already exist, in intangible form. What is music? We don’t really make it. It exists. We’ve simply found it and, like the triangle in its geometry, music has an inherent math that we’ve divined. All the art forms, personified of course by the Muses from whence the word music derives, are essentially abstracts; but we might consider them to be not only living but also life giving.

 

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree pointof 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!
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