Aries 14° (April 4)
The men will soon appear. The place for the barn has been set just one hundred feet or so back and to the side of the house. Castor peers through the mud room window at the dew glistening blue on the grass. At that moment a coyote slinks through the yard all apologetically side glancing. There are no bunnies about. A yellow flicker is heard rapidly pummeling the iron cap on the chimney—it sounds like a mechanical, not a natural thing—wow this is hard. He is missing something but not sure what. Is it Jenny? Marcus? Childhood? No answer comes. He pads outside, the brick step like ice on his bare feet, but the air warm under the cold and floral. He sneezes. And some thought goes from his mind. He grabs the bucket and heads into the inner garden through the arch of unblossomed wisteria through the field of would-be wild flowers and down the path that separates the Wildes from the Woods.
The first thing you do, when you think you’re having a stroke, is to delete your history. The thought of being dead and knowing that people might see what you were up to online. I say people because I don’t have family. We maybe will tackle that later—this is a workshop so I’m not sure which possible avenues I’ll choose yet. And also part of this performance is about letting things that occur to me occur to me and I know that sounds artsy fartsy but you see I am a natural psycic which scared me in my youth, as it did my mother in hers. I am squandering my gifts. Certain spates of time can be characterized as epochs wherein little bits of your soul get bitten off. When you’re young you have a lot of soul to lose; but when you get to be d’un certain age and all is beyond not ahead of you, well, you’re pretty threadbare when it comes to affording any further loss of that elemental self. And there are other certain times in life (like now) when one feels close to that entropic erosion, as redundant as that word pairing might be.
I was reared (told they were geniuses of our age) on Gertrude Stein and Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Kandinsky and Mondrian and Miro. Nowadays I deal with cabaret stars who think they are geniuses and perhaps they are. I’ve always thought it and underrated medium. In 1985 I was moving to Paris and fantasized about singing new songs in an old style as a vocalist called Pan; some version of that fantasy did not not come to pass. I also thought I’d have four kids (I even had the names picked out); or that I would have a crepe truck (thirty years before food trucks were a thing); but what I ended up doing was not what I ended up doing and, then again, very much so. We had a lot to do this week; and I was not my best self. Spring does that to me every year; I tend to go a bit cuckoo. But now I have to get it all together and make sure I am hitting my marks with ease, joy, precision and a sense of unfolding. The Irish got it right with there let the road rise to meet you concept. Life on life’s terms, letting it meet you half way. That’s the proverbial ticket.
I’m most proud of Taylor Mac for mounting an original Broadway show. That is just something so fantastic. I’m proud of all my friends doing any number of things like one-offs and podcasts and one-offs; but I’m most proud of this major work by a friend-artist. Taylor always goes big or goes home and I have never known him to go home. Ever. If you can believe it Taylor was in the first ever show we ever ever (did I say ever) did back in March of 2005. I had just been at the other Kripalu which we call Crapola. And when I got back I shook my Scarlett O’Hara to the heavens and said as gods are my witness I will never not be on a stage again. So I forced my way into the cabaret scene with our little Cosmic Cabaret show in Chelsea at a placed called Elmo. It was a great show. We in some ways did more with that show then we had with any since—it was a series of shows based on the signs—the first ever one being called The Rage of Aquarius. Kenny Mellman and Rachelle Garniez and Raquel Cion and the Cucumbers, John and Deena, were in it. And even Richard fucking Barone directed it. Anyway, in it began the storyline we didn’t follow through about me being “the runt quintuplet” found days later. Skulking in the corner of the womb. Anyway I did a search for this phrase on my computer just now and what came up, or fell out, was this whole big two-person play about us and being truklus and going to Camp Blavatsky, all of which was based on semi fictional stuff. This was before we met Matt Ray and focused exclusively on music.
To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree pointof the Sabian Symbol will be one degree higher than the one listed for today. 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 or 6 days per year—so they near 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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