Author: Quinn Cox (page 1 of 151)

In All Seriousness

Aries 16° (April 5)

 

Okay I have been home now for just a little over two weeks. I cannot believe it has only been that long, because not only has the world completely changed, but also I feel as if I’ve accomplished so much in the process. This is so much worse than I imagined it would be. It isn’t great to be an optimist during times like these. At least it is Spring and we are looking at a warm six months ahead not a freezing one. If we manage not to get ill this Spring and Summer, there is no guarantee of not getting it in the Autumn. Are things ever going to be the same again one wonders. The very idea of going to Northern Italy frightens me. I need to call the doctor and get the film of my MRI, not that I’m going to start any kind of physical therapy up again now anyway. But we will get to understanding this whole arbitration scenario in any case. These are just top of mind things I’m dealing with. They can totally wait. I just wasted hours doing nothing but looking at real estate. I never know where I want to live. Nothing ever feels like the exact right thing I don’t know why. Why am I failing miserably today already. I need to forge on. Okay it is now hours later and I did half of what I had hoped to do but I’m not too, too concerned about it because it is still a lot and this coming week will provide opportunities for sneaking in here and there. Nothing other than this crap happened in my world today. I have to diversify and get my mojo working. My work is so sedentary by nature. But as the months tick by I do have the opportunity to do a good deal of the work at hand, sitting in a chair, in the Sun. Make no mistake. It would be quite beneficial, actually, for me to do so. Otherwise I need to go for walks in any case. I am going to have a dry couple of months I think just to support the notion that I can. Meanwhile I’m tearing through my wine cave.

I am completely floored by the fact some of my closest friends are making jokes about this pandemic as they are decamped to their privileged second homes, not social distancing at all it seems. I truly don’t understand it. I believe that I may be losing these friends (out of choice) before this thing is over. I cannot for the life of me understand what is going on. Anyway, I’m going to b-r-e-a-t-h-e. S. did a session with Pema Chodron today which sounded amazing actually. I have to talk myself through the coming days. When I wake tomorrow at five as is my custom I am immediately focusing on the bit of the project work I didn’t finish today. And then we are going to Provincetown with masks and gloves; and then I will talk to my client about her branding project. When that is done we will have lunch and then I will do my yoga and maybe go for a walk. We have the tide chart posted. I have to take a line with the farmer and get him to fix things here on the land. You don’t need to know what that means, like not at all. I wonder if people still go to AA meetings in this current climate—I’m guessing they are all by Zoom.

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 81-85.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

Gemini and the cherries are barely ripening on the trees outside and yet the usually elusive Cedar Wax Wing is out in abundance, unabashedly eating the fruit, before it’s truly ripe, leaving just pits on the vine. Pits hanging from tree twigs—it’s pretty comical. Have you ever seen a Cedar Wax Wing? I hadn’t for years. It was the one bird I wanted most to see but it eluded me. Now they are everywhere. At least until the fruit is gone. The males squeal as if the fan in your window is squeaking. He has a brighter yellow belly and a sort of a tuft that he thrusts from his head and bolts of red hidden beneath his wings; but even he, the male of the species, is sleek and tawny and under the radar.

I awoke to Rick Steves this morning on PBS. Don’t get me started. You know his company is called Back Door Productions, right? Enough said. I love the way his “guides” are always some guileless young guy with a peach-fuzz moustache. Whatever. Point being: Rick and Steve are already the gayest names in the Universe. But to put them together? Where am I going with this. Oh yes: The episode to which I awoke was an oldie. He was in Northern England and he brought his (then?) wife and kids. They went to Blackpool where there was a ballroom with elderly people busting choreographed moves that would make your head spin. I love places like Blackpool. Asbury Park and Belmar, New Jersey, of my youth, were like that once, and they weren’t copies. They were built, architectually, around the same time. And their look is similar to Blackpool. There were “pavillions” on the boardwalk where old couples used to dance. Okay fine I’ll deal with today’s oracle:

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We are seeing common wo/man enjoying the bounty of civilization. Remember the middle class? I’m old enough to have grown up in it. I look at the young people around me and they closely resemble the Europeans my age, at the time, I’d encounter traveling around, back during the Reagan era; when, for instance, it was nine francs to the dollar. I don’t like the euro. I miss francs and lire. I miss pre-globalization. I’m so, so glad I lived it. My youth strikes me as so post-war now. I’m glad, too, that I lived in New York in the late 80s and 90s.  I’m happy to have sat front row at fashion shows before fashion was “a thing” and could take in the beauty of Linda, Naomi, Helena, Tatjana, Cindy, Kristy, Claudia (and, okay, Stephanie) and later Kate, all at once—all at once. Breath-taking. I would plop myself down front row and wait for someone to move me. They never did. I actually belonged there, probably more than most. But I did get the fish eye from Anna on more than one occasion. I suppose I took a Vogue seat. Oh well, too bad.

The middle class. Remember us? Now we have to be/pretend to be upper or lower. I’m bored. I’m bored with seeing my East Village New York friends style themselves like Upper Eastsiders from the late 70s. Really? You’re working a Nan Kempner look? How did we get here? Just as I’m tired of people grasping at some rent-stabilized life raft that no longer exists. You know what: it’s over. Get a livelihood. I sound horrible. I am horrible. I am sometimes horrible. You better know that about me. I despise artists, especially, who are in love with poverty and lament, lament, lament a changing landscape. Hello? That’s life. Change is the only constant—remember? Put that in your performance art piece. Psychosis is not performance art, by the way. Just like eighty year olds in Blackpool still trying to do some version of the Lindy Hop every weekend is a form of OCD. For real. We need to move on. I’m sorry the East Village is too expensive. Move. And maybe not to Brooklyn which is just as expensive. Move to Camden, New Jersey; or Blackpool or Asbury Park or, well not Tivoli. But move places. That’s what the American middle class did. They left the city and moved to new places, outside. They created new environments. They didn’t sit around bemoaning the fact that some dive bar or noodle joint or some barely great (to begin with) pirogi emporium suddenly lost its lease. They weren’t sinisterly-sentimentally attached to their past. I saw supermodels all at once and I’m over it.

 

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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

Precious Little

Aries 15° (April 4)

 

I’m setting the proverbial egg timer. Today there are many marks to hit as I made clear yesterday. I’m not feeling all that swift, a result of falling asleep in a draft, even being in front of the fire, which doesn’t draw all that great here, I think, as I always wake up kind of coldy when I build one and spend the evening staring at the flames. I made a lovely salmon with rutabaga and haricots verts amandine and we actually had dessert for the first time in weeks. I am feeling very confident even though I’m tipping the scales, which I can’t quite understand. I think I said this all before. I actually don’t have much to say (yet) today and the flashback portion of this Blague (I’m reading through five previous Blagues a day dating back to the first year of this thing 2015) yielded practically nada. That’s fine. I’m looking forward to just doing the minimum today, moving things around, really. We bought so much food and there are bits of it that need to be eaten sooner than later, which is fine. It is possible we won’t need to go to the shops for another two weeks now, which mightn’t be a bad thing. Anyway, I will figure that all out. The goal is to clear the decks today, accomplishing some pretty boring work, that I can hopefully do with my brain turned slightly off. Let’s see how that goes. It is very tedious work indeed, but it does need to be done. I don’t know how to celebrate things in this current state of affairs. We had our second book optioned for a TV show and we sold a third book to a more major publisher than our previous two. It feels very good indeed. I am getting closer to having it out with the HC people; and I also have a list of questions for our agent; and I’m curious as to what needs to happen in TV land.

Okay so it wasn’t a monumental day but I did think a great deal about some good stuff. For starters I think I understand how to approach people. Also I think I have created a path for practical creativity, which is a thing. I’m fucking freaked out by what’s happening everywhere. I am blatantly aware of the epic seriousness of the situation. I just ate a half a pound of ground sirloin in the form of two large sliders on g.f. English muffins, topped with a quality bleu cheese and then these carmelized red onions and homemade cherry tomato ketchup I created, paired with a little leftover root vegetable. So the point is if you’re reading this you need to understand that there are over five years of daily Blague entries available to you on this site. It started out in 2015 with me writing about the Sabian Symbols (Google that shite) and then it just became this addiction, really. I am supposed to be being funny but I fear that I very rarely am. But, as I write ever day, even my rare moments are adding up to something, at least that is my hope. You see, I am combing through the last five years (as I write the sixth), reading five Blagues a day, which (you’re such a math wizard), in the course of this years I would have (daily) read all the entries for the first five years. Makes perfect sense if you really stop overthinking. I know it’s something you do, but you can stop now. I know I sound a little manic. This is how I get when I really want to create volume for my Blague. In a way I just get chatty, at the same time I am sending that part of me that wants to entertain and create something of import into overdrive so that what I am typing out now at lightening speed will have at least a shred of validity. Shred has fewer letters in it than I previously thought. I have no written two very chunky paragraphs. And now I have to write at least a middle sized one? Who is making up these rules?

I’ve been in a very 1990s head lately. I think because that was the last time I lived in constant fear of AIDS and all it meant. And now that feeling is back? Is it really thirty years later? How can that be. We stalled in that the generations that came after are not in conflict with us. If anything they wish they were us. I think I’d like to paint over some of the crap I see. I know I don’t have to be so completely cognizant of every last drop of integrity I bring to the table. I can just be me sometimes, whatever that means. Who knows. I like myself in Europe. I understand who I am there. I do not recognize myself very readily in America. It has always been the same old story. In America I live so much in my head—to the point that when I think of myself in Europe I almost have a bias against that guy as if he is unselfaware to a fault or whistling in the graveyard or doing whatever wrong in regard to his understanding of self-existence; and yet that guy who lives there is the guy who goes to yoga every day and takes courses and goes to museums and, like everywhere, shops and cooks and keeps a tidy quarters and entertains (I never entertain here). We need to offer all our clients an extra hour and I need to find out how to pay some shite forward via the community. I think this paragraph might indeed be long enough. I miss some things about Boston, too, now; I look forward to rekindling that relationship. I’m going to suggest A.R.T. postpones our cancellation. Let us do one more full season with a bang. Let’s invite back the biggest selling artists for the last three shows.

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 76-80.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

It’s funny today I was in a quandry about whether to stay at my computer chipping away,writing and producing my myriad self-imposed assignments, all of which I love to undertake—although I would prefer they didn’t happen all in clumps—or get my fast becoming a wee bit too robust self out for some exercise. I am a big believer in staying physically active and I do find that it does indeed transmute into great thought. Some of my best ideas come while sweating my tush off; although it’s always a challenge to remember the thoughts as they arise as one can’t always stop to jot thoughts down while in the middle of certain exercise that requires something of a meditative countenance. And I truly believe that one has to be of a certain physical vitality to fuel ones passions; otherwise they will constitutue a drain, one end of that doubly burning candle. Personally I can only burn one end at a time though I prefer not torching either.

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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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

Hoo Woo

Aries 14° (April 3)

 

Again, today, there isn’t much to post from the past, as explained below in this Blague. So I will attempt to make this day as interesting as I can for you all. Last night was an absolute blast. We were in full lockdown, listening to Dee Lite and dancing and then we sang around the piano, just the two of us. Dinner was lovely mushroom faro stew. We watched this tacky movie that is sort of good called Troop Beverly Hills with Shelley Long. She should have had more of a career. There was that remake of Mr. Blandings called The Money Pit. I remember it became a title of a story in the magazine On The Avenue, the tabloid of Avenuemagazine. That’s for another day. Back to what happened today. Well we had a lovely breakkie of miso-tahini spread on toast and coffee. I organized and cleaned and we had an early client, one of our favorites. I know I’m not supposed to say that but that’s how I feel. Then we had a lunch of romaine hearts with cherry tomato, turkey bacon, chopped egg, oregano and parmesan with a lovely dressing. Then we set off shopping, which is more intense an experience than it was last week. And certainly way more intense than during the weeks before that when our dear leader was still calling it a hoax. We will find evidence of this maniac knowing full well this was real on a date preceding him telling we the American people it was a hoax.

I woke up at about four and there was a Susan Blakely film on. Report To The Commissioner. Richard Gere plays a pimp. It is “seventies New York” on TCM this month. Which is fitting since NYC looks as vacant now as it did early Sunday mornings in the me generation. After lunch we went shopping as I said and got fish at the fish shop and food and dry goods at Friends and wine from Town Center. All great places for which I am so thankful. We unpacked and had another client, also a favorite plus. Love our clients today. And we got a decent figure for our book and we accepted the offer. I am now making rutabaga and haricot verts amandine to accompany a salmon. We will have ice cream to celebrate. I am drinking a delicious inexpensive organic/biodynamic red wine. All the food is cooking. I have a schedule to make and I must rejig the two week menu which has now grown, likely to four weeks worth of food in the house, I kid you not. I’m going to start working the freezing. A client has a friend in a movie in which my friend is one of the stars but I only know this because the client gets me looking it all up online. I keep thinking about another client we haven’t spoken to in recent times. I think I need to ask Stella if she’s heard from her. I am a bit of a psychic; and I need to become more so, which means getting really spaced out which means losing forty pounds. Okay so I’ll lose fifteen and only be a little psychic. Meanwhile, I don’t care what the scales say. As a Libra, whose symbol is that brutally honest apparatus, I can tell you, in all sincerity, that I have never felt better about myself, physically, than ever before in my life ever. I’m big and feel full of beans and fantastic. I have muscle in any case which might be tipping said Scales. And I just basically feel kick ass and older and looking great for my age. So suck a dick all haters (and you know who you are you little cowards). “Wow, Quinn seems angry and off on a tangent.” No. Just expressing as you should do. And the suck a dick line is a direct influence of my current Bojack Horseman binge.

If I were to write one more paragraph I would be a freaking hero. So here’s the deal: Tomorrow is Saturday and I must: Prepare tomorrow’s Blague; tackle both the Taurus and Aries set ups for the next year’s book guides and if I have time go through some receipts. Why? Because, that way I can focus on the crickety bits on Sun and Mon. Bye.

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 71-75.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

So I’m going to do a little experiment—why don’t you join me. Let’s look at what’s on our plate and accept the fact that it is of our choosing. Then, wherever there is any element of dread involved, let’s change that story. Either we remove the components that cause us stress or anxiety, or we decidedly go about them from a completely different angle than we ever have before. What is dread, really, but prethinking? So let us first not prethink. I often tell clients, “If you’re worrying than you’re not working,” and I sometimes must practice what I preach. Because really the task or project at hand isn’t the problem; the real issue is our own particular battle within for a certain joy-in-efficacy; and it is important to give ourselves things in life that we can accomplish without too much struggle that impart said joy. This “blague” for instance. I do it every day and it does provide solace and, yes, happiness; I have no expectations of it, really, which is out of character as I mentioned. It is just a thing I do, a new field of experience into which I can bleed. As I write this I realize that it might be doing something unexpected in the process: Making me hyper aware of activities I undertake that don’t impart the same sense of well-being. Uh-oh.

Well, again, I’m going to scan my plate and determine what I’m dreading. I will either ditch it from my plan or embrace it and try to execute it in a different manner, evolving the how, and paying the what no never mind. We can create the unfamiliar even in the face of the proverbial that breeds contempt. The truth is that reality is all unexpected. Anything can happen at any moment. Perhaps we keep ourselves on hamster wheels or running in ruts out of fear of the unknown, which might well just be some new variables. Well I say bring on these new variables, because daddy needs a new equation. Stat. Oh wait, it’s my responsibility to provide that. So I’m going to get on that. The point is dear readers: Today is about rising to a new occasion. Let’s work this mother out—forgiving the split infinitive, please. Aquarius is all about the future and it starts with this new field of perspective on what already exists before us. So yes, yes, the future is now.

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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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

Lockdown

Aries 13° (April 2)

 

Back in the day I had a friend whom I’d always punk on April Fool’s Day. I always miss him on that date e.g. yesterday.  I want to use today to really talk myself through this project at hand because it’s important. I had set up the fact that the creator and the company are one.  TK is the creative offspring of company founder and designer JL, long a leading voice in fashion, with many successes to her credit, who understands what women want and need from their wardrobe. Her industry experience, refined esthetic and artisanal expertise combine to create a clever and beautiful collection of clothing that liberates, motivates and celebrates the wearer. Just as true craftsmanship goes into each individual piece in the TK line, ingenuity abounds, too, in the overall creative concept of the collection: To provide the customer a highly functional selection of styles, as beautiful as they are wearable, which will breeze them through the day into night, suiting all career and social settings, to far off places and across international date lines. Anyway that made a start. There isn’t much text from years past to put into this entry today so hopefully I will get some thoughts down here, even if it is more about the project on which I’m currently working. We are very fortunate that we can make these things happen as we go. I should probably get an invoice out tomorrow. I will have to find it but I know it is here somewhere. All such things will run through my head as I isolate and self-medicate and process the would-be joy in the sorrow of this time.

I have been in pattern of falling asleep around eight and waking up nigh on midnight. Then staying awake for a few hours and then going back and forth, in and out of sleep. Great time to remind myself of the larger Game of Thrones plotlines, with the sound off, just as a refresher. I do need a way to stay connected with folks. I should be trying to send 100 people a day their eBook, if I can. That might be a great help then again who knows. The widgets we do because the widgets we can; but with a whole new book now on the horizon, I will need to streamline my experience to be all about specific subjects in writing. Happily there will be a great deal of dovetailing going on. I spent the morning in ablutions and then we had a client and then one who really needed guidance on the fly. We had lovely avocado toasts for lunch (me, with provolone) and I had prepared a mushroom barley only to realize my grain had expired, so I will use farro instead and see what happens. I have prepped a chowder for tomorrow and the way I’m approaching the kitchen is sort of the way I’m approaching everything. I decided to recycle 2019’s intros for the book, switching out 2017, only because they are largely done and so few readers have seen them in comparison to what I hope will happen in 2021. We are cooking up a whole new vibe. I look forward to more New England an experience, just as Paris takes precedence in the real estate of my life. I did some nice work this morning on the branding project and everything is sort of happening all of a piece.

I do think isolating is a great time not to. I for one am aware of how little a lockdown effects me because I work at home in any case, writing and consulting clients, virtually, in the main and I tend to do big food shops every fortnight and plan menus in advance for at least a week at a time, because running a business and doing more creative career work plus a consultancy plus cooking and cleaning requires a certain level of Zen-style multitasking. But I am typically asocial and in a bubble much of the time. Which is what social distancing has made me realize: I’m forever social distancing and, once this blight is over, I’m going to work harder on staying connected with people. Anyway this is what I wrote TK is a cohesive collection of items, all of which have an extraordinary stand-out quality. Each piece in the collection is designed to be a cherished staple of ones wardrobe, to be a go-to, signature article of clothing a woman wears often and over many years. TK is a collection through which the wearer can express her own style and make a bold statement: She values a modern design, with an subtly dramatic flair; she appreciates an ease that’s fused with elegance, and she prizes freedom and movement, in both the functional feel and fluidity of a garment, and the sheer motivation she experiences wearing the collection. As a working woman on the move in an appearance-driven industry, JL understands first hand the need to be on the go, and to look good doing so. Designing TK to travel well is also top of mind for L, who like most women, are forever trading one mode of transportation for another, whether on the town or internationally bound. And the fact that TK gets the balance right between X and Y, Y and Z, the clothing collection transports a woman from one setting to another, allowing her to sartorially slip into one role or another, easing her seamless transformations.

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 66-70.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

I don’t always succeed but I strive for my Libran archetype; sometimes being ordered, balanced, principled and, even, so highly conscious, isn’t as much fun as the alternative. We can’t all be like Libra Sting and do yoga and meditate between playing madrigals on a lute; sometimes we’ve got to let loose and let Dionysus. That said, there are great benefits to the clarity that is unrivaled in the Libran experience. Apollo is god of light, lest we forget; he slays the Python, a Chotonian image if there ever was one—he rules the world of glaring, righteous, if not angelic light—Libra is the s cardinal-air sign, which translates to light and all that means—enlightenment, theories and prophesy, ideas and ideals, principles, high precepts, goodness and righteousness. So why would Daphne rather be a tree than even date Apollo? It’s likely he’s just too much. I mean talk about having great expectations. Pip from Dickens’ tale of the same name, or even Linus (the name of Apollo’s orator son in mythology) waiting on that pumpkin, Libra has high standards, expectations and demands, as soaring as the straightest Doric column or collonade of trees. And what Libra do you know about whom you can’t with some frequency say: They’re too much?

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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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

 

Nobody’s

Aries 12° (April 1)

 

Sometimes it’s not so easy just to change tack on a dime and immediately dive into a new project, especially when that project involves absorbing its full breadth before being able to add to the further articulation. What can I say? That would be on my tombstone if I ever have one. Oh, the meaning less ness of it all. I had finally alighted on a lifestyle that suited me, in surroundings that were buffeting. Not to say I was being my best self there, but I was truly making an effort and had gotten into a strict exercise routine, and was enrolled in school, while still working and moving the larger needle forward. I’m grateful today that my choices haven’t backfired. I grateful that it is now April and not December or January. We need every bit a sense of hope an renewal as the Spring portends. Unlike yesterday, when I had no previous entries to post, today there are a ton from the five day span I was surveying today. To remind my reader, with the start, on the Spring Equinox, of this my sixth year writing the Cosmic Blague, I am reading five a day of my previous last five years of posts, which, by the time I enter my seventh year, will mean that I will have read the first five years, So that I will only have to read one a day, from my sixth year, during my seventh, which will each be a tiny anthology of those five day spans I am surveying now. If you didn’t understand any of that I cannot help you.

This morning was comprised of a little brainstorming on the TV front. I have specific ideas which I think would work best; but I also have to defer to the “zeitgeist and buyers”—already learning so much. Hoping we can make something of this in a big way. Also we got an offer today from Hachette for our new book so hopefully we will make that work. It kind of feels good and I think I can pretty easily get my brain around pulling this off. It would also entail a nice chunk of money in a world where we don’t really need that much. I made a beautiful English pea and mint soup for dinner tonight, which I’ll follow with a roasted beet and goat-cheese salad (made some cracker crumbs from Mary’s g.f. crackers which I will coat the cheese in and put in sautée pan) on Spring lettuces. For lunch we did one of our favorite tricks: crushing a bag of kale chips, like a dry pesto, to stir together with some g.f. linguine, such a quick, satisfying meal. First we spoke with our agent and decided on a redirect. So we will wait to hear back from her today, hopefully. The settlement situation is such: They want to set up arbitration and avoid court trial. I’m totally down for that direction. Probably not such a bad thing to get a little beaned and focus solely on the work at hand. We won’t hear back until tomorrow, now, but it is good news that we are back in the book biz. I am so happy for the opportunity to have a professional relationship like this one and I’m going to make sure I hit my every mark. Not wasting the grace. Not wasting the opportunity to establish a good relationship. We are so fortunate to have had our second book optioned for TV while we are offered a new book deal, while we meet clients virtually online and otherwise do exactly what we do in any case. Makes me realize how battened down our hatches typically are in any case. I’m looking forward to this time. I wish I hadn’t taken on this latest project, now, but I am going to enjoy every minute of all I’m doing and realize it all contributes.

 

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos.61-65.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

I remember in 6th grade, when we first learn about the Greek gods, right. I was so utterly turned on by the gods. I made myself a tunic out of old curtains I found in the attic and did incantations to Dionysus, wanting divine communion with him or else it was my inner wine-o emerging. But I was sad too because the conceit was that the gods were something people once believed in but they no longer existed. That notion depressed me to no end. But I didn’t give into it. I knew it wasn’t true. The gods weren’t dead. They were very much alive. But this was before I could articulate my reasoning: That the gods are energies personified. And energy can’t be destroyed. That we too are energy personified. Or that Mary is Aphrodite. That Jesus is Eros. And that the connection between the gods and their namesake planets and astrology and psychology and archetype and energy and theatre and temple and spirituality and the stage would ultimately wrap me up like a blanket.

But I remember 6th grade, the last day of school before Christmas vacation, it was snowing, we couldn’t go out for recess. There was no real school work to do—no point starting new lessons. We played fuzz ball. (The class divided in half throwing a softball size pompom like those on the top of our winter caps across the room and if you didn’t catch it you were out. I was typically out pretty quickly.) Then I think we rearranged our desks. And it was a half day. And we were just sitting quietly with our hands folded. It was bittersweet because our teacher Mrs. O’Shea was moving away and wouldn’t be back after vacation. I remember accidentally calling her Mom one day when I raised my hand. That was excruciatingly embarrassing. As if I needed any other reason to stand out like a sore thumb from the rest of the class. But I was always the square peg. Going against the grain. So, 6th grade, waiting for the bell to ring and free us for Christmas week. Hands folded on our desks. Mrs O’Shea with a teasing smile asks the class if we are looking forward to Santa visiting which induced a group groan because 6th graders no longer believe in Santa Claus. So as the class sputtered and moaned and rolled their eyes in a cacophony distilled to a single phrase: There’s no such thing as Santa Claus, I….raised…my…hand…and said: Hold on. I believe in Santa Claus. Loader moans now with threatening jeers. And I don’t recall the exactitude of the Linus Van Pelt solo argument I launched into; but I know it had something to do with the fact that Santa Claus must exist because so many children believed in him down through the centuries and if that many people believed in Santa that he must “exist” on some level, just like the one God whom everyone believed in without seeing and who, I was a bit peeved, replaced my beloved Greek gods whom I loved so completely, just like that one Dick Sargeant replaced that one Dick York as Darrin on Bewitched, my favorite show. I didn’t know Santa Claus was Wenceslas was Saturn was Old Father Time was Father Christmas. Just like I didn’t know that Endora on ‘Bewitched” was Saturn’s wife Rhea Cronus and that Endora meant endure and personified the Capricorn energy of preservation and conservation. I just knew that if every one of those snot-nosed muggles in my sixth grade class, for whom I had a natural contempt, could swallow the fact that their mainly Christian all caucasian father son and holy ghost existed then, by Christ, I could make a strong argument for the existence of Kris Kringle, with a K, like the Kardashians, our modern false gods, all too readily worshipped. And I remember Mrs O’Shea making this face, [sic.] as if to say, sounds reasonable; and 24 sets of other children eyes fixed upon me their gaze melting from bah humbug into a happy gratitude that their childhood belief, so newly vanquished, could be, at least for this moment before the bell was to ring, so magically restored.

—————————–

I worked in Paris in 1985-86 at Passion magazine, which was a super big format magazine and we would have vendeurs who would swing by the offices to pick up big stacks that they would then sell on the streets, in the parks and gardens, in outdoor cafes and even in restaurants, walking through crowded bustling rooms of conversation and scraping cuttlery and tinkling glasses, Passion along with Interview and City and whatever else might be on offer. Before I got a job at the magazine, I too sold them on the streets for a day but I was terribly bad at it so I was grateful I was hired for an actual job in the magazine. I did though hand them out to front row faces in the fashion shows which in those days were in tents in the Tuileries not at the as-yet Carousel du Louvre. I remember handing a copy of Passion to Princess Caroline at one of the shows, saying, “here you might as well have one since you’re in it”—there was some story on her. I was always off-handedly addressing people that most people treated with uber respect and kid gloves. It was the eighties, and I had a socialist ax to grind and authority issues. Some years later, during a book signing for Sextrology at Colette, Princess Caroline would attend and tell Stella and myself, “I’ve heard so much about you.” Really? Okay.

There were several vendeurs of Passion; the most ubiquitous and prolific was called Jean-Yves, I believe (pictured below)  and one of them was this African guy who’d I see here and there around town, in furtive glances, out of the corner of my eye. He was very dark skinned and small and had a shaved head and was usually hidden behind these large magazines he was holding up. One evening Stella and I were out to dinner with a crazy friend of ours called Vivian whose outfit for the evening was a pair of mens striped flannel pajamas. It was the eighties. I can’t remember where we were having dinner, somewhere in the sixth arrondissement; and this fellow through the restaurant and I grabbed his arm and asked in bad French “tu vend Passion”, to which he responded “mais oui”. I explained I worked at the magazine and invited him to join us, which he did. He ordered champagne and I remember thinking that he must do pretty well selling those publications around town. He said his name was Jean-Claude he was from Cameroon and that his father was actually something of a tribal chief. Very interesting. He was highly educated and spoke English and French superbly and after we killed the bottle of bubbly he invited us to a club privé called Le Flashback. Off we went.

The place was dark and filled with poseurs and you had to purchase a bottle of something which would be placed on your table and you would pour and mix your own drinks. For some god awful reason we got a bottle of gin. The place was packed the dance floor filled with couples and, as was not unusual in France, single people dancing with their own reflections in the mirror that squared the entire room. I noticed Jean-Claude was behind Vivian with his arms wrapped around her cupping her now naked breasts as they writhed and I caught him in profile and suddenly realized, what a cotton picking minute, this isn’t the magazine seller after all. As horrible and probably racist as this sounds—I promise you it wasn’t—I had mistaken this small African dandy for the often facially obscured vendeur. But, uh-oh, when I asked Jean-Claude if he sold upper-case Passion he said “oui” thinking I meant the lower case sort.

In any case he wasn’t a gigolo and he and I actually became copains, hanging out smoking hash and drinking at his fancy Saint-Germain-des-Prés apartment. I once invited two French guys I’d met in my neighborhood, Jean-Luc and Phillipe, to hang out there with me. We ended up, as guys do, even ones who basically don’t know each other, wrestling, which in this case consisted of Jean-Luc, Phillipe and I each diving at Jean-Claude in turn whereby he would handily pin us with one move or literally throw us across the room. He was like a tiny Cameroonian super hero it was astounding. And the manner in which he defeated our moves with ease made us laugh hysterically as we exchanged glances of disbelief while, you know, being chucked into a wall. None of this of course has anything to do with the Sabian Symbol today at 3° Gemini which is all about “Formalism” but so what, it’s my Blague and I’ll blab incessantly if I want to. I will add this, that in a twelve-fold sequence, Gemini rules this oracle and given it’s rule of the third astrological house, it is associated with boon companions and all kinds of merchants, especially street vendors of newspapers and magazines. So there.

——————–

I am doing my own returning, in the next couple of days, to Cape Cod where I can’t wait to get sand in really uncomfortable places. I have always needed to live near an ocean and have been very fortunate that I have for most of my life. I was speaking with a client recently about recapturing the spirt of ones salad days. The misteltoe and holly in the image are sacred and ancestral, and I think they ask us to examine what those elements are inside of us. How do we get back to our own source of being. It certainly isn’t through nostalgia but something deeper and more primal a connection. These are themes in the show we’re currently writing for sure. In this fish bowl world in which we live, where everybody is watching everybody posture and post visual and textual snippets of their life on social media, directing it to appear a way, trying to manipulate others’ perspective of them, it only makes me crave a simpler, more anonymous time when, if you had to reach me, you had to catch me at home on the phone, now quaintly referred to as “the land line.”

Of course I am saying this in a post that will appear on social media. And I wish more people liked the Facebook page for the Cosmic Blague but I really shouldn’t care. The whole purpose of this endeavor is to return to, first, the source of these daily Sabian symbols but also to whatever wellspring of stories these symbols might trigger. Whether writing or performing or producing or what have you there is that soul-crushing risk that there won’t be an audience. But it can’t stop one from soldiering on if you have some calling to express yourself. I do think our popular culture has torqued the balance to the extreme; such that the same handful of celebrites get all the attention; the sad fact is that this trend is mirrored even in what are meant to be non-commercial forms of art and entertainment; it can all seem like a popularity contest; and if you’re not designed to be so over-the-top needful of attention or worship—as many popular artists and personalities are, even in what’s left of our (or any) subculture, you won’t get it. The same downtown performer who bemoans the loss of a true avant-garde artistic community is the same one who goes on tirades that they don’t get enough press, awards, or attention from the media or gentry at large. You can’t have it both ways. I have always thought that such self-professed “down and out” people who protest too much about the evils of celebrity or wealth would be the first to jump at the opportunity to have them, and they would be just as bad as any kardashian [sic.]—I am of the mind that the lower-case “word” kardashian should be introduced into the English language, meaning: an entitled, vapid greedy, venal no-talent who seeks fame for fame’s sake and is devoid of any spirituality, compassion or sense of proportion; it could also work as an adjective given its -ian suffix.

So perhaps we don’t know what it means exactly to return to a source or our own individual source but I think we know what it isn’t, and what elements of our own personal or collective life represent being as far from a sense of honest purity and spiritual power as can be. So maybe we start there and just keep backing off these things in our own life. For some it could be as simple as cancelling cable, or only using social media for professional or philanthropic purposes, or turning off any means by which we can become polluted or manipulated by such powers seeking to create a certain want in us that manifests in our buying products or into political or religious or other kinds of ideology. We can’t totally isolate that’s not good. But we can stay away from people who play the game of making others feel less than or are constantly and desperately trying to represent their lives to us as somehow better than our own. I think another aspect of returning to the source is finding your true tribe which for me means developing relationships with other nerds who are on a path toward increased self-awareness and expression in manners that lift up others not put them down for ones own self-aggrandizement. And if that means a lot of solo time en route to better communion, well, that’s what books, beach blankets and hammocks are for.

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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

 

Level Of Understanding

Aries 11° (March 31)

 

I have a few questions for my accountant. Like how far back does one need to keep tax information before it is safe to chuck it. Also I need to know what I need to do by when. I have got my receipt work under way which is good. I want to keep moving forward on all of that. I think I will dedicate much of this day to figuring out that process. And then tomorrow I’m going to doing my yoga by nine in the morning and then focus solely on the branding work through the Saturday which will surely be enough time to make a major dent. I think that should be pretty much all I’ll need. My main goal this week is to stay healthy, get a few items in which we need, make hay on that branding project, and otherwise start the process of putting my next book together. We will ultimately find a print partner to work with. I am not going to let the larger world of book writing get me down. I’m not sorry I’m not Chani Nicholas or whatever her name is. I’m sure she’s lovely. But if people want to low-ball us and this is a tactic that is one thing. I have to let this push me in more purely entrepreneurial directions. We can leave doors open. I am getting my mojo back. It might be artificially fueled, but I do think it is possible that this is the answer: the aforementioned entrepreneurial thing, in terms of the books. I need to be the publisher—of books, of products, all under Wheel Atelier, which is a beautiful entity in itself. Obviously we are not doing events. The great thing is that the consultancy is largely virtual in any case. There is a pandemic happening right now. That cannot be understated. Chani Nichols or whatever her name is is probably a fan. Not that I care. I don’t think people realize how much abundance I create just being me, the never-ending residual source. We have so many facets, personifications of diversification.

It will be important that this entry today is not only bulky but potent, too. Language strung together in beautiful ways is beautiful. I forgot the fact for twenty years at least. I remember Marcus, with is pointy blond beard and renard personality, from where? Michigan. Minnesota. Somewhere. I wrote poetry daily in the café he manned, on Hudson Street. I was thirty tops and would wake and bake and head there for a scone and an Americano and he would wait on me and we became friends over time. AIDS was raging. Our apartment on West 12thstreet faced the back which was a direct and proximate view of the back of The Lesbian Gay Bisexual and Transgender Conmunity Center on 13thStreet.  I once saw a doctor jerk off a patient. And, as they had parties there on weekends, I saw men having sex in the lighted stairwells on several occasions. It was like a private window onto a pandemic. And here I am living through something scarily new. I am going to withstand it. I am going to accept it. I am going to let it move through me, especially if I contract it. Our agent wrote again. The publisher keeps acting (and speaking in writing to us) as if we are being obtuse or defensive, which we are not. Just make an offer or not. We don’t need to know the effects of your every neuron firing. We will have spinned our wheels for nothing. I can make this book writing jazz pretty damn easy, along with everything else. I really went into the soup last night and today I am feeling a bit under and I cannot afford to feel that way at this particular point in time. We will have to cancel a client which I don’t like to do but I have to stay in bed pretty much. A good a time as any to watch Tiger King. I can’t remember the last time I gave myself a day off. Well, actually, I can: Venice at the end of January, which was not the best time to be in Northern Italy. I feel as if I’ve been on the run from this pandemic since that time because everywhere I went seemed to shut down around me. It was pretty traumatic, something I’m not sure I’ve completely let myself feel.

 

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 56-60.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

Actually there was nothing from these five old entries that was personally anecdotal enough to include here.

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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

 

Streaming Garbage

Aries 10° (March 30)

 

We weren’t even due to fly home until tomorrow. S. is so fierce—she got a voucher for the amount equal to all the charges Eurostar hit us with for changing our train schedule, over seven hundred clams; and next she will shake down Virgin and I put my faith in her to do that successfully. Today is going to be a busy, creative day. Hard to get the juices flowing on this branding project I’ve been dancing around while trying to get ourselves home and then acclimate to the terrible state of affairs that is America’s handling of this pandemic. When this is over, even for the time being, hopefully, as the weather warms: We better take to the streets against this horrible miscreant in charge. How did we ever let this happen. Of course we New Yorkers knew what we were in for. You just wonder why other people in other parts of the country weren’t like, hmmm, I wonder why his home state is so dead against him? Because we had dealt with this evil. He is evil. Don’t let him off the hook. Don’t say he’s stupid or a puppet or just venal. No! This guy is pure evil. He actually enjoys the fact that he’s killing people, just like his sons like killing big-game. There is no remorse in this mutant DNA. They are bad to the core. And so is Maleficent the wife. They are all the worst (can’t even call them people) entities currently roaming the planet. We need to be so much more outraged than we are. Revolution is soon to follow, one can only hope. It should in any case. I took my temperature this morning and I’m fine on that score, although I have a terrible headache. I took some ibuprofen which rumor has it you’re not suppose to do if you have the virus; assuming I do not, I need to bring down the inflammation I feel in my sinuses. These are all random thoughts I realize, and they shall continue to be.

We watched Goodbye Columbus last night and Ali MacGraw is pretty great in it. And who doesn’t love Richard Benjamin. After a supper of chicken stew we started watching After Hours but I fell asleep about fifteen minutes into it. That was probably around seven thirty. I have not been able to stay awake that much at night. I have this branding project to do and I’m a little stumped by it. I do want to write up a storm with it, but right now I’m just sort of digesting it all. I want very much to make it all sing and will do but I have to let it percolate first I guess. It is always part of the process. In the meantime I think I’ll go through some receipts and get a handle on all that. I will need to start booking artists in earnest for the festival upcoming. At least I think I will. I am trying so hard not to get ahead of myself nor fall behind. There is much to be accomplished and I need to figure out what that might mean. I have not felt this crappy in weeks. I wonder why it is all crashing down on me suddenly. I mean there is the larger thing that is happening about which I must be more shaken up than I consciously realized. I’m typically okay with being isolated but this really is doing a number on me suddenly. There is no escaping it. Today I saw that awful Billy person stole probably Stella’s most famous jokes. He is such a sick, insidious person. He thinks he has me blocked from seeing his shenanigans. Last week I saw that he was wearing a shirt I lent (or maybe gave) to him for a performance. This guy is one of the worst people I have ever encountered in my life and what makes it worse is that he amasses more and more friends, many of which he first came to know through me. We all have these awful creatures in our lives, right? I mean I’m not the only one to suffer this kind of shallow miscreant? I know it only makes me sound bitter to write this sort of thing but he truly is the worst person you could ever meet. I think because he is quite smart, unlike other vacant characters who don’t things unwiggingly, this monster really is a danger to others. For starters he is a total pusher and wants to get other people hooked on heroin, which he will casually bring to a dinner party and put in front of people. He is so jealous of other people’s talent he consciously seeks to topple those he knows are more gifted than himself, which are most people. I’ve seen friend after friend become fooled by this joker and, well, they probably deserve what they get.

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 51-55.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

I know I’m a narcissist, but I hope I’m a benign one. Still I must bring this back to me (and you should do the same) in thinking where am I the warrior bent on protecting the natural state of things from the destructive tide of civilization. Maybe you’re an environmentalist. Perhaps you are seeking to preserve native cultures.We do not have to reach back to find examples of actual genocide happening in the world. And metaphorically, there are those of us who fight to save forgotten, institutionalized children, or fight for civil rights, or senior citizens or for the disabled or for LGBTQ causes or for women’s rights or maybe for education or against disease or any form of discrimination. I am humbled by those who do. Yet my cause is native in effect. As a warrior brave from the Provincetown tribe of thespians I’m trying to save my village from pillage of a different sort: the destruction of its historical theatrical heritage. And so the concept of what is native is that which is germane to my own being, culture and history.

In the Hindu pantheon, Hephaestus’ equivalent would be Ganesh whose own festival is celebrated at the start of Virgo. Ganesh is the remover of obstacles. And that is exactly what the Indian brave is doing. He didn’t start this fight. He is trying to remove the obstacles, the human ones, to his own divine right to freedom, happiness and way of life. We know he is fighting a losing battle but that is neither here nor there. He must fight. This is a spiritual war, a holy war. This day reminds us that we are always engaged in spiritual warfare, seeking to remove the obstacles, those people and situations, that seem so bent on our spiritual death. If Provincetown loses its theatrical heritage to greed and gentrification, that is a spiritual death. It might not be one you will mourn, but I would. Modern American theater was born in Provincetown, just as America was (those crazy pilgrims landed their first not at Plymouth). Weird that the seeds of the Indian’s destruction can be linked so readily to my own cause of Provincetown’s theatrical birthright and legacy but there you have it. Oh right, I was talking about Dane Rudhyar, who labels the theme of today as Violence for Survival. I don’t quite subscribe to that. I don’t think our defenses need be violent, just as our attitude needn’t be victimization.

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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

 

 

Pantry In A Twist

Aries 9° (March 29)

 

Fell asleep in front of the fire last night. Woke up at five and already have done a thousand things. It is now ten in the morning. I was thinking of how productive I can be as a means of dealing with stress. Part of me wants to completely escape by whatever means necessary. But the better portion of myself is determined to work through all these feelings and to stay strong as can be. I sent a bunch of notes out to people wishing them well. I got precious few back which is fine. My car had been taking on water, a phenom I couldn’t figure; and now, as inexplicably it isn’t. I chalked it up, originally, to the replacement of my windshield, and went back and forth, for months with the company that did the switcheroo, and they maintain it has nothing to do with them; and yet they came while I was in Europe and the feedback they gave me was that yes it was totally soaked inside; but I’m guessing they did something they aren’t owning up to, because the problem has disappeared. Anyway, I went to the dump in this, my thirty five year old Mercedes Benz, with its broken hood hinges, and broken headlights, and it still drives like a dream. I love my car in an unnatural way. I keep getting traumatic flashes of the last several weeks, escaping from Paris to London and then back to America fleeing this deadly virus. Of course I don’t want it, and I intend not to get it. I suppose in the end I’m glad to be on Cape Cod where the people are few and far between and, as I say, I’m used to isolation anyway, being the social pariah that I am. I wish I was joking about that. It doesn’t take much to be social pariah.

You just have to live in a place that echoes eighth grade, as Provincetown does, and be the victim of gaslighting and cancel culture, which I am. I very much related to some fourteen year old girl whose social life has been fucked with by mean girls. I had a best friend, this semi famous gay fellow I’d be friends with at least as long as my Mercedes has been in existence; and he did a number on me. And it snowballed from there. It doesn’t quite matter much to me because I don’t really make my life there anymore and most of my friendships are based in Europe and the UK, really. Not so much New York anymore. Meanwhile, as it is, if I needed to take stock of the Provincetown existence, I could still list hundreds of friends there. It’s just a matter of being more aware of places that are closed to one as opposed to those who remain open. And I have long learned my lesson: There are folks I should have never been friends with in the first place because they largely fall under the larger heading of malignant narcissists. And still, during this crisis, I sent out words of love and encouragement even to those who character-assassinated me. I do believe in that Jesus m.o. of turning the other cheek. It’s different from letting yourself be slapped around; rather it’s about taking one’s full power and illustrating that your side of the street remains clean. All told, Provincetown does attract people who need that junior-high dynamic. It’s all about having been ostracized as children, marginalized, and so, as adults they are compensating and often overshoot the mark and become the people who used to torment them. It’s a pretty banal pattern, actually.

I spent some quality time in the kitchen today already—I have today’s food prepped (Greek salad for lunch and chicken stew for din din); but I also made a roasted pepper soup and a fresh pea and mint soup to have later in the week, which is going to be a very busy one with a number of clients and a branding project that will occupy ninety percent of my creativity. We are going to tithe by making this year’s Haute Astrology books 99¢ instead of $9.99, and I have already done all the prep work for the 2021 books so that is an accomplishment of which I can feel proud. We all have to do what we can within reason. Mainly, I do feel quite happy with the solitude. And I’m glad to be connecting with the usual penpals.

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 46-50.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

When the going gets tough…etc. And some of us know this dynamic well. I’m this man. I come from financially poor beginnings, and my father, who had countless shortcomings, was also this man, and he took us as far into the storm as he could, typically sporting a dapper hat, with a feather, a symbol of higher-mind aspirations. He had the benefit of being middle class when there was one, but still he worked for the man who tried and mostly succeeded to fuck him over in the end. The storm for him was that of social strata and prejudice. He died with nothing except for an uncompromising nature that never let him quit. I seemed to have inherited that. For me the storm is not working for the man. So braving it isn’t a just a necessity it’s a privilege. I welcome the wind and rain on my face.

Then again I had a weird and wonderfully wacky Pisces mother who, again, when in her cups when I was small, insisted I accompany her outside for strolls during hurricanes.

There is something a bit cringy about the costume of the man with the hat. He seems to wear his station in life. He’s a big garish, perhaps, bordering on nouveau. That always makes me uncomfortable. Like Stella Dallas at a fancy estate; or the penchant some men have these days of adopting a sort of neo Oceans Eleven style when asked to dress up for weddings. Barf. I feel some pity for this man in the oracle just as I genuflect to his pluck. He is telegraphing his desire for upward mobility via trappings that might prevent him from it. Again I think of Frank Sinatra who, despite his success, being labelled a wop, as my father surely was, snubbed in the end by those Kennedys who, let’s face it, weren’t exactly bluebloods themselves. But I find prejudice is more prevalent the closer the social proximity between classes. It explains why Italian Americans can be the most prejudice of African Americans. It’s because they were the last immigrant wave before the Civil Rights Movement.

————

When we were writing Sextrology back in the day I went through a “metaphysical visitation” period whereby I was awakened every morning at 3:33 AM. And before this surfaced as a theme in the Nicholas Cage film vehicle Adaptation, being awoken at this time was an experience I owned. I came to realize that 3+3+3 signaled the nine Muses, the triple goddess in triplicate. I automatically see an upward spiral.

Of course the three is also the trident on it’s side, so little wonder that this Sabian symbol is ruled by the sign of PIsces whose ruler Neptune’s symbol is that trident. 48 reduces to 12 which reduces to 3. So it get’s better.

When I started the Afterglow Festival I did so under the name 333; but not automatically. There already was a 333 business on the South Shore of Massachusetts. Some kind of management company. They were not easy to reach—I had to put on my Corleone thinking cap—I have always loved the fact that Lynne’s name is Corbett and mine is Leone so together we are Corleone—lion heart—although the Cor in Corbett is actually Gaelic for raven which is the sigil of their house. Mine of course is Bert Lahr.

So I finally tracked these people down and convinced them, can you imagine, to write me a letter “letting” me also be 333, Inc in Massachusetts. Afterglow is a d/b/a/ off of that. I figured I’d need to court these Muses in the making of the festival and surely I need invoke them moving forward with new artistic goals.

The first year of the festival we put it on at The Provincetown Theater which was lovely in its way. We comped a great many people. But when I tallied the total of actual tickets sold over the four days it came to, yes you guessed it, folks, 333.

You have to believe we are magic. LIfe is all just one big upward stroll through the Guggenheim.

————–

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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

 

 

Anthology

Aries 8° (March 28)

 Bernice-1572547003-726x388

Woke up to find out my old theater colleague Danny Burstein has been struggling with the virus for the past two weeks and is now, thankfully, on the mend. I rediscovered the anthology series, American Short Story, that played on PBS in the seventies. Watched an adaptation of Bernice Bobs Her Hair, the first Fitzgerald short story he published, with Shelley Duvall and Veronica Cartwright and Bud Cort. Was so good and I must now find other episodes. My first male crush, Mark LaMura is in it as is Dennis Christopher from Breaking Away. Mark played Mark Dalton on All My Children. I wanted to be him. I wonder if what I’m writing is a printed-esque form of procrastination. I don’t want to alarm anybody, but I’m not feeling all that swift today. I’m going to keep a positive attitude and keep pounding liquids; but my brain feels pretty scrambled as well and I haven’t been able to be linear and finish all but completed tasks piling up on my desk. I did manage to vacuum the house already today; and I did make some wonderful food over the past couple of days. Today for lunch we will have caviar omelets and for dinner a sirloin steak sliced with a salad of arugula, palm hearts, tomato and parmesan. I already made a chicken stew for tomorrow’s supper, and will rustle up a Greek salad for lunch. The following is a little Garde Manger for the coming weeks, in no certain order.

Caesar Salad, Roasted Pepper Soup, Cauliflower steaks with Brussel Sprouts and turkey bacon, Pea Soup with mint, Mushroom Barley Stew, Roated Beets and Goat Cheese with Salad, Miso Soup with Cabbage, Avocado Toast, BLT Salad, Clam Chowder, Tuna/Sardine Melts, Omelets with turkey bacon and homemade ketchup, Smoked Salmon on Rice Cakes, Chicken Sausage with Rutabaga and Cabbage Stir Fry, Spaghetti Faux-lonese, Hot Dogs with Homemade Baked Beans, Sweet Potato Soup, Black Bean Soup, Re-run of Tuna/Sardine Melts, Rerun of Smoked Salmon on Rick Cakes, Burgers with Blue Cheese, Pizzas, Linguine Clam Sauce, Rice and Beans with (frozen) vegetables. So that’s at least twenty-four meals not including the fact that some of these will entail leftovers. That’s fourteen days of food in the house including the meals today and tomorrow, without having to go to a single shop, which we inevitably will.

I have no Twitter game. None to speak of. Which is weird because I am pretty verbal. I will eyeball the podcast info this week. Putting it on my list. I may be too hard on myself. I think I need to bolster my immune system even more than usual and I definitely need to set up my home hot yoga (Bikram) studio, which has worked fine in the past. We have a bunch of clients this coming week and I really must pace myself. I want to get back into bed as soon as possible today though I think. I am scared that I am feeling under the weather. I must remind myself that there are other ailments besides this deadly virus and anyway I’m not giving into fear. I’m going to put on my headphones and play some favorite songs and get myself in gear. Knocking things off the list as I go. I have pretty bad body aches but no respiratory symptoms. Maybe a bit feverish, or it could be my imagination. I don’t want to take my temperature unless I really start feeling poorly. I’m going to keep breathing deeply and suck back a ton of hot beverages. The trick is to send whatever virus you encounter to your stomach instead of your lungs, or so I’ve heard. There is so much disinformation (or no information, really) out there. We have learned that in America we are all potential sheep being led to slaughter. When this is all over, those of us still standing will have to take to the streets in protest of all of this. We will never be the same. That seventeen minute song Bob Dylan released the other day? That is pretty amazing I must say.

 

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 41-45.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

 

  I am engaged in several creative and heady work projects all at once, and my schedule for the next several weeks is packed with marks to hit and stolen moments when I’m meant to move so-called mountains. But what if I were to approach all my scheduled activity as play, letting a good half of my mind float around in the tide of creativity, ebbing and flowing and washing up ideas, here and there, as needed. If the most functional or professional or together I need be is akin to some kid frolicking along a beach who, when out of imaginative notions, might need only run down to the water’s edge to see what life might be floating there, to consider, poke at or capture? Well then that might surely make the month ahead less fraught and more fun and, possibly, just possibly, yield more successful products than a default type-A personality ticking items off myriad to-do lists might achieve. Frankly, I’ve had it up to here with that guy; and I would so very much enjoy just one May without him huffing and puffing and bemoaning the fact “there isn’t enough time.” For what? To be some self-profesying stress case?

I have been very fortunate to spend all but the first six years of my life with a house a stone’s throw from a beach. (And the first six were spent at the Skyline Cabana Club, now on the site of Liberty State Park, in Jersey City and that was a total gas.) But from the age of seven, I spent every summer growing up “down the shore” in Belmar, N.J. where my parents bought a big house with a wrap around porch just a block from the ocean. It was city-ish compared to the beach experience we had out in Wainscott, where Stella and I rented our first beach house, or on Cape Cod where we bought a house in the days before we rented in Provincetown and Wellfleet. The point is I’ve never been able to be very far from the ocean. I don’t think I’d be happy without at least knowing it’s nearby.

As a child, my mother, sister and I spent the entire summer in Belmar and my father visited on weekends. It wasn’t that far away from our permanent home or his work; and now in retrospect I’m sure he was up to a little bit of no good. And my Pisces mother was happiest in her cups without any overlording by him in those days. My sister was hostile and never spoke to me. So really summer meant that I was completely untethered. It was the seventies and eighties and I too got up to a little bit of no good. Tales of my nighttime teenage revelries that included long and winding bike rides to and from Asbury Park in the wee hours would curl your hair, so I’ll skip that bit—I have to leave something shocking for the memoirs—but my collection of daytimes was one long idyll. Even when old enough to legally drink and work as a waiter in restaurants, partying with a pack of preppy, nut-brown, sparkling tooth faces framed with dry, thick surfer, salt-stiff, sun-bleached hair, I might skip going to bed, but doze on the porch in a blanket in a hammock for a couple of hours until the first old man or woman walking a dog at dawn would wake me; at which point I’d grab a towel, zombie-like, and stroll the block to the empty beach to greet the rising Sun which would paint the entire ocean pink as it poked its way above the horizon; and I would slip into the silky rose brine and swim out as far as I dared indulging in the rare private moments one might have in this environment which would, within hours, be blanket to blanket, boombox to boombox, a battle of Coppertone and Hawaiian Tropics and orange Bain de Soleil played out in the breeze.

I would emerge after an hour at least, imagining myself a young Apollo or Dionysus dripping from my rejuvenating bath, and fall to my towel to finish the sleep I started hours before, often awaking to find myself completely surrounded by the throng. And I would tip toe home to no recrimination, pulpy orange juice and Munster cheese lovingly melted by mother on a plain toasted bagel. Even writing this is chilling me.

Whenever asked to imagine my most relaxing experience or directed to go to my happy place, or attempt to get a lower blood pressure reading than I typically do, I always recall the sense-memory of my morning swims in that pink water, the crystalline pre-dawn sky still twinkling with stars. My favorite spot to slip in was along a jetty that created a tiny cove and pool that was spared the large rolling effect of the breakers, even at low tide, if you hugged the line of jagged rock and conglomerate as you pushed out to sea. There would be tiny minnows and starfish and crabs and whatever those barnacley things are called attached to the rocks—barnacles maybe. The unreal colors led me to imagine I was swimming in an ocean on another planet, or in some Yes album landscape come to life.

The summer before going to college I decided not to work a job; I demurred, really, much to my parents “chagrin”, apparently—at least this is what my friend Dick Badenhausen’s mother Margo said my mother told her though she never uttered anything to me. I spent everyday, all day, on the beach, from 8am until 7pm, with quick runs home for food, bathroom breaks and, quite probably, the occasional puff off of something soothing. And I read. I just read. Starting with children’s books. I know this will sound odd or sad but I never read children’s books as a child. My parents never read to me and I didn’t read. Even in grade school I would skim any reading assignment or just not do it at all. Nobody checked my homework. We were not a conscientious family. I remember the first book I read, besides D’Aulaires Greek Mythology and Edith Hamilton’s Mythology, was The Once and Future King which was kind of a doorstop and supposedly too advanced for my ten year old brain. It wasn’t. Though I loved this book it didn’t trigger readership in me and,, by that time, it was too late to go back and read kids books. I had never even heard of The Chronicles of Narnia until my best friend senior year of high school gave me his set to read over the summer after graduation. Which I did all at once, followed by the The Lord of The Rings trilogy and then Salinger’s Nine Stories, Franny and Zooey, and Raise High The Roofbeam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction, plus my university catalog. I was the most tranquil I’d ever been in my life, at seventeen, no longer a child, already possessing dark secrets, while not yet an adult in spite of them.

Even though I’ve been at the beach most of my life, there is nothing like, and no way to recapture, the experience of ones salad days, which for me were very specifically, July and August of that summer. I am so grateful that I had the unwitting forsight not to work that summer. I have something so potent, more than memory, to draw upon, now as a result. And while it’s still early May, today’s oracle reminds me that: no matter what my calendar looks like, I am going to do my absolute damnest to not create unnecessary work or stress for myself, and to channel the feeling of moving through that pink water, as I consciously would, with the smoothest, longest strokes and nary a splash. I’m going to let the Sabian symbol of Taurus, 14° set the tone for the entire summer. In a twelve-fold sequence this forty-forth symbol would fall under the rule of Scorpio which, in contrast to the preceding sign of Libra, eschews the outer world of order and appearances and embraces an inner world, that, of the subconscious. It is the fixed-water sign, concentrated, distilled and crystalized emotion that isn’t expressed but kept guarded and used to power one’s desire, like a dragon protecting its treasure deep in the recesses of the earth. There is no f.o.m.o here or whining or complaining. Scorpio, ruled by Pluto, named for the god of the underworld (subterra and the subconscious), employs the power of elimination, pruning, to inspire growth at the unseen root level of experience. Thus Scorpio and the astrological eighth house are associated with regeneration, sleep, sex and even death, which is only a dreadful name for rebirth.

As a child we are naturally inward focussed; and at seventeen or ability to be so is still rather automatic. As most of us age we lose our capacity for this and have to intercede with meditative practices to reintroduce this element back into our lives. Even in meditation, I employ that pink dawn ocean; so I’m going to return to that source now, in light of all the tap dancing I’m meant to do as fast as I can, and find that fixed-watery place inside myself, the vibrational crystal of my inner being, the insouciant Mona Lisa smile of my salad days and demure, once again, when it comes to work, taking on only that which I can execute as play. I have Mars conjunct Neptune in Scorpio. In simple terms that spells an active imagination, not to mention the ability to cast some pointed spells. Mars is the active self, fighting the good fight; and Neptune is that vast primordial sea of imagination and possibility. And, really, today’s oracle is about working on both levels simultaneously, finding the parrallel between them, returning to simpler joys for revitalization. Running around, like yesterday’s porter, subject to the needs and dictates of others is anathema to the experience of the child taking his cues from his inner life; not to mention remaining connecting to the natural world and its energies.

The message of this oracle is sychronistically the same as the Tarot card I pulled from the deck, as I’m wont to do daily, yesterday and then, curiously, again today, the Page of Pentacles: Connecting with life’s simple pleasures. As Stella and I tell our clients, this may be simple, but it isn’t always easy. We mustn’t attempt at once more than we can achieve via our conscious minds and ego drives. We must keep a toe in that water and skip along the shore. A not so nice voice in my head is saying: Who are you kidding? And the truth is I have already failed to take this oracle on board in the hours spent putting this blog entry together. Living life on life’s terms can be a challenge. But we must live and let live and allow that which isn’t working to fall away, as no amount of struggle or speeding your way through a schedule like a pin ball bouncing off walls and obstacles will serve you in the end. I’ve never said it before but today it seems highly appropriate: Peace Out.

 

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!
Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox

 

 

As Folk

Aries 7° (March 27)

 

I started getting squirrely yesterday. I was up so early—3:33. By the time nine o’clock rolled around I was already obsessing over social media and I could feel that edgy, old, procrastinative behavior begin to creep in. Happily, today, I will get out of the house and do some shopping after our conference call with the TV folk. Looking forward to all of it, actually. Got a cute card in the mail from a friend, just a heart that read Love More on one side and More Love on the other. I put on one of my favorite records of all time by Brian Eno and David Byrne and just soldiered on, ignoring the old urges to cushion my brain against all that’s happening lest I spend the day needing to be hospitalized for panic—no ER working in the world wants to see someone thinking they’re dying when they have simply given themselves an extreme anxiety attack. None of this is a joke. I have a friend who is a famous cartoonist for a conservative publication and I cringe every day I see his latest offering, which are posted on Instagram. I actually commented on one of them last week and thought, crap, I hope this doesn’t in any way cramp our friendship, which I would never want to happen. Still, I’ve never been one to hold my tongue, virtual or otherwise. And I just don’t think there is any room for levity in any of this. The first thing one learns in comedy school is that diseases aren’t funny…ever. I’ve seen comedians go there and it never works, except with the mean-spirited people of the world. Those who would have filled stadiums to see Andrew Dice Clay back in the late eighties. Enough said. Even the present Andrew Dice Clay, I believe, wouldn’t go to one of the past Andrew Dice Clay’s show. And yet, I see so many of our mutual friends (of mine and my cartoonist friend) posting heart-likes. I do not get it. At all. I know that this friend is rather indebted to the publication where he has been working for the past thirty years, but we are beyond just living in polarized times. We are in a place where the evil rich like those who own things like his newspaper would rather see people die than any slippage to their bottom lines, let alone their yearly bonuses. It’s all dirty money. Everywhere. That is what is being exposed. That and the fact that Mother Nature if fucking pissed. As well she should be. We are killing her indiscriminately so who are we to wonder why she is picking us off in the same manner. The world you get you deserve.

More than wanting to be spared, myself—because let’s face it, I’m not all that young anymore and I don’t have kids nor any real family to speak of and not that many people will be that upset—I just want to live in a world where this sort of thing cannot happen because we are already unified, as a humanity, against common enemies like viruses, natural disasters and hurtling asteroids (because you know that’s next). I will wake up today feeling a bit worse for wear but will steel myself and go shopping once again. This time I don’t believe I need to go out again for the next two weeks. I feel iffy but I’m ignoring it. We have a big meeting today for the TV project and it turns out we are quite sympatico with the show writer which is very good news indeed. She has a queer bent and that is right up my so-called alley. I continue to reach out to friends. S. is in constant touch with J and N. I don’t know what to do about my feelings regarding P. and her unabashed needs. The posturing is beginning to wear on me but I’m sure I’ll get over it. The good thing about having self-absorbed friends is that there is no worry of their reading your Blague. And hopefully they will get over themselves in due time. I was surprised that some of the nutsy boltsy stuff needed immediate attention but that’s fine. Not much has really been done up until this point so I’m not terribly worried about the outcome. Would be great if this came to fruition and I for one want to do everything in my power to insure that it does. I have made some good strides today so I’m not going to worry about the rest of it. Tomorrow is another day and I plan on ruling the school so long as I am well enough to do so.

 

The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 36-40.  I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

 

Looking at my schedule today, it is the day that I must begin contracting all the seventeen artists I have slated to perform this year’s Afterglow Festival in Provincetown. And I must also reach out to sponsors and donors to fund this yearly project. I’ve been trying to build other bridges with other venues, as well, to produce the great artists with whom I’ve the privilege to work, but it has been a total slog. Not returning emails. How do people get away with this? It’s part of a larger question which is: why do people who operate so shoddily in the world, with no regard to formality or the social fabric, succeed at all? We seem all to often to reward those who are self-serving, ineffective and second-rate; while individuals of quality and character have to spend their time bumping up against these, let us call them, void-ers. I’ve resolved, at various times in my career (which has entailed the wearing of many hats) to be more cutthroat and other c-words, but I only ever end up being compassionate, even for these void-ers, which partly pisses me off, but, for which, I am largely grateful. I’m not after that pot of gold after all. I’m interested in experience. But, man oh man, you would not believe the people who have reached out to contact us this year, friends at ad agencies that want to help us spread our word, even so-called good friends with production studios and branding companies wanting to help realize our vision. And then (what is it like to live in these people’s heads) they completely disappear. You called us, remember? This is not true connection. This isn’t building a cantilever bridge. This is the opposite. Honestly I think some people must wake and bake and think they’re having an epiphany about us and what we’re doing and gain the momentary bravado to phone and promise the moon. But again, it’s just fairy favors. That pot of gold.

The only way you build a bridge together, whether professionally or personally, is to start building it. Before we ever charged clients or even called what we did a consultancy we offered our services up for free. We don’t get paid to do the Afterglow Festival, we just do it to fill a void and prevent a further chasm in Provincetown’s birthright as the birthplace of the modern American stage. I do this by holding out my beggar’s bowl and asking those whom I believe have a stake in Provincetown’s stage heritage remaining intact to give what they can, whether it be ten dollars or ten thousand. I can ask for money because it goes solely toward building that cantilever bridge. It has nothing to do with me personally, but for the pleasure and satisfaction I derive from pulling this project off each year. As it’s become increasingly successful, mercenary minds want something from it. Those who gave to us now see us as a way for them to profit and it makes me queasy. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve taken the gloves off this week with the blog. I’m on a bit of a Norma Rae soap box; but I am a Libra after all, and any form of injustice makes me break out in a rash of righteous swords.

Today’s symbol really is about making one’s individual life better by recognizing a chasm that needs to be bridged and working with others toward doing just that. Certain things cannot be done on our own. And those of us who recognize where there is lack or have understood deprivation in any sense of the word (like that widow yesterday) are more equipped than others to make some positive changes, buidling bridges in this world. This gives the individual life substance and purpose. I’ve quoted her before but as Uta Hagen would say: Obstacles only make your objectives stronger. So if the hotel that usually gives our artists discount rooms during the Afterglow Festival suddenly wants to profit on us this might inspire me to reach out to a bunch of hotels and inns and ask them to house our artists individually, and gratis to boot. It’s way more work for me, but it’s good work. As I write this I realize that Greed is one of the biggest voids that exists in this world. Look at the polarization of the haves and have nots. The gulf between them has become vast because the greedy find a way to buy politicians and otherwise find loopholes around paying taxes while raising prices on everything their corporations manufacture, including food that makes people sick so that they have to spend their hard earned money on drugs created to cure illnesses these same corporations, in effect, created. I wish this was exaggeration but it isn’t.

It is indeed more difficult for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle; which is why I’m most in awe of my richest friends who spend their money in truly philanthropic ways. There are those who have given to my non-profit since year one whom I know strive to give as much as they can. Wealth and fame do not make people happy, that is a fact. And there is something about the making of a lot of money that corrupts people and causes them to horde it. I think this can happen to most folks. So I find it so rare and refreshing when I encounter those of means who give so much without thought to it just being a good write off or buying some kind of recognition. One of our most faithful patrons insists on being anonymous and is truly caring. And there of course is Ms. Rowling who singlehandedly pays for the entire operation of her Lumos foundation, so that if I person makes a donation to it, that whole amount goes toward the cause, never toward expenses. People of means do have a great power to do good in this world and so few of them do, ironically. It’s so inspiring when they dedicate their life to building bridges over gaping voids they see in our human society. I know many rich people give money to causes, but so few care about them.

Okay hopping off my soapbox. What I am realizing from this oracle is that I can’t do something that can be metaphorically expressed as bridge-building alone. True progress is a collective endeavor and must include the ideas and skills of more than one person. A cantilever bridge is only fixed at one end. That is to say we don’t know where the other end might lead; we must be flexible in regard to where our efforts might “land.” This is why those hit and run contacts from people pretending (to themselves) that they want to “help” doesn’t work—because the fact is they are leading with their agenda, they know exactly where they want the so-called collaborative effort to land: in their own pocket books or with an individual feather in their cap. This is why they cannot follow through. Because they were never prepared to devote to the process of filling a void, that was a pretense for their own reward. So, if you’re one of those people who reach out to others under the guise of collectively wanting to make some corner of the world a better place, when really you are only fishing for projects via which you might profit, you should take this oracle to heart today. Because you not only don’t gain a foothold with that future aim, you lose any ground you’ve gained in the relationship you sought to parlay into your half-wake-and-baked vision.

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Surrounded as I am by golden calves who are endlessly being worshipped, invited, raised high, painted, photographed, and otherwise blown, many of whom worship, invite, name drop, paint, photograph, us-y and otherwise rim all the other golden calves in one big gilt bovine cluster fuck, year after year, amassing a deep well of mutual, group ancestral sychophancy, I (have decided to) emerge as an avatar of a new order. Yep, that’s right folks, I’m busting out as the new messiah and I’m really only most interested in revealing my truth, disclosing my true nature, to other people like myself who don’t give a shit about where everyone is going, what they’re wearing, whom their with and how many shows of validation they are receiving on Facebook for whatever gumball of an opinion or a snark remark has fallen from their overindulged, egocentric noggins. While most fatuous folks we know are lost in their orgy of pseudofame and delusions of power and influence, pretending to some pedigree and treating everyone like they’re some lucky servant whose role it is to dote on them, I’ll be at the well, if not the bar, hanging with a new tribe of goils who are not above fetching their own refreshment, thank you very much.

Like both the Samarian doll and my main man JC, I tend not to fit in with the prevailing tribe. Once upon a time, that might have bothered me; but now I’m so effing grateful. There really isn’t much in it, spiritually that is. Sure, you might have some fragile sense of belonging, but it takes up a lot of time and energy, all that worshiping and being worshipped. It’s truly dullsville. While being on the fringe has a sharpening effect on your psyche, such that one day you can wake up and enjoy the revelation and declaration that you are in fact gods’ gift to humanity, but you were just too humble all this time to go around advertising the fact. Except when you meet someone who is as unimpressed as you are by the heirarchies of worship in your midst, and all the middle men, so many middle men. And so many yes men. Meh, who needs it. Not me. I have nobody to impress. Who has time? What with all the money lenders needing ridding from the temples and all those in pain in need of healing, seriously I’m lucky I have time to stop and share three simple words with my lady pal over a ladle of some cool fresh H20.

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 In the 1973 season the character of Georgina is introduced, shades of Sybil for you “Downright Abject” fans. Georgina is played by the lovely Lesley-Anne Down and during the Great War she is swept up by compassion and becomes a Red Cross nurse, despite the fact that she comes from Upstairs. For, really, it’s far more difficult for the Upstairs set to leave their drawing-room fear-based lives of losing what they have than it is for those who’ve nothing material to squander and whose lives are already all about service. But off Georgina goes even though she is the most celebrated bright young thing of her generation, the century-old version of a dreaded Kardashian only with an I.Q. and taste. I think of the people I know sometimes and ask myself are they Up or Down. Those who were Up in modern America are often so because they were born into Down circumstances. Many of those who are Down are vehemently so, having contempt for anything Up. I think of our summer place Provincetown where the great culture war is increasingly being played out. I like to think of myself as somewhere on the staircase employing my wit. I am an equal opportunity shade magnet. The Downs can find me uppity and suspect I have some kind of trust fund. Wrong. I’m a quasi-well-traveled autodidact whose busted my ass so to work for myself. The Ups seem to worry about me and tend not to visit but rather invite me, considering their surroundings so much nicer. Meanwhile the smokey tattooed former set is typically Bennington educated and more well-heeled and cared for by parents affording their stylish love of poverty, whilst the lockjaw latter crowd with their chihuahua accessories and editorial mudrooms were my busboy a New York minute ago and have zero references beyond Lulu Guinness and “Glee”.

But let’s get metaphysical. Cancer, the sole cardinal-water sign, is associated with The Flood; just as Gemini, mutable-air is associated, in its shadow aspect, with overthinking, duality, consciousness of opposites that characterizes The Fall. In Gemini, we are subject to dualistic thinking—its ruler Mercury is named for the god of tricksters, liars, merchants, jugglers, thieves, basically a whole bunch of carnies—and so we see how yesterday’s symbol might leave one torn. Do we stay cozied up against the harsh outside world in our glittering world of gifts, or do we go beyond our immediate surrounds to help wash others’ cares away. In the Greek flood myth, it is the goddess Themis who saves humanity after the destruction of Zeus. She is the mother source of repair. And we take on her mantle, as did UpDown’s Georgina, when we leave the comfy world of personal attachemnt with its trumped up petty dramas, and selflessly and impersonally participate in the care of all. We become the light to the hurt and despondent and the reparation of humanity.

I do things for social and creative causes; but I have never expressed volunteerism on this most consecrated of levels. Seemingly, neither has anyone famous born on this day. So much for that theory being born out. Seriously, go look at a list of famous people born this Taurus day. There are some lovely people, but mainly its those who’ve cultivated a specific talent with nary a saint or nurse or would-be savior among them. Oh well. And anyway, for the occultists in my midst, the Red Cross mightn’t be all it’s cracked up to be. And there have been more than just conspiracy theory crackpots (who me?) who have drawn the connection between the Red Cross and the Rosy Cross or Rosicrucians, many of whom have a very sinister take on the organization, from its very origins, especially when it comes to things like blood-banking. My arms go weak just typing that. Ugh. Anyway, everything has it’s shadow side and so I offer up this wild and crazy  read by Dr. Len Horovitz which might put a spooky and cynical spin on Upstairs’ Georgina’s role in those field hospitals. “She done already done had herses.”

 

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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