Libra 25° (October 17)
I spent much of this day writing things I cannot post here. I am attempting to exorcise some of the horrid feelings surrounding farmer fuckmunch. I am interested in making a solid choice and making a plan accordingly. I’m coming up on a fortnight until a certain procedure and I want to be in the right frame of mind for sure. I am on a mission from the gods at this point and I cannot let them down. I feel I know what I’d like to do in terms of the bigger move. We can get the fuck out of here with very little effort. I need a win here and I’m willing to do what it takes to bring it about. I’m fairly tired of the atmosphere here, the crowds and the pushiness and I love for something more secret and calm and beautiful, and still not very far from the things I love. It is time to make a change, this is something I now truly believe.
The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of Blagues, nos. 1000-1005. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.
I don’t want to turn into the older man in the comfortable shoes, you know, the one for whom wearing Rockports is no longer ironic. And for those of us too short to age like Anthony Bourdain, blessed with those skinny legs and all, becoming a Breatharian often seems to be the only route to not being some stubby sextagenarian. I joke. But even in my youth I would live on Hemingway’s words: hunger is good discipline. I skipped meals sometimes, breakfast certainly, and lunch every once in a while. I had never been overweight then, I remember, particularly, living in Paris in 1985, 1986, ordering just a pot of tea I’d drink with lemon. Of course, that’s when I wasn’t drinking all the beer and wine; but that never registered physically then either, except in a vague, teen-age puffiness.
But it’s more than just the avoidance of certain footwear. It’s also the way ones jeans fit. I do declare I must avoid jeans altogether unless they are altogether flattering. The truth is I haven’t exercised other than walking in a long time. That said, I walk many miles on the beach which can often be tough going, not a stroll in the park. And the times I’ve been able to swim have been glorious. If I lived in London, I would surely join a swim club. Those days at the Aldwych, I can’t tell you: they pulled on my heartfelt being so much. It is my most favorite pool in all the world. If I had sick money I would get a 15K pound membership just to go there every day. Which is just over 4 pounds a day. Just under six bucks a day. Six bucks a day to swim in a pool isn’t a lot if you go every day. It’s the price of a coffee or near enough. I would give up coffee to swim in that pool. Just one thing: I don’t live in London. But you know what Diana Vreeland said: The best part about London is Paris. There is sense in what I say if you look for it.
So what to do. Well, being well hydrated and slightly underweight is my secret manorexic goal. But I am one of those people who eats so well already, and barely; I never snack or eat dessert except maybe sharing in a restaurant; and I generally avoid restaurants except when traveling, manning the kitchen, my favorite household milieu, will fairly militant precision. Seriously, I am anal when it comes to food, which isn’t a pretty sentence, nomatter how you slice it. So let’s put it this way: I’m ridiculously organized, an expert at gard manger, I never waste even the tiniest sprig of thyme. I shop for exact ingredients, I make menus, I schedule prep times for chopping for a few meals ahead, I do a little at a time, all the time throughout the day—there is always something cooking in the kitchen—such that, when meal times arrive, I need do little else but assemble. It’s one of my greatest, I won’t say only, joys.
I’ve kind of freaked myself out these past few dates. I accidentally invented a new character called Socks. At least I think I did. I’m seriously hoping I didn’t conjure something already there, actually. Even writing this I can spook myself. Because I want to describe what he looks like (he has sewn-up mouth for instance which, come on, is pretty effing demonic) but I don’t want to say more in case it brings him further into being. Since I “presented” him in a joking attempt to scare the household lots of weird stuff has been happening. Small stuff but weird stuff, especially in the realm of mechanics. So before I give full birth to this deranged magickal childe I need to do something of a mini exorcism to rid the environment of any bizarro juju.
Good thing nobody reads this Blague, right, because you’d all think I was bonkers. Then again those who know me are certain that I am so I suppose we can view this as a step in the right direction: I’m letting more of the real me be seen. Ha. That is way easier said than done for me. People assume because I’m a quasi public figure who takes to stages and is out there championing arts causes and the like that I’m super outgoing. But the fact is I’m really rather shy, that is, at least, with no drinks in me. Double ha.
It was a full week of clients and, as is typical, I like to ask myself what I learned from them. Detachment is the first, and very Aquarian (this Blague being assigned to this date during the sign of Aquarius), thing that pops to mind. It is so important because, once we get to Pisces and its energy of dissolution, we will need to let go. But what are we detaching into, ah that is the rub. We are not just detaching from. Detachment is not losing. Detachment is releasing…into…trust?….truth? Both for starters. When we encounter a natural ending with work with a client, we take that exit and look forward to seeing what we’ll see off that ramp.
These past couple of weeks have been an incredible journey in confronting all the past accumulations, going through them and extracting from them what needs extracting, all the while knowing it is the only way to move forward because that will soon take every particle of energy I possess. For that one must love winter. The metaphor of hibernation isn’t about sleep, but about digging down into the ground(work) of what was already established and to live on that. But in living on it, to make work the metaphor most literally, means to live off the stored accumulation, the fat of our previous existance, but to burn it off before we emerge starving for new experience. I’m so close, now, to burning off a great deal of it.
To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°, for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360 degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.
Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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