Capricorn 22° (January 12)

Heard from Dave his girlfriend is buying a house in Brewster. We start our own process this week. I am really not much in the mood to write things. I find that certain “moods” inspire me to a thousand ideas but then other “moods” in the aftermath leave my mind a blank…From the page to the stage, the sage of the age…Sextrology isolates the new book activates. Something about John Dewey that the self isn’t ready made by the choice of action…Mars as Id. Mars in Cap equals Classy in the Raw. Mars filtered in Capricorn takes that ajbectifying id energy and edifies it such that the primal energy of the planet coninutally sparks the enduring, endurance motivated Capricorn (endurance calculating the concept of the as a sort of fiery fountain of youthful sparky energy, secret sauce. Also explains capricorn’s warrior spirit and their like of camouflage prints.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1431-1435. 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 took two cars in to get inspected and our old girl needed all new brakes, basically. That will be a pretty penny. There is no rhyme or reason (feeling) to life these day; rather all seems rather random. And depressing I might add. Have learned that a close friend has been going through it; I had no idea. I am learning from experience that success isn’t necessarily a contributor to happiness. People are a mess and that is a result of some carefully tailored propaganda. We have to fight back, first and foremost, by not falling down deep holes. I write a few sentences and then I’m distracted today. I don’t think it’s just me. I’m finding that most people seem super scattered and incapable if any kind of commitment or follow through it is becoming a bit insane. People also seem more high maintenance than they used to. I think I blame social media for that. Everyone wants to be a star without doing the work, paying their dues. They want the perks and none of the process. The profit not the progress. And this has been a rapid change, I find in my line of work, over the past seven or so years. Oh, and everybody thinks they should have a podcast if not there own TV show.

Someone I know, and know personally, (we are actual friends) who has a very big job at the top of the food chain at a major media network contacted me in December saying they wanted to create content for me and I should (immediately—hurry up) put together a bio for their team. As I said that was December. So what you going to do? You can’t push people. Maybe they are feeling themselves (or their cocktails) when they reach out and touch others in that way. It doesn’t matter. No judgment. You still have to love people. At least that is my view. Then again I’m not as hard on people as I see them be on others (including myself). I am trying to move the needle which we call moving the spoon. Our ancient car which was supposed to come back today isn’t. I had such high hopes that my new mechanics wouldn’t work on Cape Cod time but alas. Today really feels like spring finally here—crocuses and daffodils are doing there thing. I made a minted pea soup that we ate over last couple of days, with tulips on the table. If that doesn’t make it feel like spring I don’t know what does. Lamb probably. But one really has to separate the animal from the meal in ones mind, which for some reason is easier to do than when it comes to veal. Though it shouldn’t be.

I’ve been doing a lot of casting this week which really wasn’t the plan but in the end turns out to be the right thing. Things are rolling along I’d say. But I would like to keep the drama to as minimum as possible. One more sentence or two and then I’m going to take a shower. I don’t not believe in just writing anything. I find it’s like putting down mulch or fertilizer. It mightn’t be the thing you want to see grow before your eyes but it does create an environment from which things can spring. I have lists upon lists to go through and I hope to get to some of them today. I am looking for the magic in the ordinary, always. I saw Heather Mattarazzo beamed in on Instagram. I wish I was better at social media. One can always hire someone but what does that say. I need to remind you I’m writing a bunch of these al at once. Let’s just say it is 4:31 in the morning and I now have four of these episodes to write à la meme temps. Nan wrote to say that I seem to be getting younger; I promptly pointed out that I don’t post recent pictures. I am concerned (as all telegenic narcissists are) that I’ve let my manner slip a bit but that is what April is for. Someone I know lost eleven lbs in thirteen weeks on Noom. I would try that but I don’t like the name.

I think Amy Schumer’s new comedy special is fantastic. I find Tig Nogaro (sp.?) completely unfunny. I might try my hand at all this myself in the coming year. I mean isn’t that supposed to be what this is all leading up to? I will first need to make certain sacrifices. I’m ready to do that. I don’t have any family of my own in either chronological direction; and I find the New England contingent to be conditional at best, save for my parents-in-law who are truly divine beings, in spite of their Yankee eccentricities or indeed due to them. I’ve always wanted to write the phrase or indeed due to them.

Well I cheated a bit yesterday by including an old to-do list in the Blague entry. But I had to remind myself of what is ahead these next few months. It is such a lot of work that I do non-profit, and I notice, this year, that my relationship to what’s in store has changed. That is to say that my actual brain chemistry seems altered, comparatively, in the face of the same task. I know that I am need of a total rehabilitation of spirit. I have been running, running, running and now I am doing so on empty. I know it won’t be easy this time around but it will be most crucial. Anyway I was thinking of the end of a certain summer, in my salad days spent at the Jersey shore. We had a large house in what now strikes me as a city by the sea, compared to the more rural setting in which I’ve lived these last twenty years (twenty years!) on Cape Cod. That very first day, sometimes post hurricane, the very first days of September, right before having to pack up and head north to school, the weather would one day shift. It would have been scorchingly hot for a fortnight and maybe with no more fanfare than a brief thunder storm, the wind would change direction. You might be sitting on a beach and see tiny tornadoes ripping through people’s “blankets”, a term used to describe the entire estate any one person or group thereof would bring to the beach. Little cyclones of dried seaweed and shreds of candy wrapper.

“It’s Billy weather,” my dear mother would say. I don’t know how she knew this because it was true. I also don’t know how she knew to say it, as if I had been alive for hundreds of years with a documented track record of my liking a sudden hint of autumn, a foreshadowing, in what might even still be late August. I would don a wool sweater, typically hunter green or navy blue, with glee, either over a red or blue or green pinstriped button color shirt or tee or sometimes directly against my allergic sunkissed skin. The scratchiness was a sacrfice to fashion or some preppy social construct. I think about that day. That day which probably only happened once and yet “Billy weather” would indicate a recurring pattern. It baffles me. Like it baffles me that, when going to study abroad in Grenoble, my mother gifted me a going away present of Joyce’s Ulysses she inscribed with the words “From one Irishman to another in France.” Did she read Ulysses? I doubt it. Did she know a lot about Joyce or just that he was Irish with a thing for France. I will never know. Why didn’t I ask?

These are the things that run through ones mind in the middle of a sleepless night. I think of Castor Wilde lying wide eyed nearby some centuries ago listening to the screams of the fisher cats and owl hoots in the night in a dark so dark and terrifying until the clock struck four allowing certian comfort to set in. I think about his cotton nightshirt, soaked at the collar, and the herbal scent he exudes. This is something he and I share. We seem to give off an air of eucalyptus for no known reason. He gives up hope on sleeping and flings himself afoot. He walks on air to avoid the creaking floor and witches stair down to the tiny square patch of landing at the front door flanked along its sides with thin columns of pained glass windows through its beveled whichness he spies a fawn nibbling on the wild strawberries in their patch of white and yellow blossoms. This is the place he is and always has been.

The men will soon appear. The place for the barn has been set just one hundred feet or so back and to the side of the house. Castor peers through the mud room window at the dew glistening blue on the grass. At that moment a coyote slinks through the yard all apologetically side glancing. There are no bunnies about. A yellow flicker is heard rapidly pummeling the iron cap on the chimney—it sounds like a mechanical, not a natural thing—wow this is hard. He is missing something but not sure what. Is it Jenny? Marcus? Childhood? No answer comes. He pads outside, the brick step like ice on his bare feet, but the air warm under the cold and floral. He sneezes. And some thought goes from his mind. He grabs the bucket and heads into the inner garden through the arch of unblossomed wisteria through the field of would-be wild flowers and down the path that separates the Wildes from the Woods.

The first thing you do, when you think you’re having a stroke, is to delete your history. The thought of being dead and knowing that people might see what you were up to online. I say people because I don’t have family. We maybe will tackle that later—this is a workshop so I’m not sure which possible avenues I’ll choose yet. And also part of this performance is about letting things that occur to me occur to me and I know that sounds artsy fartsy but you see I am a natural psycic which scared me in my youth, as it did my mother in hers. I am squandering my gifts. Certain spates of time can be characterized as epochs wherein little bits of your soul get bitten off. When you’re young you have a lot of soul to lose; but when you get to be d’un certain age and all is beyond not ahead of you, well, you’re pretty threadbare when it comes to affording any further loss of that elemental self. And there are other certain times in life (like now) when one feels close to that entropic erosion, as redundant as that word pairing might be.

I was reared (told they were geniuses of our age) on Gertrude Stein and Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Kandinsky and Mondrian and Miro. Nowadays I deal with cabaret stars who think they are geniuses and perhaps they are. I’ve always thought it and underrated medium. In 1985 I was moving to Paris and fantasized about singing new songs in an old style as a vocalist called Pan; some version of that fantasy did not not come to pass. I also thought I’d have four kids (I even had the names picked out); or that I would have a crepe truck (thirty years before food trucks were a thing); but what I ended up doing was not what I ended up doing and, then again, very much so. We had a lot to do this week; and I was not my best self. Spring does that to me every year; I tend to go a bit cuckoo. But now I have to get it all together and make sure I am hitting my marks with ease, joy, precision and a sense of unfolding. The Irish got it right with there let the road rise to meet you concept. Life on life’s terms, letting it meet you half way. That’s the proverbial ticket.

I’m most proud of Taylor Mac for mounting an original Broadway show. That is just something so fantastic. I’m proud of all my friends doing any number of things like one-offs and podcasts and one-offs; but I’m most proud of this major work by a friend-artist. Taylor always goes big or goes home and I have never known him to go home. Ever. If you can believe it Taylor was in the first ever show we ever ever (did I say ever) did back in March of 2005. I had just been at the other Kripalu which we call Crapola. And when I got back I shook my Scarlett O’Hara to the heavens and said as gods are my witness I will never not be on a stage again. So I forced my way into the cabaret scene with our little Cosmic Cabaret show in Chelsea at a placed called Elmo. It was a great show. We in some ways did more with that show then we had with any since—it was a series of shows based on the signs—the first ever one being called The Rage of Aquarius. Kenny Mellman and Rachelle Garniez and Raquel Cion and the Cucumbers, John and Deena, were in it. And even Richard fucking Barone directed it. Anyway, in it began the storyline we didn’t follow through about me being “the runt quintuplet” found days later. Skulking in the corner of the womb. Anyway I did a search for this phrase on my computer just now and what came up, or fell out, was this whole big two-person play about us and being truklus and going to Camp Blavatsky, all of which was based on semi fictional stuff. This was before we met Matt Ray and focused exclusively on music.

I really don’t know what went on today. What I do know is that things are complicated, psychologically. There are Skype calls with friends. There are trips to stores. There is the hiding of facts and the functioning of bad habits. Dysfunctioning, I think I should say. I don’t feel obliged to paint a rosey picture, why would I. I am an honest warlock if nothing else and things have not been going great around here, and mainly due to me. I’m a complex and complicated (they are not the same) being. I have much in the way of accumulated hurt and resentment. I have sangfroid and fomo and an inferiority complex that sees me continually strike up relationships with people who seek worship and are incapable of reciprocation. I have decades of the worst family drama your ears have ever heard and then the sudden end (death of parents and total cut-off estrangement of sibling, by choice—the thought of ever seeing that being again fills me with horror).  I write thousands and thousands of words a day. I am also my own cleaner, cook and overall handy man. And then I have an entire business, no, sorry, three businesses I run. And I’m about to chuck everything and take a deep dive into solely one (plus a dovetailing two) enterprise(s).

The rest will seem crazy but it is taken from talks this day on social media:

We will find out that Bernie Sanders is a Russian asset. Mark my words.you ask a psychic for facts? lol. no: as i said: he won’t show tax returns, he is now doing Fox News Rally, he never shows up to vote in Senate, he and Jill Stein divided the vote to keep Hillary from office. That is all. totally serious. I think both Bernie Sanders (who barely shows up and hardly ever votes in Senate and won’t reveal his tax returns and is now doing Fox News Rally) and Jill Stein as Maureen McCarron points out are both on the Russian payroll.Why did Bernie abstain in vote against sanctions against Deripaska (Russian oligarch) wake up people. Bernie divided the vote on purpose. Staying in the race. BS so obvious. and paradoxically that’s what they bet on. paradox. doing things that our rational minds would conceive of as improbable. but not. we are wise. we are awake.

We are watching. and we are ready. CASE IN POINT: GO TO ANY NAYSAYER’S (OF THIS POSTS’S0 PROFILE AND YOU WILL FIND THEY ARE BOTS. BOTS BOTS not even sophsticated enough not to “react” to the words Bernie Sanders” before understanding the context. BAM BITCHES CASE IN POINT: GO TO ANY NAYSAYER’S (OF THIS POSTS’S0 PROFILE AND YOU WILL FIND THEY ARE BOTS. BOTS BOTS not even sophsticated enough not to “react” to the words Bernie Sanders” before understanding the context. BAM BITCHES irst of all: I am a fucking psychic and not by choice but I’ve come to accept it and keep my mouth shut around your wives, boyfriends, husbands and girlfriends (for starters). Second: every one of you that denounces this post is blind and not like Tiresias who at least gained the second sight that is a gift and a curse.

I want a Woman. I’m sick to death of men and old men I’m sorry to be ageist but that’s how I feel. Call it self-loathing I don’t give a fuck. I have been “over affectionate” myself in this life and this Biden BS is just that. So let’s stop talking about the mayor and Beto (uch, sorry, personal feels). I want Elizabeth or Kamala or Stacy in no specific order. Although I think Stacy should get Senate. And EW should be our president with Kamala as VEEP and we look at 16 effing years.

Trump, Epstein, cronies are human traffickers. And all the girls separated from their parents at the border are product. Look into his eyes (if you can stand it); he is purest evil. Because we who are good can’t conceive of such evil, we imagine others can’t be as bad as they are. He is the baddest, the worst, the most craven of beings; and he’s in the White House. All that said, I trust in the powers of Good and it will all come round right in the end. We need to send Sabrina to Washington.

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

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

Capricorn 21° (January 11)

All we can do is the best we can. I will get some things down on paper today if it kills me, which it just might. And yet that didn’t happen. It is now Friday of the same week and I haven’t written a single intro entry yet. Either. But somehow this week was strangely productive I couldn’t tell you for the life of me what happened but I have a new sense of clarity that can only come from packing up decades worth of belongings papers memories clippings scraps writing momentos into boxes that neatly and orderly categorize my existence heretofore and us the contents of my present mind. It is becoming more realistic to imagine a move. I have rejected my schedule making it in some ways tighter , playing chicken with myself as I am, and yet I think it’s doable because , well, why prolong the agony? I know where everything is , and there is a massive benefit to that. But, looking back, I think today was a good day all in all. I am deeply absorbed in Fran Leibowitz although I can’t stand Scorcese’s constant laughter—wish they had edited out that crap. Anyway I will be making a transition this week, Blaguing more here and less below, but for now I will let that be the bulk.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1426-1430. 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 must have some kind of inner ear thing happening because I am not myself, especially when driving. I have long had a thing about being on bridges, inherited from my mother. I’ll go into it in time. I understand Parker Posey, the way she wrote her book. Also it’s often easier in snippets. Thinking about the next chapters as places where the same elements will be deposited. Not doing things in order. How Scorpio really. I do love the book. I don’t know if S. has contacted her. Since we saw her over the weekend. Wow I am developing a different relationship with punctuation.

I will and should read my past entries more objectively. Don’t think about performance. Imagine if it would make a good reading. This is a funny way of writing for me. It’s bringing up memories. Of being at a clairvoyant’s house in Bradley Beach, New Jersey. There is a question mark in that experience. His hands were small and not clammy but cool. Those were the days. I don’t think I could have ever then appreciated what my body could get away with. And now I have to relinquish all this pleasure and send all desire to my brain (very Taurus to Scorpio) which is fitting since we will have spent the weekend with Parker and Vivian.

I feel compelled to tell you that this has yet to happen but I need to shut the fuck up. The whole point is to write the next several entries all at the same time and fuck with Time. I am aware that I used the same word twice in one sentence and made one upper case and one lower. But that’s me. S….that’s all she wrote for that sentence. I must not get angry, agrivated, frustrated. I must remain Galadriel. I am so hard on myself.

I like Athens better than Hudson maybe? I dunno. I get drained easily. We drove in today. Yes today and my nerves were off the charts. Advanced what? Can I rehabilitate from this. I will do the best I can. Only I mightn’t. I have been doing things, crazy things. Well, crazy if you’re very sane. That’s the thing about me. I’m kinda random. And that, I’m told, can be a good thing. But I am really struggling. What’s going on isn’t good. I feel like a boiling frog. And I’ve just spent another day admitting I’m not Marjorie (played by Natalie Dormer).

Finally I feel as if I can get some value momentum moving. I know I have to be unabashed in the process. Unapologetic. I know one of the themes has been the re-reading of old works. I have to go back and remind myself how many days it will take I did the math. Something like I’ve written four years so thats something like 1500 Blague entries (oh good lord) so it would take me 150 days to read and reorganize ten Blagues a day so that’s five months which isn’t terrible but it isn’t exactly great either. Still it needs to be done. And I’m just the man to do it. I’m the only one in fact. I hated sharing a room with my sister when I was small in Jersey City. I did it until I was eight years old. I guess we were poor. I had no idea at the time. My parents always made me feel we had money until they were older when they made it just as clear they had none. I love the fact that a “whistleblower” can be called Newbold. It turns out that the youngest of the Pritchett children has globs of talent. Veronica Webb randomly started following me on Instagram.

So trailing clouds of guilt and regret I venture forth to Athens to see my gangstah friend Viv. I will drive as far as I can before realizing I probably shouldn’t be driving at all and then my lady wife will take over. I am anxious because Viv has two cats and I am deathly allergic but apparently there is a room where the cats don’t go where I can sleep. The irony is that I love cats and would own a hundred of them if I could. Viv will show me video of an English cat lady and I realize I’ve seen the video before. We will also watch Pen15 which I didn’t realize meant penis until it was explained to me. We had a little snack and then V. took a shower and we took a walk around the town. I really do kind of like it. The cats Pinky and Leather are totally cute. I realize that my room is connected to Viv’s roomate’s room by a door that is shut, it seems, by virtue of a towel being caught in the jam. Caught in the Jam. That sounds like a good title for something. We had a lovely dinner with Pete the other night, I don’t know if I said that. I am happy they are moving to Wellfleet and I psychically (or nearly) guessed which house. I want to be in love today.

It’s all I can think about and yes I can’t be so codependent. And I have to think about death which will indeed part us all. It is awful to think how perfect everything has been so far and to know it will end. What is the purpose of this life if it all ends in sadness. I’ve become terrified of things. Of people dying mainly. It’s just such a mental trap. I really should find a therapist. I will do that today. Only I won’t. I don’t know what today will bring. I only know I have to bring it, whatever it is. The lack of a better word is running out. I remember meeting that actor, what’s his name, Shawn Hatosy, at the Gansevoort in, what, 2006. It is now 2019. Although all day long I thought it was 2020. I was looking for a document I was keeping on artists for casting purposes and I kept searching Artists 2020 and was fretting that I might have lost the file but actually I was just in the wrong year.

We had lovely salmon that Viv made and a baked potato which I haven’t had in one hundred years, plus green beans and salad which nobody seemed to eat. This made me self conscious as I made the dressing. I reached out to Lea Delaria when she first bought the new The Club in Provincetown but didn’t hear back. Now I realize (of course) that all our friends (and one enemy) will be performing there. I don’t like (him).  And though I can’t control it I wish people would wise up to this disaster boy. He feeds people heroin and yet people don’t think he’s a problem. So codpendent. He has this creative partner—they perform together—who is the most look down your nose type of person. She judges everyone (look who’s talking) and yet she will put up with this drug pusher person because of the coat tails she is riding late breakingly. These down and out pseudo bohemians make me sick, cuz you know they would be the first people to have gold toilets. Case in point the Hitler in Chief. Oh well, it doesn’t help me to know the stuff I know I have to somehow transcend it all. New favorite drag name: Sinobial Fluide.

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

So as it turns out, came a text from the other room, we will indeed see Parker today which will be so nice. We have this funny way of meeting up with her. Honestly I thought I would see her again on lower Fifth as I did last time but apparently she no longer lives in the city but here we will see her after all which is a little cosmic blaguey.

The town is super cute and right on the river and the air is filled with ions. We met the roomate this morning who is very young and cute. All I could think was I hope I didn’t snore and keep him awake. We were basically sleeping in the same room. Tonight in fact, without the towel draped on the door and jammed into the jam, it will remain ajar and it truly will feel we are in the same room. I guess everyone drinks and drives upstate because everyone seems to come home around 1:30 from a town fifteen minutes away in a car after being at a bar-lounge. One more reason to love a walking town.

We had a little breakie, not much and all took showers and then headed to a sort of flea makret in Coxsackie (I think that’s the town). Viv bought some stuff we did not. Then we headed to Hudson for lunch and to meet Parker who greeted us with hugs on the corner and promptly guided us to her car where she had lamps for Viv. Only V. didn’t want any of her lamps even though Parker tried sweetening the deal by saying, not without irony, that they had belonged to Ryan Adams. She forgot her wallet so had to drive back to Ghent to get it—also she had to feed Gracie the dog. We had a lovely lunch at The Maker—chickpea smash sandwich—then did a bit of shoppage. I bought nothing but S. got some a gorgeous ring and perfume.

I read a few pages of Parker’s book that was lying around in the morning and was pretty hooked. At The Carousel, where S. P. and V. all found things to buy, the shopguy asked us did you read Parker’s book. I said I just started. He said I told her it was tedious. You did what now? That wasn’t nice. We also went to Marine P.’s shop. Her baby dady who was represented by a naive painting looked super familiar. I have to find out who he might be. We tried to think about dinner but it made people cranky so we went back to the house and just sort of chilled. As someone who makes dinner at home most every day of the year I couldn’t manage the thought of finding food let alone cooking it so it was decided, and not by me, actually, that we would take us al out to the little hotel on the corner at the river in Athens. I wish I knew its name. It was delicous in fact and we had a lot of fun and laughed our snoots off.

The ride from JVB’s in Athens back to the Cape was strangely short and smooth. Thruway to Mass Pike down 495 and over the bridge. We stopped for very few groceries and some flowers and otherwise hightailed it back to catch up on our stories. I made a simple anchovy onion parsley sauce for some lentil pasta, which isn’t the greatest, though it isn’t a guilt trip. And we watched what we call Schitts, Will and Toodles, Rupie Dupie and Bill Maaaah. Still, being the type-A characters we are: We unpacked fully and pretty much cleaned the house in the process. I feel a wreck from all the moving around and really need to catch up on a number of things I’ve let lag, like this bitch called my Blague.

The world is so fucked up that I think I have been succombing to a form (or more) of depression myself. As I sit here I am hearing reports about Alaska dealing with changes unseen for thousands of years. I don’t know why people (Republicans) don’t understand that they are making themselves and their own children and grandchildren extinct. I cannot believe theat there are so many stupid, venal people on this part of the planet, specifically. The problem is taking it all in and punishing oneself by trying to escape what’s happening. That is only them winning all the more. We can’t let them win that is the main point. And why should I make myself sick trying to anesthetize their bullshit?

I am excited to throw myself into my projects. It has been Spring for over ten days and it’s still bloody freezing out. I really am so fortunate to live where I do, don’t get me wrong; so no complaints. The more time I spend with other people the more I realize how sane and functional I am. Until I’m not. Which is often. I simply can’t watch the news anymore. Which is probably what the hard right wants. They have the guns. I can’t believe this is America. I don’t think I can live here anymore if things don’t dramatically turn. Why are we talking about Joe Biden kissing people on the forehead when the president so-called is a rapist. We are being run by a terrorist mob. All those last fifty years thinking it could never happen here.

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

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

Capricorn 20° (January 10)

Picking up the pieces as best I might. I feel that I’m always in the same place which is getting a bit dangerous. I have to put my head down oh-so completely and not emerge at least until the end of next month, probably even longer. It truly is the only answer on all metaphysical levels. I can still make magic and increasingly so, I know, if only I put my mind to it. I don’t know how it is people can still be on social media being narcissistic or making jokes. It is just so much whistling in the grave yard to my mind. I am going to hold tight to my bootstraps and get this show on the road. I must make progress starting today and need not ever fall off the wheel. It is difficult to do all this while living in a bubble without any help with domestic pressures bearing down, but I am going to let this crucible work its alchemical magic on my in a major way. I think I’m going to stop here. I’m going to make a lovely shrimp risotto for dinner and get a chowder into works for the week ahead. Thank the gods for cooking. It is my only sanity pretty much right now.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1421-1425. 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.

You really must read the previous Blague (if you haven’t) before you delve into this one because I am in some ways picking up here where I left off there; also there is a certain energetic set up, I feel, where no matter what I put down here today (and trust me I don’t know where this is going) I literally just wrote the previous one (ironically starting this new astrological year a little late) and so they might end up being, energetically, part of a piece. To be fair, as you’ll see from the previous entry, I had some thinking to do about how I got to the point of embarking on writing a fifth year of this daily Blague, including how I started the first year exploring the Sabian Symbols (the corresponding link to the first year Blague on the Sabian theme will be provided below, all year long). So today is really day two of year five of the Cosmic Blague, and the previous entry also tells you everything you need to know to understand what this thing is, has been, at various intervals, over the past four years, while I try to give focus to what this new year should bring.

I had one thought of reading ten previous Blagues a day which means I would nearly read a full year’s entries in about five weeks a year. This means that it would take about twenty weeks—five months— to catch up to where we are now, today, and then another fortnight to catch up in total. The reason for this being that: Comes a time when I have to have even a vague archival understanding of the body of text four-plus years can create; and to sort of earmark the many entries for various written purposes, heading into the future. There is a wealth of material (along with a lot of slog and drivel) accumulated now in this most Cosmic Blague. And I wouldn’t be (literally) getting the most out of it If weren’t to mind and mine it at some point. This next half a year seems as good a time as any and, here’s the rub, it should inspire the daily writing of the new Blagues moving forward. The gods help us all.

I have to work these things through you see (as little Edie as that might sound).

I remember back in the early 1980s I went to see a “Music and Lecture by Robert Fripp” at the Paradise on Comm. Ave. in Boston. He was already playing music when you walked in, electric guitar, and recording it. Then he would play back the recording and play over it and record that. I don’t know how many times he looped around adding layers, but surely several. I get it. I do want to write more material every day and yet it is so important to know what I’ve said before, what might be material for books, performance, lecture or entrepreneurial projects. I know I recorded near every thought. So it makes sense to take inventory of, and to react to and thread through the last four years for the riches and the ditches, if you will. I’m sure there are many stories upon which I can improve. And you’re likely not going to read every Blague so someone has to do it.

That said, I want get to this leg of the process for at least till the end of the month. Which was the goal: To finish up loose ends before month’s end. Then starting April 1, start this creative taking of stock, here, with the Blague, but also just, of myself, in general. At the same time, I will begin to institute some daily rituals and such in regard to promoting this pet project, something I’ve yet to do in all the last four years. Otherwise I’m drafting some books and casting some performance festivals and series and otherwise seeking to express my dual nature as thespian priest, blending performance with certain piety of a decidedly pagan variety. Promises, promises. That’s the trick you see: to creat the right kind of structure to inspire the output of your creativity, some scaffolding on which to build a real or metaphoric (as ere the twain shall meet) body of work. Tall orders always in my world; but something about me has to be towering.

So I went to get my hair cut first thing in the morning which is the only way I can since my barber is open from 8-11 o’clock, only, five mornings a week. The early-bird crowd gets there at 7:45 or even 7:30 sometimes so they can be first in line—the haircutter extraordinaire takes his time—and the early-bird crowd is impatient and can get cranky and besides, like me, they’ve already been up for hours. As a tiny cosmic joke (French: blague) Neil Young’s Old Man was playing as I entered today, as I always do, with notebook or other would-be work in hand to keep me busy during the longer waits. Today there was just a guy in the chair and nobody waiting so it was an unusually speedy affair. I love this place, and the man in charge, and I leave at least a fifty percent tip each time which still means I pay twenty five dollars for a haircut that is the best I’ve ever had. Sometimes he gets phonecalls while I’m in the chair and speaks in an elegant Cuban Spanish to loved ones while looking at me apologetically in the mirror; but he never rushes off the phone either. Time is not this man’s master. And if he has no clients by ten o’clock he is out of there, in the warmer months, heading to the beach to go fishing, presumably for dinner. I have often fantasized about secretly getting a barber’s license and then spending time here sweeping up for free, trying to get my biorhythms to align with his so that when I am in my (I think late) eighties, I might have a steady cash income and every afternoon off to, well, probably not fish but who knows…maybe.

One of the aims of this daily Blague is to illuminate the extraordinary in the ordinary. (When people say life is boring or banal I wonder to what they are comparing it.) It’s all about perspective and surprising moments alone in places such as this with people such as the master barber, going at his signature pace, sweeping up himself between clients who are divided into two distincet categories: those like me who come prepared to work or make some notes or journal or meditate; and those who fidget and audibly sigh and moan or leave without a word. The times that has happened when I’m there, the master will shoot me a smiley look in the mirror as if to say “can you believe this guy” combined with “his loss” and “some people will never understand.” I understand. I love being here. We greet each other when I arrive. We shake hands when its time for me to take the chair. He never asks “so what do you want to do”, so if you don’t want to do the same thing he always does it’s on you to speak up. I can say I want something between a trim and a cut and for some reason that makes him laugh but not in a snarky way. Leon Russell, The Moody Blues, Journey and an otherwise mixed bag of “classic rock” will play on the radio (it used to be a current pop station with “funny” DJs and terribly overproduced current music with tons of trilling and no sustained notes) and I’m grateful for the solid musical choice. There are signs (zoom in on the photo) that tell you all you need to know for this or the next time, like “please come with clean hair.” Taped onto the counter in front of you, or rather diagonal to you—he keeps you at an agle—is his name written in magic marker onto brown craft paper that is taped down with the masking variety.

One time a chatty customer who was waiting while I was in the chair realized he might have been too verbose and apologized saying, “sorry I don’t want to distract you,” to which the master responded, “I can cut his hair with my eyes closed,” which sent a multiple message that I was a regular, that he was a pro (who could not be distracted) and, mostly, that he had an intimate relationship with my head with its double cow-licks and other idiosyncracies. Angled as one is forty-five degrees counter-clockwise from the mirror, one can sometimes stare out the window in a silent daze. Here there is no compulsion to talk, a rarity in this converted master-slave relationship; the experience is never lacking conversation for us; we like each other all the more because neither of us needs to fill the air with speak which, in this setting, is always so male-posturing and staccato. I will hear other clients ask pointy or rhetorical questions to which he will respond with polite economy. But we don’t need to pretend he and I. If I think about it it makes me laugh just how rough he can be. Maybe rough is the wrong word. Let’s just say he is completely unapologetic in the way that he pushes my head down or side to side, like a parent tiger keeping its young in a desired position, primally letting it be known who, exactly, is the boss in this relationship.

I had been going there for years before I remembered that my paternal grandfather, with to whom I had the most wafer-thin exposure (never mind anything resembling a relationship), was a barber. I remember getting my first haircut ever in his shop in downtown Jersey City in the 1960s, being plopped into the child’s “chair” which was a carved wooden horse of sorts, like a Medici version of the kind of plastic horsey you could ride outside the Food Fair by dropping a thin dime in the pay-mechanism, or the ones on springs you could jolt back and forth on at day camp or at some random park, some of them having lost their tension, causing you to flop too far to and fro and thus, undesirably, also, side to side. I don’t remember getting my hair cut at my grandfather’s shop more than once or twice because I didn’t; my tiny grandfather who was fresh off the boat from Calabria was immaculately tidy and wore a blue (I think) barber coat and had a back room—sort of an apartment really—where I’d rather play. (I have not thought of this since then, until now.) There was a narrow dark hallway leading back from the shop into a room that in my recollection was a sort of kitchen. I only found out this past year from a first cousin of mine, who is always the bearer of bad news, that it was something of a front and that the whole family were each, in their full- or part-time ways, bookies.

A world away, here, is this present operation. A formica and linoleum palace of blissful peace and silent understanding. The cape is unsnapped at the neck, the talcum scented brush does its usual thing, the large oblong hand mirror is stationed behind me with a smile that says I can’t say anything but “perfect(o)” or, preferably, probably, just nod while making the acceptable male version of a yummy sound. Today I said perfect with an almost Oprah affection. These thoughts of acceptability are in my own head. I could probably preen and pucker my lips in the mirror and say “oooh, fabulous” and he wouldn’t bat an eye. Instead his would smile at me as they do each time I enter and depart.

I was supposed to have known what I was going to say before I sat down. Typically I write early in the day before the bric-o-brac of quotidien life takes it’s toll in distraction; and especially on a day like today, the day before embarking on a trip for which I have neither packed nor prepared. And now we might be singing day is done and I’m just now here, after hitting myriad marks, multiple places, lastly in the kitchen, where, as is always the case, I get my best ideas and breakthroughs, mini or large. I like the word stout because it sounds like what it is. It’s onomatopoetic and that’s always tops with me. And I did get a newsflash while sautéeing oninion and brussel sprouts with chili flakes, anchovy and spanish almonds that I had the perfect entrée into today’s Blague, which has been on my mind writing since I hadn’t done this morning. Yet somehow in the journey up the stairs to my office so-called I lost that entry point and, I know myself, I’m not going to remember what it was. Correction: I”m not going to try to remember what it was. There’s little point in so doing.

Meanwhile, yeah, I’m heading into Boston tomorrow for an event at this terribly chic shop called All Too Human in the Back Bay. It’s the only real fashion and concept store in town and we are doing these “quick-n-dirty” readings for customers who get a discount that gets donated to the newer leg of my non-profit, simply called Glow (tagline: “A Moveable Festival”) that is hinged on creating a circuit (starting) in New England where we can present our “family of artists” so that these talents have more regular gigs in the region and we find and elevate audiences in places where our progressive performers have never gone before. I’m into it! Sorry it’s hard to concentrate because of the (non-) findings of the Mueller probe, also so-called. Oy. One must now completely not give a flying fuck.

I am now in reggae heaven listening to the radio. It strikes me that the men singing, song after song, seem to be so in love with god with whiffs of narcissism; that is to say, knowing how misogynistic the culture is, the primary relationship with men (at least how I interpret their song) is with (what maybe they don’t realize is their own) higher power. Ja.Women are relegated in the culture and one has to wonder why. I think the interpretation of sex by the male has been one of domination because they enter in; when the position of the female is, as the great receptor, the prime mover who needs a second sex as fertilizer. Even a no bull-shit man isn’t wont to define himself as such. Still there is something so special about good reggae that makes it the best mood music in the world. I could really sink deep into miasma of it—very good Pisces word, miasma. I will have to use that later when I’m revisiting some Pisces material I’m working on. Just one of those pin-in-that thoughts that arise and one writes with regularity in this forum.

From Boston we will continue on to New York this week, where professional meetings await but, also, where some long overdue social time will be had. Coincidentally a Belgian friend from S’s Dries Van Noten days just emailed her to say any chance you’ll be in town as she and her Italian husband will be visiting without their children and could we possible. Well, yes, indeed we can. We will be staying at our home away from home there and it has a marvelous downstairs lobby bar and restaurant that gets very busy; but we can reserve a space I imagine. And, oh, the Belgian connection. That does bring me back to the top of today’s Blague, reminding me what I was going to lead with: In a sleepless night last night I wanted to turn on the TV. Let me begin again: I’m a sucker for overblown historical drama TV series, the likes of which appear on Starz—”White Princess”, “White Queen”, all the ancient white people, “Pillars of the Earth” and anything with a Merlin or a Louis or a Henry in it—but I’ve run out (and I draw the line at something like Spartacus because it’s really just softcore gay male (or straight women?) porn.

But I did happen upon something called Maximillian which is about the eponymous son of the Holy Roman Emporer and his relationship to Marie de Bourgogne. Anyway it is in French and German and Flemish with English subtitles and so I can watch it with the volume on one or even zero (though I do require at least hint of sound—that goes for porn, too) so as to not disturb the one lying next to me as I binge from two to five a.m. Much of it is set in Ghent, the seat of Marie’s duchy, and the sets are perfectly that breed of ornate, gothic, minutely detailed architecture that one encounters in Flanders and I was brought back to our days in Antwerp at the summation of our youth feeling and sowing our wild Belgian oats. And I was musing on the people we met and thinking about all the friends S brought into our lives from her time at Dries. And then voila, out of the blue, this person wrote this same day, someone we haven’t seen in near exactly twenty years, to say that she will be in NYC then same few days we shall be this week which I love.

The funny thing about time: Olivia de Haviland is 102. So it is really just five Olivia de Havilands ago that, in the 1450s, Maxmillian and Marie were born. And it’s only a score and twenty Olivia de Havilands ago since the advent of the hippy prince of peace. Perspective people.

We embark on a wee trip today, first to Boston, then to New York, then upstate to visit a friend whose new house we have yet to see. We have an event this evening in Boston at this terribly chic concept store where we will do “quick-n-dirty” astrology readings for the invitees. I actually enjoy these sorts of events as I find it very good exercise for our astrological minds, having to come up with a profile for person after person who sits with us for a few minutes each. I’m feeling this general uptick in interest in the Starsky + Cox brand—we seem to have become something of a “classic” for readers, especially, within the astrological community. There was a recent article in New York magazine where they asked a slew of well-known astrologers to name their top favorite books and we made it onto the list, chosen by our peers, which is extra special. Recently the site Refinery 29 “interviewed” us (and this piece is meant to appear this week). And I just did a search to see if it was posted yet and saw an article from last March pop up in the Guardian (UK) that was about how millenials are turning to astrology. We are not mentioned in the piece per se; however at the very end they list “the (astrological) app”, and “the (astrological) podcast”, and so forth and we, or rather our book Sextrology is labelled “the book” which is fairly fantastic. Anyway it’s just a vibe but I feel that there is a new momentum, resurgence, happening in our astrological world. I mean, we have plans on that score which are self-started but I’m feeling external forces rallying too—I suppose there is a connection between the two. At least that is a long-held belief and one which we proliferate. It would seem I am writing this entry to day in real-time installments—but am I? Hmmmm.

It was an easy drive up from olde Cape Cod with zero traffic and only a one or too zany Boston drivers almost crashing into us which is fewer than usual. It’s nice to have the Longfellow bridge open again so we can zip right across to Cambridge where I typically drop S. for her usual appointment there and then I sneak via Norfolk Street back to Massachusetts Avenue to cross the bridge and swing around to the Eliot aka home away from home (or one of them anyway). I have a great many ideas brewing in any case and, as with cooking, driving always inspires the going off of cartoon lightbulbs above my head, only, unlike when cooking, I can’t exactly jot anything down; so I just hope that I can remember all that’s coming up during this drive. The room was ready when I got there which is always a great boon and I packed in such a rush this morning, taking more than I need (and probably not enough in some cases) that I look forward to seeing exactly what I ended up chucking into my baggage. It will be a long night and I must pace myself today. I don’t have time for a proper meal before the event so I’m hoping that there will be some lovely finger food.

There was no food, finger or otherwise at the event. The only thing one might consume is champagne and watermelon juice, both of which will send my spiking and only one of which I will sip sparingly over the course of the evening. I wonder if you can guess for which I opted. We were early and I was wearing the only one “outfit” that I can squeeze into after this rather sedintary winter. Unlike the great S. I have not used the dark months wisely when it comes to the management of one’s weight. Oh well, I am a master illusionist at hiding the one area where all my hibernative intake takes the hit, working proportions via short square cashmere tee shirts and a buttonless, cardiganesque Margiela jacket (so-called) with its distinct non-label label designed to spark notice in the fashionisti that will assemble there, starting with the shopboys, one of whom said “I love your blazer” within the first five minutes of being in the store. Is the word blazer now literally back in fashion? It has been fifteen years at least since I even remotely resembled someone who might have a clue as to what was in vogue.

We saw a great many people all in quick succession and I was struck by how young and successful this particular succession was. It was mostly women which is typical, but there were young business owners and artists and designers and photographers and influencers and it made me realize how much Boston has changed. In our generation anyone with such ambitions wouldn’t have stayed in beantown but have high-tailed it to New York City or, perhaps, Los Angeles the second they finished school. But this group of kids have chosen to stay put here and, in our now virtual workplace, are making waves from this provincial northern perch. It cooked up some creative food for thought that’s for sure. A few of our own clients came to catch our eye, which was pretty much the extent of the interaction we could have with them as there was a queue of folk to flop down in front of us onto a pink cushioned footstool flaked with fuzzy pink pillows. All these prop elements had tags on them which, because I wasn’t thinking, I assumed meant they were for sale; it later dawned on me that they were tags from another store–Target, Marshalls, Nordstrom Rack—where they were likely purchased just hours ago as set pieces for the event and the should-beremoval of the tags was lost in the last minute shuffle. Thinking Edina Monsoon leaving the entire production of a fashion show to the last minute, day of. How fashion. To be fair I think the lovely owner of the shop, who has immaculate taste and has really created something special in Boston where nothing like this any longer exists (since Louis Boston shut down), would have just returned from a whirlwind buying trip in Paris and probably Milan. Anyway the event was triumphant and she did a great job. A tenth (what she offered clients as a discount) was being donated to my non-profit Glow (“A Moveable Festival”) and I know that even the clients of ours that showed made some pricey purchases, so I look forward to seeing what kind of donation will come our way.

We stayed later than expected as people had waited so long to see us. Many people took cards from us and I have a feeling we might have a few new clients coming to see us in the weeks again which would be wonderful. Nearly nine o’clock and thank goodness we made a reservation at La Voille because I was feeling pretty faded walking back up Newbury Street—nothing some moules frîtes couldn’t cure!

A lot on my mind today. We have two regular clients in the afternoon and it’s always fun and best to see them in person. I will spend the morning getting my head around the quick trip to NYC and what should be accomplished there. The day will end with a lazy elevator down to the restaurant in the building. No strain or stress. Just focus on the work at hand which is way more than enough. I have books on the brain as we sort out the agent situation. After leaving William Morris Endeavor several years ago I swore off approaching or even thinking about agents, and we focused solely on the parts of our consultancy and brand where we had decision-making power; and since then I’ve said to  myself (and aloud to one person) that if I were to work with an agent again that they would have to already know and like our work.

Recently a friend of whom I am very fond decided to make a third-act career change and become an agent as he was familiar and friends with folks who headed an agency—an agency that one of us (not me) had been eyeballing for some time and which, I later learned, had an agent whom (not me) had reached out to contact with no response back which is so typical. Our friend thought of an idea he suggested to his agency for a book on our general subject; and though it was an interesting notion it really wasn’t on brand and I had said what it was I wanted to pursue in book form, next, and that I had this giant proposal that I needed to work through with someone. As this career path is new to my friend and because I’m sure his focus is really on getting something to catch on his end I don’t think the idea we had on deck was something he was super excited about. And then out of the blue another friend said: you should work with so and so, an agent a friend of hers was signed with. An introduction was made and that desired response came back that she knew our work and was a fan and desired to meet us. Funny how the thing you say you’re holding out for can take years to materialize.

And there would be another synchronicity: We had a meeting with a top publisher at a house that would be perfect for us back in September when we were staying at the Lowell. The publisher said they did a book with these witches we know from Salem. It will turn out that the publisher we meet tomorrow will be the representation for this and other books of the same ilk. (But I don’t know that today.) We will have a lovely meal at Uni which is always such a treat and will watch a documentary on the women of Palestine and get some semblance of sleep before heading off in the early a.m.

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

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

Capricorn 19° (January 9)

I feel myself spiraling down today and I will end up getting too sentimental and making too many phone calls. Sometimes you just have to let some days go by. Also, and this isn’t true of everybody, but we all do have our moments of, I won’t say, insanity. Both macro- and microcosmically I’m feeling squeezed; and yet I know that giving into these feelings is not the answer. I must have Faith, something someone else around here is more hard-wired for than I. That’s just a fact. I will try but I am really starting now at a rather low point. Still no place to go but up I guess, and I’m going to keep that in mind as I move through this. “Be not afraid of life,” someone casually said. But the truth is I am afraid and I fear that people in these United States aren’t afraid enough quite frankly. Anyway, I can and will do better. I think I still got this.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1416-1420. 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 find myself waking up in Boston on Saint Patrick’s Day, gods help me. The trick is to get out of here before a mob of paradiers make it impossible. The good news is: the parade happens in South Boston (imaginitvely a/k/a “Southie”) so looks like we’ll be okay leaving. I think I have some kind of inflammation thing happening in my ears as my balance feels a bit off—I am chaulking this up to the pendulum swings in temperature; surely it is not do to any lack of sleep as I have been conscious only little more than half the time this weekend. I got an clover emoji from an Italian cousin who was/ is obsessed with my late mother of Irish descent. I love these people from your past who never took a moment to give a hoot about you all the while you were growing up (in this case we are talking from adolescence up til now) only to do so from a decidedly nariccistic approach. An emoji to say that I still obsess over your mom for my own sick and selfish reasons—no thanks. Some relationships are just too long on the shelf to rekindle. That might sound selfish of me but I’m afraid it is how I feel. Anyway I want to revist something I’ve previously written to how I feel about it.:

Since as long as I can remember we have always called synchronicity: sign posts. A string of which one wants to characterize the majority of ones circumstance if possible. Sign posts are instant communion with the infinite/eternity. They say you’re on the right track, keep going. We’re always try to help clients open up to them. The night before last Penny Arcade participated in an art show and addressed the audience, touching on the subject of synchronicity. And how ones life should be all about it. The way she deliverd it was hysterical. I can only paraphrase: something like: If you’re not experiencing synchronicity with some regularity by the time you’re fifty you’re pretty much fucked. I could feel Stella mentally raising the roof and silently offering amen, as I was. So yesterday I found a journal from 1992 and thereabouts. I hadn’t opened it since. I had decided in the morning I was “going to do nothing all day” which, I find, can be a recipe for a) doing more than usual; while b) letting things happen to you. So I sat and went through this journal for a few hours and of course there were phrases I still write in journals. You know those. When you’re like, holy merde, I was saying that to myself all the way back then?…

The physical journal itself came to me in a magical way. It was an empty book, blank white paper, hard red cover; the only thing in it was a title of sorts cursively written on the overleaf, in pencil—to be revealed at a later date!—and the price of 50¢ in the same pencilled hand. I wrote in it during a difficult chapter in all our lives. So many of the loving lights in our lives were being snuffed out by AIDS. The pain was palpable. And its all over the journal. As is synchronicity which suffused my Sunday, yesterday. In real time the journal chronicled the years I worked with Tony Randall’s National Actors Theater. My first year I was an intern and something of a costume-changing live prop in the Feydeau farce, A Little Hotel on the Side, at the Belasco. The second year I understudied three parts, and went on for a run in one of them, in The Seagull, directed by Marshall Mason, at the Lyceum. Marshall was also directing Larry Kramer’s The Destiny of Me, downtown, starring John Cameron Mitchell. Marshall took us all to see it and that’s how I first met JCM.

The journal is this double helix of absolute elation at being on Broadway as a young actor in New York and of utter sadness, fear, dread, horror and surpassing anger. Finding and reading this journal brought me right back. As did, of course, Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart last night on HBO. Then an actor I hadn’t seen since she too appeared in A Little Hotel on the Side: Daniele Ferland, who was already a great actress as a teen when I first met her, appeared in the cast. More Proustian waves. And, in a particularly poignant moment in The Normal Heart, the mention of Wellfleet from whence I watched. Then Mad Men was waiting on demand. Robert Morse. That same Seagull year at NAT we performed a benefit for the company and I got to share the stage with that genius. I watch Mad Men religiously. But last night, as it began, I thought I’ve loved Robert Morse since I was a baby. (I remember thinking it was a weird-glorious synchronity meeting him at the time—but, as it was, I had been working on a Tony Randall impersonation at Gotham City improv when I first met him, so I wouldn’t say I was getting the feeling I was conjuring people to me, but I wasn’t going to discount the possibility either). So last night watching Mad Men I thought, I’m going to take to social networking today singing Robert Morse’s praises. And then a prescient flash. I have an inkling: this is going to Robert Morse’s episode. And so it was. And in such I way—I won’t spoil it—that makes the hair on the back of my beyond still stand on end. Yesterday was potent and affirming and fun…..

I feel like I’ve been flung off of a carousel run amok. But it was one I wanted to get off of so I’m grateful for the fact despite feeling a bit bruised by the violence of the landing. A typicaly Monday in many ways awaits. Yet I’m finding myself feeling anxious over silly things like getting cars fixed or other banalities of life. I don’t know about you, reader, but for me that is a sign of something underlying.

There comes a day, after a sleepless night, when the anxieties of life morph into purpose. The impetus to express what that is inevitably fades in the attempt. There is the retreating regret that it has taken fifty some odd years for some semblance of revelation to occur. It is alchemical, the shift. And it must be total.

I’ve always suspected that life couldn’t be lived in half measures, though I see others do so, seemingly succesfully, all the time.

For me, on this day marking [nearly] the first third of a year past my [redacted] birthday, I can be filled with recrimination for any so-called waste of time I caused or I can see it as an accumulation of fuel to further myself and “sin no more.” And just plan to live longer.

I glean in myself a dual purpose. A most original but heretofore largely ignored, save in spurts, dedication to the theatre; and one devoted to the continually unfolding discovery of my spiritual self. I enjoy the fact that stage and sacred space, theater and temple, performance and priesthood are historically and culturally linked, once one and the same.

Synchronicity is symptomatic support by the universe of ones realization and pursuit of their individual spark of purpose. [And though I fear I might not be on the same page, now, as I was at the start of this paragraph, I might find that I am, ultimately, with even wider geometric dimensions.]

It is important to be reminded of the connection of the theater-temple connection, to be sure, but I must now also include a new entrepreneurial spirit, and one of aesthetic and design, that has also been ignored. Just as any interest in the written word has been. So now we have more four-pointed intersectionality between the stage and the mage, the artist and the commercialist. All of which is coming together in quite a unique way.

I thus feel that I am zeroing in on something more complex but no less essential a design for living. And it is rather through the elimination of obstacles, not the adding of new thoughts and influences, that the doors of my future self-perception, from this present perspection, shall open.

I’m lost in a binge of The Man in the High Castle. I know it’s not great (neither to be bingeing nor is the program all that), but there is something unavoidable about it that’s hard to explain. And I know that, before the ritualization I have planned for the Equinox, I might require this final form of escape. I think I really pushed my luck yesterday and I have to remember there are severe consequences for letting my guard slip. There is a certain vigilance that I must, by rights, live with and by every day of my existence. And it is something which, if I choose not to institutionalize it, must be personalized with persistent attention. It’s just too easy when not in the right frame of mind to make bad decisions and the added stresses of situations (albeit, again, of my choosing) can warp ones resolve and understanding.

I am grateful for the fortune but I cannot waste this grace. I think that is a promise I can make to myself. Confidence, after all is confiding in yourself. I just (again choose to) do so publically. I always want to qualify that by saying something akin to “but nobody here here really reading” but I’ve learned that’s not necessarily true and I have made the mistake of assuming anonymity and have gotten sloppy in not disguising certain people, places and things which might put noses (mostly those stuck up ) out of joint. Let’s just say we don’t need to give people excuses not to like us; because they will take it, making the symptom the cause, and lay all the blame for their dog-eat-doggedness upon. you if you let them. Don’t let them. Oh I also watched that HBO documentary on “the inventor” Elizabeth Holmes. And so I tweeted: Is it me or do you think that Elizabeth Holmes—see HBO’s “The Inventor” had a weird obsession with @MiraSorvino ‘s Romy character?? The voice, the hair, the black “business-woman’s” outfit??…and really is “I invented the Edison” that much different from “I invented Post-Its”??

Anyway I harkened back to this a-musing memory bliss today:

I love Julia Child. Who doesn’t, I know, but she has always held a special fascination for me. When I was a waiter in 1986 at the Harvest in Harvard Square, she and her husband Paul would come in for lunch. You would here “Bonjour Roger” in that booming unmistakeable tenor as she greeted the tiny alcoholic nicotine sodden  maitre d’ whose name she properly prounced in French, ro-jay. Paul, a curled shrimp of a man who had already suffered his series of small strokes, followed hist towering wife into the dining room where she would always order the same thing: a burger, rare, no bun. She is a Leo and I’ve often remarked on the similarity between her choice of lunch and the bloody meat one would throw into a lion cage.

Before the book and movies about her during the last decades, I always thought she would make a great subject for a work of art. I won’t go any further into that thought lest I actually end up pursuing this instinct myself. At the very least I think she and her husband would make great costumes for Stella and me, come Halloween. But, obviously, there’s more to it. Here was a couple who worked together (even though you didn’t know he was behind the scenes), who had no kids and were rather late bloomers. They were also obsessed with France and had an affinity for Cambridge, Massachusetts and Maine. All of this I can relate to.

She described herself “as the cat looking at the king” when she was a student of Le Cordon Bleu—what can be more Leo an expression than that. And what person from any other sign could turn what was for her a personal passion into an entire movement, changing the way Americans cooked, forever. What other sign could see a chef superstar embodied in the form of a fifties something woman. I’m happy I had the few opportunities I did to wait on Mrs. Child whose name couldn’t be more fitting for someone who lived life with a childlike exuberance and who gave so much to the world.

By day’s end today will begin another turn around the wheel and enter the sign of Aries. It’s Equinox, bitches. And there will also be a Libra Supermoon which means I have more power than you do. Seriously. (Not really). Client day extraordinaire and yet another day of reinforcing the feeling of loving what we do. I am very much internally ritualizing this new start; and, to that end, I am consciously tying up loose ends on the previous year. This is even more a time of change for me to mark than the (winter) Solstice is; and certainly more than the celebrated New Year’s Eve and Day which I always find alarming and depressing, respectively. Still not every marker between the past and the future serves as a clear break. There are lingering bits of information and some blurred lines to define and clean up. Such will be the transition here as I more into my fifth year of writing this daily Blague.

I was free-associating on the following and some point in the recent past and thought it might make for some meandering reading:

The first sign of Aries is all about form (Taurus, which follows Aries, is about content). You can’t have the latter without the former. Form, former. Oh never mind.

So what is the formation of your day. Never mind what is the formation of yourself. We talked about Aries being the framework the other day, now we go a bit further. Take a look at your life. What form does your experience take. How is your experience constructed. Do you have room for what you want—literally and figuratively?

Every so often (and I know I’m not alone in this) I get the urge to create a curriculum for myself. As children we didn’t have much say in how our experience was structured. In grade school we were ushered through different subjects with no say; in high school we were herded from room to room with practically no say. After school sports or piano lessons we didn’t know we wanted or not, for the most part.

In college we had choice but learned that if we didn’t now self-impose these types of structuring we would likely fail. I pretty much got all straight As in college but my one year study abroad—a first year program that wasn’t set up properly coupled with the fact I never went to class but instead traveled around the whole time—I failed Cubism, okay?—completely tanked my four-year average to the point, now, that I feel applying to grad schools would be a rough road to hoe. All these years later!

Form. Structure. The simplest ones work best. First comes the hard wood of the tree then the blossoms then the fruits. I think of Aries as the hard wood. Also as the hardware on which all the other signs run as software. This is why the sign rules the physical body. Your body must be fit and healthy to be an instrument for all the other aspects of self that the ensuing signs express. So it’s the same with circumstance. The physical body of our experience must be fit, sound and simple. The form of our life must be akin to the well-toned body of a warrior. We can not lead a flabby l ife and expect to be happy.

Look at the Aries people around you. (People of a sign are the best “living” examples we have of any sign’s energy.) Those born under the sign of the Ram are ascetic by nature. They don’t have a lot of aptly named stuff. Even if they have every material want, they try to keep it real. Many an Aries person, especially those with a big bank roll, tend to espouse Eastern philosophies or disciplines that stress the fact that materiality is fleeting. Unlike other signs, Aries people tend to struggle with too much fat in their diet, metaphorically speaking of lifestyle.

I don’t know what to do, always with all these random blocks of information that are embedded within the posts of this Blague. I will have to think about that moving forward. At some point I will have to read back, say, ten Blagues a day, dating back to the beginning so that I can make some notes on archiving—like a little legend of what needs to be flagged and for what possible purpose—what possibly finished work might evolve out of these seed beds of potential first drafts. I will ask myself (and answer myself) on this subject in the coming days. (Just another example of how it is these blurry transitions in the Blague, year on year, need clarifying to myself, first, and then to you all second.)

Happy First Full Day of Spring (Astrological New Year’s Day). Today begins the fifth year of my writing this daily Blague. The fifth year—can you believe it? Today I want to lead with the feeling of having high expectations (of self and others) and standards for relationships.

I feel myself a symbol of the season as I have a sense of emerging from some kind of gestative fog (mutable-water sign of Pisces) sparking into life in this (cardinal-fire sign of Aries and this..) advent of spring, so aptly named. I am reminded today of the origins of all things and particularly this Blague which has served so many purposes and gone through endless permutations. over the years. And I need to explain some of the past whilst making some projections, affirmations, straight-up plans for this Blague moving forward. To address the past history of this in order to move more mindfully into the future (and to more consciously invite you in.

The past: The Cosmic Blague started in 2015 and was that year hinged on the Sabian Symbols which are expressions of each of the 360° of the astrological year—your time of birth falls within one of these  degrees, which is a whole other thing. It’s the Cosmic Flav-a-flav. Then next two years 2016-18 I didn’t revisit the first year, then just this past year I included, with each new day, a link to the first year’s associative link for that Sabian Symbol “day” (realize there are five or six days more than degrees in the year cycle).

A hominym for this social very media platform, blagueactually means joke in French, so the creative challenge I set for myself here was to explore all possible ways  the cosmic joke manifests; I first wanted to raccount  my own comic/cosmic experiences, the seemingly too synchronistic occurances in life that punctuate it with power and divine order—extraordinary-story telling; secondarily, I wanted to channel my thoughts on how the universe is constantly taking the piss out of us—observational humor on a cosmic theme I suppose; and hopefully a combination of both things. That was the plan. But you can’t really wake up and necessarily do that everyday. So it was very helpful to use the Sabian Symbols as a go-to and perhaps rely on my musings on them to trigger all such entries as would satisfy my creative goals in this. I wanted it to be personal but in a formal way.

But after the first year, when I didn’t have the Sabian Symbols to rely on for creative fodder, or any words at all sometime, I either successfully managed to dredge up a story or two per week that satisfied my artistic mission, otherwise I began to start saying any old shit. It became a journal which is a word to use in this context to lend the endeavor an air of dignity. But that didn’t last long, the noble journal wasn’t always sustainable., and soon it became a diary for me to vent, a croakie book, declarations of hopes and aspirations and whole designs for living and accomplishing the (very Libran) ridiculous number of idealized tasks I set for myself. To that end, the Blague often doubled as a workshop drawing board for anything else I might have to write that day, and I would “throw up” a first draft of something that I would otherwise polish, elsewhere, for publication or distribution.

I didn’t always manage or choose to write everyday. Maybe I was busy doing other things? I would let some days stack up and then spend half a Saturday catching up. And then in 2017 something happened that derailed me and I let whole gulfs go by before sitting down to fill in the blanks—a major project at one point during an upset. Then forget it. You never knew what might characterize a Cosmic Blague entry. Bizarre takes on to-do lists, Dada manifestos assembled from notebooks and a million torn-paper “post-its” I hade made over the previous two years, every idea in my cranial firmament I had plucked from the ether for later purpose.( And in so doing I was also archiving all these ideas and starry notions. You see I never lost my starry notions along the way.

And so the Blague truly began giving me life. Because I was so committed to catching up I got used to showing up again. Not to say I don’t let a few go by (why even now I’m writing today’s Blague tomorrow—not a very functional way of starting this new turn around the wheel but never mind. I’m going to right now write “tomorrow”‘s Blague. And I’ll pick up exactly where I left off, so if you haven’t read this entry before reading the next one—you’ve me to blame—you’ve got it backwards.

Oh, remember: I am resuming the practice I initiated last year of including year one’s associative Blague entry which was pinioned to the Sabian Symbols associated with the degrees of the Zodiac. Mind you, the degree point for that Blague entry will be one higher than that in today’s Blague entry . The reason for that is that: the degree point for today is the starting point of a degree-period (0°-1° for instance) and the Sabian number for that is 1, so if we were to give you the degree number of 0°, that would pertain to the previous degree-period, not the one in which we are currently, this day, living.

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

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

Capricorn 18° (January 8)

Holy Christmas I’m not taking the tree down until Candlemass. There is an energy in the house today, something inexplicable but real and divine. The sense I’m sensing is something up superiority supremacy. Of course I worry given the circumstances that what I’m sensing is not a good energy at all that it is something that is permeating off of that thing in DC. I have made every inroad required at this juncture in life. I have dealt with the lawyer, I have dealt with the real estate folks, I have started the process of going through every single manusha amount of my belongings. I will have to look up the significance of Candlemass parrot I’m happy to learn that we will do our house ritual on Wednesday with the new moon I have done all that I can to make this environment something enjoyable is probably the wrong word I’m trying to think when I first started painting these rooms upstairs it must have been gosh 2018 2017 I hope it was 2017 actually and yet it feels like yesterday. As far as the zoji ******* go I’m done trying to you know rally dysfunction I want to talk to me they’ll talk to me I am really really done I’ve done everything amount onable Bing and yet I say this and I know that I’ll will I will rally them again God what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what these typos are all about but I’m not going to look back as it is a time for forging ahead only.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1411-1415. 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 have a lot a lot swimming around my head today and though I feel all caught up now, I still have major headway to make, which is totes fine. It’s all been fodder festering and formulating. I am this week returning to my upstairs office and will crank up all the necessary machinery. Getting the grindy stuff done first in the day is always the best plan of action. I plan to work no more than four hours on any given day, six on client days; or maybe not even. We shall see how that shapes up as we roll along. I must do needs some grooming up in here—I have seriously let myself go since being in civilization last, what? a month’s time. I’m once again lost in real-estate porn which is really just such a distraction from what needs happening right here close at hand. “Waltz and schmaltz were soon to supplant the mannered minuet,” is a sentence I read today (don’t you love it) in the intro to the Blake book I’m reading. I’m curious about this era for my own writing. Both time and thyme require patience. Meanwhile I receive emails from fake Devon Nuneses.

I am trying my damnest to move the needle along while optimizing my efforts as best as I am able. The best thing I can do at this juncture is to begin marrying some creative writing again to this Blague because with only so many hours in a day it truly is hard to do both. I’m reading about Blake and I’m reading about Hugo and I’m trying to get a feel, myself, once again for the natural world. I will look at my schedule but I think that between March 15 and 25, I should give the new book proposal a once-over. I’m not really sure what the world is going to want from me on this score. But I do want to find some very simple ways of arculateing what will come next from us. And it should be fun.  I have to put my heart into clients today. Whenever I feel spread a bit too thin, I always get more nourishment from focusing on other people’s condition than I do on navel gazing my own. The thing is that we can make a difference in people’s lives. We have helped so many artists move forward, and have generated so much good will for Provincetown via our celebrated work there. The trick is backing off, now, and seeing the big picture. This really is the only true way one has of connecting would-be dots. And I only can give as good as I feel so self care is a constant concern. Sometimes it’s been a struggle I won’t lie about that. But mostly it’s fun to lead a life of temperance and balance, elements of the Libra estate. Hello, me! I will decide tomorrow not to look at clocks all day.

Drove into Boston this morning and dropped S. in Cambridge. Had a generally relaxing day. Corresponded with Brad on some things. Afternoon in room, resting and then we walked to Cambridge. Dinner at Waypoint was fairly lousy I’d say. I got an email from a journalist at Refinery 29 asking for stuff. I wrote the following:

Aries of both sexes tend to be the most objectifying of the sun signs. That is to say that they let their libido do the talking. And if someone strikes their fancy they like to be the one in pursuit. They aren’t necessarily relationship focused. They are most primarily in touch with their libido and where it points them.

Taurus are pretty much the opposite (of Aries). Taurus of both sexes like to be pursued, desired, treasured even. Taurus is attracted by guileless beauty and often partner with people younger than themselves. They are serial monogamists, often having a series of meaningful if short-lived bonds. They go where the love is.

Gemini are looking for fun when it comes to sex. They enjoy courtship rituals and revel in the bells and whistles of relationships.  Light and lively is their motto. They are experimental sexually but not necessarily kinky. When they bond it’s for life. They enjoy open relationships that can allow for some serendipity.

Cancerians are in it for the feels. Sex tends to be loaded for them. They are looking for something emotionally (and otherwise) deep. That said they are the least squeamish, more game characters on the astrological block. They like to explore deeply with a set partner.

Leo men are super vanilla as a rule, drawn to natural beauties. Leo women are magnetized by flashy, passionate types. Leos of both sexes pride themselves on their sexual prowess and primal proclivities which are typically devoid of anything overly psychological.

Virgos are the role-players of the Zodiac, given to more psychological sexual scenarios. Virgo women may embrace a fully submissive stance,  while men of the sign flirt with the idea. Virgos are voyeurs and are more prone to engage in group scenarios than most signs.

Last night we had a show in Cambridge, that’s all I’m going to say about that. I definitely need to step up my oversight of what people will be performing before they do it. Not doing so has resulted in some iffy experiences this year for sure. I am hard pressed to write in some fifteen minute intervals and to use speed as a prime mover here. First we had a Pisces client on this day which is the day of my Pisces mother’s birth. She was quite the character is all I can say. Well it isn’t actually all I can say—rather it’s all I want to say. She remains among the top two people I’ve ever known

I’m going to finish up the Refinery 29 work and see where it goes.

Libra are artistic when it comes to sex. They focus on their talents as lovers and their skills in pleasing partners. For them it’s more about what they bring to the table than what they get. Though they are rather unemotional, they are the most relationship oriented of the signs and tend to mate for life (or try to).

Scorpio, despite their reputation, are not the most unabashedly sexual of the signs. They are most intent on making a deep and meaningful bond. They are naturally seductive, and might utilize their sexuality (inviting others to please them as opposed to vice versa) as a way of locking down a bond with their objects of desire.

Sagittarius surely has the most heightened sense of sex and their own sexuality. It looms large in their experience. They are unabashed in the expression of their desires and more easily break with traditional codes and mores. For them more is more, however you might interpret that.

Capricorn people are the prime movers in their relationships and they partner with creative types who provide inspiration. They are on the whole reserved and find anything beyond a primal sexual connection to be so much bells and whistles. If it goes there, they are into domination.

Aquarius are the least emotionally invested characters in the Zodiac; which is why they have a reputation of being edgy or even freaky. Maybe because Aquarians can be so etherial by nature, they are attracted to decidedly earthy types with a more gritty appeal.

Pisces are a mixed bag, sexually. Pisces woman is drawn to powerful types who might be going places, and they revel in a little binary role play. Pisces men, as prim and proper as they might appear, are attracted to experienced women (even with a past) who know their way around the sexual neighborhood.

Yesterday was one of the truly “off” days I ever remember having in my professional life. It was indulgent but I stayed an extra day in the hotel and took myself for a fattening lunch at my favorite Boston local and sat at the bar and ate and drank pints and chatted with the other fellows that seemed to be in the same mind and mood. It was a fabulous Friday feeling and just a great way to let go of a bit of winter—the weather was an warm and springy oasis in this long lingering winter. I consider myself to be very generous when it comes to other folks, but I’m not sure how generous I am with myself. I actually get pangs of guilt when I offer myself the slightest bit of luxury and yet I’m always happy to luxuriate outhers as best I can—not to say it’s something I’ve been able to do with any kind of regularity over the last several years. A day off in Boston doing nothing in the chilly weather feels like playing hooky for sure. But it was fun to just come back to the hotel and let it all go. I phoned down to the restaurant and asked them to cal me when a place opened up in the corner of the bar and then fell into a nap so deep that the phone must have rang several times before I even heard it and I couldn’t get my body to move to it quick enough before the host gave up. I called back and was directed to come down in fifteen minutes.

When I got there the host’s face was wearing an apology as the two female occupants of the corner where I was to sit had not paid there bill but were outside smoking, presumably. They literally stumbled back in. My feeling was that one of the women, the far drunker of the two, was not quite an out lesbian while her cohort was attempting to push her out of the closet—then again I do have a very (over-) active imagination. They finally left and I slid into place and I noticed this slightly older couple, both silver haired but very youthful, sitting and sipping a bottle of wine the color of which told me it was very good, even from afar. I inquired after it and sure enough it was a very pricey, organic boutielle and my friend the manager had to tell me it was the last one in house. This day was not meant to be about such indulgence but I thought what the ef and settled in for a long evening of slowly sipping nectar while plates of Asian ambrosia were placed in front of me. The place got so packed that I couldn’t get the bartender’s attention when it was time to leave so I just filled my glass and headed out somewhere thinking it will sort itself out (the bill) in the morning. Which it did. They had added a pretty generous tip to the bill which was only semi annoying. I wasn’t necessarily planning on tipping at such a large percentage on the wine specifically. But there it was. And here I am now with the uncomfortable feeling of having tipped into avoidable gluttony, which is taking on a life of its own in various forms.

As I say I feel guilty spluging on myself so to offset the feeling I decided to spend even more, suggesting that instead of being picked up and taken home that we two now spend yet another night and semi replicate the experience. As if this was going to make me feel more balanced. It didn’t but it certainly was fun. There is no denying that. And so a slightly chillier day and a little lazy lunch where I ate a quiche for the first time since 1978 (it was delicious) and I actually spent a second afternoon in a row napping. I called down to the host once again and they have an early rezzie they can give us so down we go. I will most likely order the exact same thing as yesterday—you can psychoanalyze this anyway you want but it’s the truth. We couldn’t have the same wine of course but managed. It was barely dark by the time we finished our meal and headed upstairs, with a dessert to go, where the decadence continued in the form of ordering Mary Poppins Returns on DVR or whatever you call it. I will soon be snoring my head off.

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

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

Capricorn 17° (January 7)

 Up late. Surreal on so many levels. Watching the same clips over and over of the terrible thing that happened not since 1812. And I was so tired that after breakfast and two cups of coffee I fell back to sleep only to be awakened five minutes later because the constable came to deliver. What a day. Wrote to the lawyer. Put together dinner (ragout of onion, eggplant, mushroom, rosemary that I will serve over polenta) and lunch (arugula salad with tomato and palm  and parm) and scanned the document and sent to lawyer and now speaking to him. It is not a rosy scenario, but hopefully we will get what we want, which is what we originally wanted in the first place. If El Fuckface wants more then it will have to be less the legal fees, otherwise, you know what, I’m happy to go to court. And I’m happy to have my say there. It will not be pretty for fuckdoodle. So this is where I was and where I am now going. We made an amazing polenta with the rancor of mushroom an eggplant. Forget Oh yes we just watched the news until I passed out at which point S. Went to watch and Ivan at all film the sheer stupid not quite close enough. All in all we were in collective shock all day there’s no way we could not have been we were immediately gaslit. Whatever is about to befall us these next two weeks I cannot imagine. My sister shares the same birthday as this maniac. I know all too well how those who feel they’ve nothing left to lose can be the most dangerous people on the planet. June 14. Flag Day. Jumpcut too that ****** *** hugging the red white and blue. Joe Scarborough said ******* on television I’m so excited about that . I had to listen to it 3 times before I believed it. We chat with the lawyer additional clarity is ours I’m prepared to do whatever necessary I will not be intimidate it. I come from a position of power, I am draped in righteousness. And I have much to do creatively and the lie tried like hell to void . Like this of creativity in a distressed environment here I am so I have got to find some new level of resolve of determination but also just productivity I just need to turn **** out. 

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1406-1410. 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.

Was meant to go to dinner tonight at Tim and Billy’s but I am feeling really coldy. And as it turns out they have two cats, so my windpipe would probably close up as it is. I have this problem a lot. It prevents me from visiting folks. And all the best people have cats. I did get a lovely care package of Inidan food however so that was quite the perk. Delicious. Today will be all a pastiche of Thursdayness. I am trying to rewrite history here a bit and get way ahead of myself, disguising my timeline in this Blague for no reason at all other than I need a diversion. I’ve stopped writing to myself and that might have been part of the creative problem these past weeks. I’m suddenly intrigued by the notion of making mead—is that a crazy thing to say. Most probably. A house on the north shore might also be a thing of beauty, though I dare say I would miss the Cape; still it may be no excuse not to keep momentum going. One can always change their minds in a fortnight.

Pisces is the final sign of the zodiac and like it’s opposite facing Fish suggest, it is a sign of complete paradox. It is all and nothingness, the alpha omega, the womb tomb from of primordial existence. The mutable-water sign, symbolized by mists, fog, foam, écume, scum—the twelfth astrological house has been called the dust bin of the Zodiac with a spotlight on recycling, as befits the final turn of the wheel that Pisces portrays. And when George Harrison said Life goes on within you and without you, he weren’tjoking. This misty mstyical, mutable-water sign portrays non-material existence, which we scientfically know is all existence, so-called matter only being dense energy. Ruled by planet Neptune, the cosmic energy of dissolution, we are dissolving, seeing and venturing beyond the seven colored veils of Salome, over Iris’ rainbow archetypes of the previous sign of Aquarius, now, in a magical dream world or in that blissful state of Nirvana, not to say they are mutually exclusive. Neptune and Pisces represent the realm of purest imgaination, and also delusion and hallucination. Lest we forget that magic and imagination share the same etymology as imagery, any and all sort of which is ruled by the twelfth house.

It really is so important to just keep going. Not everything is going to be an epiphany, but sometimes we find them in the showing up, in the simple doing—they don’t always have to strike us you know. I can feel what it is my soul need and I believe myself prepared to deliver, it needn’t be so hard to do so. This is what reparation is all about. And it’s a robust process of letting go. I’d like to learn to astral project. It’s funny how that world now seems that much more available to me; I’m not sure why. But I am happy to explore it in such a way that it becomes the o’er hanging umbrella on the process.

Too distraught for words about the Paul Manafort thing. That’s all I’m going to say because I feel, on top of everything, simply gipped for not reciving a bigger pay off of his unhappiness. The law of compensation will get him in any case. So onto better subjects. I just smelled spring for the first time this year. And yet it really will remain so cold. Tonight we will say fuck it and very last minute I will get some wine, come home, and make some pasta in the process. Yesterday I went to Orleans and got some dinner supplies and I forgot the chocolate, which was a bit stupid of me. Today I need to go to the bank and check to see if my direct-deposits are working; and I will stop by the shop for some Pellegrino and things are already feeling very lucky Irish. It does seem weird that St. Patrick’s Day falls in Lent. Whoever was in charge of that decision wasn’t Irish…or they were.Anyway, we are going to want pasta so I will do something on the healthy side with arugula but, you know, it will still feel decadent enough, even though it is gluten-free, considering how navel gazing we have all now become as a result of our diets.  I think I wanted to be prepared for the weekend when I finally catch up to my big bad self. And I keep getting these waves of gratitude and glimses of myself in faraway places. I’m so fortunate to have such a deal as we do here in such a beautiful place and maybe feeling a little assisted too. We will watch two RuPauls in a row because why not. This time next week supposedly Brian is going to visit us; we shall see.

It is truly amazing to get some good financial news. The power of the purse is not only a them in our current political climate, it also hits rather close to home, I must say. It can all be pretty relaxing if one lets it be that’s for sure. I will synch my phone and laptop later to get all the photos I need from recent short forays. I’m getting my brain around all of it. Would be quite nice to have a little print show but of course it would be product too. I’d like to go see good while we’re in town I wonder about the Ritz apartments in Boston. Would be fantastic to make little projects and to partner with people and, of course, do our readings in the back. Astrolabes and jade rings. I know I will find the truth by letting go. Pisces energy of sacrifice. I came upon a recent notebook I had started writing in. You know how it takes a few moments to know from what era some like this derives? It turns out the first page had the first ever know about our first xmas show which we called Over the Hill and Everywhere, which is written here on the page, it’s remarkable. Another page looks like:

Just starting to trip. Type A Tripped Out Twosome. Seeing trails. Ooh, hoo did you just see that? Still I remain of the [word not clear], In the fast lane breaking. British sor of is. Mari-Mary. The energies existed before thecharacters did. Venicle of time. Time is the car and we are the road. Identical cousin. I lost my virginity in a case of mstaken identity. The end of the year s a great tie to thik about dying. But you know astrology is the point of this show and indeed our lives . Music and lecture. Ubiquity.

I actually had to stop it was too much. I can’t believe everything I say now is here in this notebook from some near twelve years ago, which is crazy. You know it’s quite possible that this idea book goes back even further. But wait one more: I know Jesus loves me but let’s face it i wouldn’t love him nearly as much back if he wasn’t so runway ready. He’s a model.Not an Abercrombie or Hilfiger or Hugo Boss model. He’s a Dries van Noten model with the hair and the beard which, despite his itinerant lifestyle, his parapathetic lifestyle, I know he smells like Herbal Esssence. Anyway, then there is something about Mary Magdelene being so lucky. And then blessedly it ends.

I pulled out of our driveway and the driver in the first car that passed me gave me the finger. I came back and told S. the story and she said someone drove past the house at top speed just after I left. Someone angry out there. I sort of have my suspicions as to who it was; actually, I think its someone who associates my car with this property and are confusing us with its previous inhabitant. I will do fuck all this morning. I reached out to Dave, so I might speak with him later we shall see; funny that he knows Nicholas, that they really grew up together, synagogue families et al. I found Robin on social media and she is still so lovely looking. Anyway I don’t know what to make of most things. I will take a giant nap and then S. and I will make a light cod dinner, after having polished off the pasta leftovers. Extinction bursting with excitement since the new moon. And work-wise I am looking on the bright side—I have drafted the introductions, nearly, of all next year’s books. I will take a quick stop at the Well to see what their menu might be like; I don’t even know if they are open this time of year. Spring happens very slowly at land’s end, I can tell you that.

So I did end up taking a majorly long nap and when S. Came home we just decided to chill out and rewatch an episode of a funny Will and Grace and then I wanted to turn her onto this weird Royal Scandalshow from the early nineties with Richad E. Grant and Susan Lynch—I think that’s her name. It is so odd to think that programs from that date could look so terribly dated. It was like looking through gauze. A lot of the BBC shows from that time have that sort of fuzzy bright-light quality I find. I have this William Blake book, the cover of which I love (and on which I based our own Haute Astrology books), and found all sorts of annottion inside. I always love stumbling upon them; but in this case I’ve had this book on my stand and dipped in but never noticed because all these pencilled sidebars are on the pages where Blake’s actual plates appear; I never bothered, really, to look at those because they are ill-printed inside this paperback; and I was sticking to the type-set versions which are more designed to read than look at. Blake is a Sagittarius of course thus the marriage of heaven and hell. I’m very much open to a love-affair (with life) this springtime. I don’t think I’ve ever, ever loked so forward spring in my lifetime. It’s going to feel most gratifying, mostly, to stay in the moment with all that is currently on the horizon.

I will do only and exaclty what I can do and no more. I certainly can’t feel bad about missing a deadline. But I do think that going after the grants is a smart thing to do. And I will make that part of my gentle roll out. I have to savor this moment. I have to savor this year. I have to read at least ten pages of a book a day and limit the amount of overall sitting I do in any case. We have decided to do a free twenty-four-hour Haute Astrology book give away to celebrate the start of the astrological New Year with the Equinox, which is pretty sxciting. I’ll be in some kind of regular ritual by then, taking the next week or so to figure out a simple formula that will take. It’s something that needs to emerge from the mist rather than be dictated by intention. As I write this I am overwhelemed with the feeling of strolling through the d’Orsay in the morning knowing you’re going to La Laiterie for lunch. There simply is no better feeling than that which living there imparts. I have such a hard time imagining New York again as the mainstay—it just doesn’t feel write. It’s always been France or Maine or both, ultimately.

Just noticed that our book Sextrologywas listed in the 14 best astrology books, picked by other astrologers which is fun. I needed a little something something. I realized that we could be a little more outreaching and start to corner the workshop market which dovetails perfectly with themes in our book. It is cool that we are the best astrology book about sex—the danger being pigeon holed for that. Our book is about the inescablabe archetypes of our signs  on the basis of sex and for the most part along the gender binary while bridging into other areas. Evolution meaning that the signs evolved, that our philosophy has evolved, our theories have evolved and it is quite simply what is next, satisfying simplest reader hunger. And anyway, as I’ve long threatened to do, I’d like to get into the esoteric a bit more; perhaps I could even get my transcripts expunged and find a school that would take me. I know that’s silly, but maybe I can work my way in, for real, to Harvard (not the extension school) if I were to actually get some kind of artsy fartsy position there. That could happen, right? No! I really am just kidding with that idea. Or am I?

I can appreciate the twinkling environment of a home office to start. I need to further my Glow Festival outreach as this year unfolds as well; which would be best to do in Boston in any case. And yet as I type this I’m thinking how busy we would be if we also eventually had some kind of situation, a studio even, on, say, the Upper East side which could be very good indeed for business. I’m not convinced we need it and here’s why: if New York is really only good for consultancy things then we might happily avoid it all together. I know a great many artists who never have to be in a city like New York, London or Los Angeles and that suits them fine. I find it the most confounding thing that I still don’t know where I myself would like to live best. I do feel like Neil Simon’s Prisoner of Second Avenue to some degree any time I’m in New York. I found East Cambridge to be intriguing for sure; but I think we are going to be better off in some full-service buidling that’s on the nose. And I think we focus on establishing that reality and let the others fall into place. It’s all a big crap shoot anyway, and one just has to start somewhere. I just know, for myself, that I tend to be creative very much on the fly. And yet one has to have something solid to come home to somewhere in these United States.

In just a matter of a few days I will have completed four full years of this Blague which really feels a bit surreal and though it has been differetn things at different epochs it has very much been like a best friend all these years. Actually I realize I started writing it after a very hurtful end to a friendship and in many ways I stopped turning to others and finally, more fully than ever before in my life, decided to turn to myself if you will.  I will take the bull by the horns with books and appearances and hopefuly in the creation of content; I would in fact be thrilled to take my little show on the road—all the little shows on the road—and I can’t discount the possibility that, by June, I have my own piece of work to put onto the boards. It is meant to be all in good fun, really. And I don’t believe we should take anything about this life all too seriously in any sense. Still I think it important to let it all happen through you. I’ll never be some kind of academic, no Neil Gaiman me.

The plan there is to offer the book for free for a day. And to start telling people about who we are and what the brand is. I will begin the day with the cosmic climate. And I’m going to focus on events and workshops this year while I outline a new proposal. I have to turn the page and change the headline all at once come late March which gives me a good two weeks—also our event is exactly a fortnight from today. I love the spring awakening. I love that Nina Simone song Another Springat least I think she wrote it. We have just planned two tiny New England trips and a staycation; I’m going to begin to optimize the workshop thing, even now, close at home, perhaps working in a studio setting on mantras and exercises. And I have some lecture and workshop thoughts to put into plan; this can dovetail with outreach to event folk. It entails one big data base.

No sooner had made a plan to work on grants that I realized I not only missed the deadline but that it just seems so deadly a waste of time. However, I will set sites on it for sure for next year. I also need to work on my dates for Afterglow at Oberon. I will fill them in as we flow along here today. Otherwise what will be will be on that score.

Oct 3 Nov 7: Witch Camp Feb 20 Mar 19 Apr 16 May 14. Always plenty to do and plan. I feel that I can do more for artists, to help them perform more regularly throughout New England. It truly is a worthwhile endeavor and I’d like to hone the cred here in this arena; I’m confident I can do jus that in the coming months. I will find theaters, I will book artists, and I will have their talents be known. Starting with these two characters close at hand. I must find a way to proliferate their talent in such a way. I need to put this letter to artists on a list. But I might very well find that I won’t soon need to be so directly involved; we shall see. I think it’s all in the set up.

Wake. Write. SM/bite. Exercise. Notes/Coffee. Write. Lunch. Work. Dinner. Read. It goes something like that. So important to stay in the flow. And so challenging not to let go momentum. But oh, so necessary. I will finish these book drafts and have casting complete by the end of the month. I move, then, immediately into writing: fundraising pleas, rejigging bigger book proposal, reading through the old Blagues and writing anew, and putting together client, event, fundraiser, investor, media and all other data bases. You know, just a little busy work. It will be fun and it should prove challenging. I should like to be away for October and there will likely be an event in Scotland in November. I will fly back for the Witch Camp show. Then I think we should be in New York mid November to mid December. Come back, have Xmas and an entire collection. I will need to devote from April, primarily, to that enterprise. If I were to get a book deal I could begin writing it in 2020. So now you know my plans in cryptoform.

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

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

Capricorn 16° (January 6)

Epiphany indeed. I was up for most of the night again but this time it was because I was glued to the set. I didn’t go to sleep until I was convinced that Dems were going to win both seats. I am going to offer up my fatigue today in thanks. Patience wearing thin, I wrote to counsel, and am having some soft expectations. More validation on El Fuckface yesterday from yet another longtime Wellfleetian. After doing some clean-out yesterday, dropping a weight on my foot, icing it all night, I woke up with it feeling better, totally convinced now that nothing is broken. My eyesight is really blurry. I need rest. Today was meant to be such a good day and yet it wasn’t. This was the day that the deplorables stormed the capitol. It is impossible to fathom. They seem to have been let in. I need to rework my schedule. All bets are off. So much for dry January. I made a delish flounder with green beans and fingerlings. Then we just got drunk and watched MSNBC. There is little more to say.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1400-1405. 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.

So bummed that this snow globe of a world will prevent us from driving to Boston today to see JCM and Amber perform. Truly gutted. Oh well, what can you do. I took my life in my hands just driving down the road to go food shopping in Orleans. I had some moments where I truly thought, I’m going to spin out into oncoming traffic. But I just went slow and followed the existing single tracks, even on a double-lane one-direct road—otherwise, trying to create new tracks, one  would all too easily go into a skid. With economic choreography I did all the shopping and then headed to Eastham to hit the PO. I passed a packed parking lot, this place called the Red Barn, so I stopped there for a moment to use the facilities and answer correspondence. The place was filled with some alt-right looking folks with a slew of young kids; I got a vibe that it was some kind of post sports thing or party. Otherwise why would so many children be dragged out for pizza on one of the most dangerous driving days of the year. It was weird. Like they had all just landed there. This giant black truck pulled up next to me with this twenty something guy with something red white and blue of a bandana or something hanging from his rearview. He had on a baseball cap of course and I got a very Jesusy vibe. Why are the most close-minded folks freaks for that two-thousand plus year old hippy whom they probably would have beat to a pulp had they met in person. So strange to me.

You know how the internet seems to know what you’re on about? Specifically, how Facebook shoots you ads for things you were looking up, or someone in your household was Googling for, and it feels kind of spooky when the only horror about it is you’re being gently hacked all the time for the purposes of greed? Well life’s own synchronicities are something like that only grander, more cosmic and not sinister.

I am made all too well aware of my body when I get stoned which is the reason why not to do it. I think it is a nerve thing. I’ve always been wired that way, highly strung I guess.

Some snippet of writing so far today: Following Capricorn, cardinal-earth, which correlates, among other things, with the old-guard and the edification of tradition, comes the eleventh sign of Aquarius breaking through all that with avant-garde aplomb. The energy is both revolutionary and evolutionary. The sign’s ruler Uranus is the awakener, sudden and sweeping. Named for the god of the universe it points that which is ahead of its time—the eleventh astrological house rules the future—and and all that is new to explore, and what uncharted territory, metaphysical or otherwise, one can boldly get into. That Aquarius people are known to be quirky or freaky is more than pop-astrology, it speaks to the mutant energy of the sign. Aquarius is the future in the present, the sudden and sweeping mutation, the oddity, by which, nevertheless, the future unfolds and, literally, all species evolve. The notion of evolution is thus encoded into the ancient Zodiac—those crazy Mesopotamians! The male and female Aquarian chapters in our book Sextrology are called The Visitor and The Vision, respectively. The former refers to the alien quality of the men of the sign, in particular, as if they are visitors from outer time-space; while the latter speaks to the revelatory energy of the sign, something which women of the sign, especially, embody.

Even the fact that Uranus is named for the Greek god of the Universe, while all the other planets bear the Roman verions of their mythic namesakes, suggest something of a departure from the norm that characterizes the sign of Aquarius. Uranus, meaning sky or heaven, has many a debatable and probably composite etymology. We derive the modern word urine from the name, and most root words have watery origins and associations, like “to moisten”—it is said that Aphrodite emerged from the sea fertilized by Uranus’ castrated bits (Saturn struck him down just as he was later struck down by his own usurping son, replacing him as chief god). Uranus is associated specifically with dew, which parallels Aquarius woman’s association with the goddess of the dawn. Ruled by this starry god the universe, and placed opposite Leo (ruled by the Sun) on the astrological wheel, Aquarius is associated with distant suns, a single star, if not the infinitely sparkled heavens filled. In the Tarot, the Star card depicts the astrological Water Bearer. This is the fixed-air sign, which translates to a point, or countless points, of light.

I had so much anxiety this morning. I needed drugs and by that I mean Netflix. So I watched the entire series of The Umbrella Academy which, despite some talented-actor moments, was truly bad. I think if something comic-bookish is going to work, since the premise is always fantastically preposterous, that it has to achieve certain artistry. I liked the one actor who played Klaus but of course the one gay character also has to be the comic relief—we haven’t ventured very far from Paul Lynde’s Uncle Arthur on “Bewitched”.or the early writing and portray of Jack on “Will and Grace.” Klaus is also a heroin addict which makes sense since he looks a lot like Billy Hough thirty years ago. Now Billy Hough looks like Skeletor. He’s just one of those people who have managed to pull the wool over the (only) famous people he targets for friendships, appealing to their vanity as much as his own. I just have this strange, sweeping and sudden realization of being alone in a world that I no longer recognize; and the need for me to do something with that realization. I must develop accordingly. I must launch myself into some self-preserving and yes -serving endeavor where I need not the affection of those who cannot (any longer) provide it, which is fine. Self-sufficiency doesn’t come easy for those of us who have lived co-dependent existences fueled by grossest dysfuntion that slapped us in the face as we exited the womb. Can one be thrown to the wolves and raised by them at the same time. I wonder.

If my fascist father who “gave up on me” because I couldn’t play football or softball by the time I was three would have had any class at all he would have recognized that I might be a good skiier, or play soccer fairly well, or be quite good at tennis. My inability to be him was his excuse so early on for not having to deal with me at all. I do think that when it was just my sister and my parents he maybe even came home early for dinners and they were all three of them a family. But my mother’s father died a month or so before I was born and my maternal grand mother became unwell and had surgeries and needed extra attention mainly, staying with us in my infancy and such. I think he needed any excuse in the book not to come home until around 10PM at night which was pretty much his schedule for the entirety of my growing up. And in summer he would ship us off to the Jersey shore and not live with us at all during the week. That’s just the way things were. I didn’t have much in the way of community growing up. My parents didn’t belong to anything. It was a very dysfunctional upbringing and because of that I’ve struggled to be healthy of mind, body and spirit. I was an unfotunate target early on of unwanted advances shall we say. But even that has made me stronger I believe.

About my interaction with EM: She’s not a great person as has more recently come to light. She caused me a lot of pain and a lot of stress and some real financial cost. But I think the worst of it is being blamed for taking issue. That symptom cause thing is always such a gag. I have faith that the truth will always be known. That is my hope and wish.

More about Aquarius: This is the fixed-air sign, which translates to a point, or countless points, of light. The air element symbolizes both thought and social experience, that which is in the air, if you will. The buzzy mutable-air sign of Gemini translates to thought and information; the cardinal-air sign of Libra signifies thought forms, ideals, principles that can be put into action; while the fixed-air sign of Aquarius is about hard and fast truths. The sign’s motto is the emphatic I know—when we receive a revelation it comes on suddenly, swiftly and absolutely and it alters our truth and consciousness irrevocably.

The dawn itself is a metaphor for revelation, an awakening. Aquarius women tend to be bearers of truth, glad tidings, that might uplift others; they draw upon the archetype of the “descending goddesses” who would bring good news to mankind (and who fell in love with mortal men). In addition to Eos, goddess of the dawn, this includes Iris, goddess of the rainbow (a very Aquarian symbol—the eleventh house rules diversity in sexuality and gender—divergence being akin to sudden spin-offs in mutation), the goddess Hebe weds Heracles, who, via their union is raised from a mortal to immortal. Hebe, goddess of youth, is the female cup bearer to the gods who, by her grace, pours out the nectar, the manna, that preserves their immortal life and youth.

This Leaving Neverland documentary is hard to take on so many levels, not least of which is the abuse of withholding his love and attention from the boys he molested (and manipulated into falling in love with him), burdening them with such dark secrets to bear alone. To me that is the cruelest bit about it. I wonder who in Jackson’s you life molested him in this fashion. One of the older 5? Parents? Who knows but I can guarantee this pattern didn’t start with M.J. but wow did it ever go out of control. To have all that money to build an entire ranched designed for pedophilia is like ancient Rome type level perversion. It is so very shocking. And yet there are those, like MJ’s other pre-pubescent companions, who will claim that it was an impossibility. Anyway, far too much of this morning will be spent watching this shite. And there will be more phone and Skype calls with friends to plan trips to hotels and spas; and frankly I’m just sick of the constant distractions. It occurs to me that I need some kind of agreement between the two of us on the subject of anything we are jointly taking in. I am not loving this day, but I will somehow have to find some kind of throughline to make it all make sense. At times everything just seems to fizzle into nothingness. We had an agent approach us, someone we’ve known for awhile, but instead of wanting to hear our idea, s/he had an idea for us to do. How is that supposed to work? Why don’t we just pull book ideas out of a hat instead. I mean really. I know I can’t do everything right but I’m tired of the must-be-doing-something wrongs. I am going to take a major step back and try to find something that makes my heart sing again. I left the world of publishing for a reason: the constant run-around. If I’m going to reenter it it’s going to be on my own terms. Seriously.

Stoned immaculate makes so much sense to me. I remember the feeling well as a youngster in the pure suburban late spring air and sunshine, being so overtaken, a cow in the distance, walking through the tall grass with friends so many astride, what a glorious feeling to be young and alive and anonymous. The 1970s had so much breadth. Mornings walking to middle school in March when the earthworms would emerge and you had to step over them and puddles while some would cut the poor creatures in half—I don’t remember of they became two different worms or not. I do know that from the primordial Pisces ruled time and ooze these two gendered wrigglers emerge. We are this close today to being totally amazing. And I’m going to do it. I’m also giving myself something of a genuine last hoorah. I have to turn the corner with the changing of the time this coming weekend. The ensuing spring bids me back to my body. I want to buy a windbreaker. I want to ride my bicycle. I want to be in the breeze. It’s a long time coming this winter as lamby as it was for much of it, this last leg is going to make for a cold spring too me thinks. It’s all part of the divine unfolding, even these banal things. I get glimpses of the future I also feel for myself in my process.

I remember the optimism I felt when….when….oh dear, I just lost that thought. I was probably referring to a composite of various times in our lives. Let’s say it was when our first book was just coming out and there was this exhilirating sense of the unknown and the unknowable. I can get back to that garden. Oh I know I was thinking about the advent of moving from Myspace to Facebook and how it felt so connecting and modern and fun and like we were all onto something new and beneficial. It did feel like a legitimately new world. And in my more recent past we spent winters in Los Angeles and it was so affordable to do so. I’m going to need to be at the top of my game again very very soon. Like tomorrow really. C’est bien possible. Tout est possible. It will be smart for me to keep a low profile, again, if only for the next several weeks. I love Courtney Barnett. I’ve just sipped the last sip, metaphorically speaking. So I will continue this a little later (and by that I mean tomorrow). One of my goals (once again….and I say once again because lost in the annals of this Blague somewhere is some similar treatise) is to begin, on day one of Spring, with an integrated plan and social-media presence. So much on the brain today. I can feel the tide turning for the better and yet I am all cramped up in anticipation of the inevitable extinction burst.

The writing is on the wall in any case. I have to be pristine now in so many areas. This new venture is going to require so much fortitude and my fear is that I won’t devote (or won’t be allowed to devote) as much creativity to it as it needs. That is why for me it must dovetail with other efforts and other emeans of manifestation. We will get into all of that…

Wishing you were somebody you’re not, or that you are someone else, is certainly a sin. I want to get to the crest of the wave, paddling as fast as I can, and to stay there and ride it awhile. Right now what I need most to do is remain dissolved. One has to go inward even to find ones kindred spirits. I imagine it is end of summer and I head back into Boston, on the ferry. I find my pool to swim in; I make dates with people. I practice tennis. I receive acupuncture. I run my thriving non-profit organization. This shall be my legacy. I will appeal to the venues to help keep artists moving. I will launch a propganda campaign about the importance of Provincetown’s legacy of experimental performance. Every venue will get the same schpiel. There will always be a place in Provincetown, year-round, for the festival. We can move it to a proper theater or take to the high school or to vixen or the Harbor or Provincetown hotels. The point is we can make is happen, anything happen, by talking about it every day. Luke Perry is dead and won’t be talked about for very long. Farrah Fawcett without the Michael Jackson effect.

Feeling pretty triggered these last two days since Leaving Neverland. It’s like I actually miss those two men Wade and James. I wasn’t loved and molested by Michael Jackson but I did have a very serious like-siutation starting when I was just eleven. So I really relate and the film really started to undo me quite a bit. There are more of us than we all know. Again I always say that the biggest irony to come to light will be that the supposedly miniscule unicorn population of bisexual men, those we suspect make up the least amount of the LGBTQ community are actually the most abundant majority of the entire male population. Six percent of men may be gay but of the remaining straight I would say at least eighty were really bi. And even the straight ones would bend it for Beckham let’s face it. I realize as I write this that I’ve been pretty preoccupied with the subject since watching that film. I never think of myself as being repressed because I’m pretty out about who I am and the experiences I’ve had, dating back to when I was that chicken tender. That word chicken is so Everything You’ve Always Wanted To Know About Sex But Was Afraid To Ask. At least that was the first time I heard it. Imagine a word like that emerging in this present climate. I mean even the fact that there was an acceptable word to mean, well let’s face it, an underage bit of trade, well that’s just sad. And yet there are far sadder things about our society today overall. The naiveté of what was taboo at that time is just proof of how carefree a time it was comparatively.

Over the past couple of years I have undergone a near complete change of the friendship guard. It was exactly seven years that I had met and finished with an entire group of people. It’s so strange how accurately that time span can represent an era. But it truly does. The only friends that truly matter I feel are the ones you’ve had since forever; and i’m very fortunate to have childhood friends and high school friends and all the friends i met in college and just thereafter who represent my closest bonds. Even the small stint I did in 1986 in Cambridge—having returned from Paris in May and by the end of the next summer I was already living in NYC—where I worked at a restaurant, The Harvest, in Harvard Square—I mean, I met so many great people that particular year with whom I’m still close and that was just a waystation. The prior year in Paris yielded my main lifelong posse and, oddly, I have most of my acquaintances from the twenty plus years I lived in NYC but no real true friends. Strange that. Anyway, so many incredible and new things now on the horizon and I feel as if I have exited some long, dark period of mourning. At least I know this about myself: I do process things pretty fully, if with a little backlash!

The other night I dreamt about Karen Siegel. I finally saw her and confronted her and asked her why she never made an effort to keep in touch. I suppose it happens. Though I dare say I would like to find her one day. The same with Sharon Pierce maybe. I don’t even know if she spells it Pearse or Pearce; that’s how unimportant such things were with good friends. Anyway, today is really tough. We had a come to hey-Zeus moment last evening; it really is a result of not holding regular meetings and things getting all second guessy and bottled up. Anyway, after some frustration we will push through today. I’m going to get back to the abandoned Bundy doc—it was creeping me out weeks ago when I started and so I had to stop. New Moon as of this morning so I am ready to move on! I think because I am nearing the end of one big slice of annoying busy work that I am feeling a bit freer already on that score. I’m having fun for the most part, being creative, and if I don’t look to carefully at my schedule I don’t feel too crazy.

I’ve just connected with this character called Nicholas Kahn whom I apparently grew up with, having gone at least through middle and high school together. There was a friend suggestion on the dreaded Facebook and I looked at our mutual connections and it was a hodgepodge of old friends and current connections. Weird. Anyway it turns out that he is this amazing artist that works in collaboration with I’m guessing his partner. I will find out more as time unfolds I think. But the crossover here seems a bit on the endless side. Anyway I asked JCM if he know him and he didn’t but now he is following him which is great. I’m not sure he follows me, even, but I always seem to be beside the point in these equations. I was thinking about New Year’s Eve when so and so invited friends of ours to their house but we who introduced them were conveniently left off the invite list. I’m nost sure why that is a trend but it is rather reoccuring a theme. The way I interpret it is: I’m meant to process this sort of thing in this life and rise above and keep the focus on myself. I’ve always been other orientated so it’s hard. I’m very sensitive by nature and have gotten hurt easily in situations where others might just be like who cares. But I take things in quite deep and it has often taken be a long time to get over hurts. That coupled with the fact that I have never had the best taste in friends—I tend to link up with the narcissistically self-obsessed.

I think this bring me full circle back to the Karen Siegel bit. I have no idea how or why I never heard from her again. It really does weird me out; and it makes me think that perhaps she stayed a friend at the time because she had to on some level. Probably because her brother nearly killed me when he pulled out and we got hit by a school bus which caused me a major injury and amnesia. I don’t really care all that much though I have to say

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

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

Capricorn 15° (January 5)

A repeat on the sleep front (there wasn’t much of it), but I am chalking this up, in part, to the political climate and events, there, unfolding, plus the domestic situation with El Fuckface. On top of those things, the dietary shift I’ve made with my resolute New Year, is probably leaving my body wonder where the relief and impetus to rest is now coming from. So I slept in and had just about enough time to doing the morning chores before setting off food shopping—tonight will be our usual salmon, avocado, stewed tomatoes and spring green salad—before meeting with realtor and seeing our first house together. The house was perfect butt the location was a non-starter, down a dirt road, at the end of a cul de sac, crowded with other homes, passed ’76 style American flags and Mary statues on a half shell. But we have the ball rolling and that is the important part. I had a chunky, curried sweet potato soup awaiting us upon return; and I decided that I would do some physical work, early spring cleaning. The beauty of this time of year is the short three months of darkness before equinox, the best time to get some major work done and to clear out one’s body of toxins and the like, and then the advent of Spring which is so motivating and inspirational. Lent begins this year on February 17, and lasts forty-six days, ending April 3 (did you know that Lent doesn’t include Sundays? I didn’t). But I’m a lapsed Catholic, so…. Still, at lunch I believe it was, I had mentioned that I cross myself pretty much on the reg, which is apparently something we, in this household, share. I had some back and forth with Ci T, who is full of excuses and deflection, so I will let that now be. I suppose it is validation enough to know that these Vermeuels have always been stuck-up and self-mythologizing. Good to know. 

So after lunch I did some more emptying out of the basement and there was a hand weight on the work bench that rolled off and onto my left foot and I was convinced I broke something but things were able to wiggle so it seems I have avoided that fate. Oh, what I meant to say is that as we left the house today, El Fuckface glared at us. He has been doing that and I am fine with him doing it to me but I really take offense that he is doing it to S. and it is menacing and not okay. I will have to address tomorrow and I’m no longer waiting for counsel to beam in. People have to step up or they are going to be given the boot. I’m tired of always making allowances for others.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1396-1400. 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.

Brad will be over today and I will have been under the misconception that I had more time to focus on what required it. I’m not really sure what went down. All I know is that I wasn’t very much dealing with reality today and rather ran and hid from the work at hand. I did quick trip to the shops then just sat by the fire, slowly easing into this day back into writing and other obligations. I did reach out, I don’t know if I mentioned, to see if JCM might comp us for his show, in which case we will go back up to Boston Saturday. I feel that some of my old injuries might be coming back to haunt me and I am no longer longing but aching to get back to my ocean or at least bay beach walks. We are definitely checking a lot off the list this week and I feel myself in overall preparation for clearing any number o decks. I know I spent the morning feeling that feeling of there being something missing; and I know that I have a tendency to what to fill those empty spaces; but I have learned, am still learning, to let these feelings pass. To let them move you to another place. If you just placate them you end up steps back from where you need be.

So I can do things like rearrange the budget. Word some emails to folks, Matt and Tim B. especially. But also someone like Rick. And to Barry too. I can also tell stories about Juliana and playing characes or Kip and our daytrip to Walden pond or the bleak feeling of moving to New York and how I never really shook it. I can get all the grant work underway. I can dill in the slots as best I can for next festival. I can also start to word my outreach to the existing folks, to the missionary folks, to the hotel folks, to the realtor folks, to the performers I’d like to ask for help. For the individuals I need to make up my Sparkler audience. All of it. It can be fun overall me thinks. If I can just let the pieces fall into place where they may. Healing is true happiness. And to that end I shall continue to make some good food this week. I am a little tired of doing so much of the cheffing and schlepping but such is my life. Until it changes. Which it very well may do, and on a dime. I am no longer married to any outcomes. I don’t have any family to keep me anchored and friendships I feel have become one-way streets for the most part. Is it just our generation or did people always become best friends with their grown children to the near total exclusion of everything else.

I have resentment, clearly. The result of not putting myself first in this life, for which I only have myself to blame. But every day provides a fresh opportunity and today I’m going to take it. I know I have the power to reel in all the external nonsense in my life. For starters you will not find me visiting certain “relatives” any longer. This year has proved that trying to relate to these people has become the crazy you do when you expect different results from the same old actions. And anyway, the energy vibration is so low that I simply can no longer survive it. I am going to hold out for Parigi when it comes to the next local, going through all the things that need spring cleaning and flinging. Does one really need to be a part of LinkedIn or are all the emails I get about people (friends?) doing stuff there just part of some propganda campaign to get me to post there?

All is propoganda. We are living in the Orwellian midst of it. The animal farm is formidable. The poetry of the day, profound. We find it in ourselves to change the conversation. We are not powerless; we push back.

Knowledge, philsophies, belief-systems all belong to the Sagittarian estate. “Knowledge is Power,” said Auntie Mame, a modern emanation of the female archetype, the sister-wife of Jupiter, Juno (Greek: Hera) who was goddess of women, but of power and knowlege too (as e’er this particular twain shall meet?) as it was her divine gift to bestow omnipotence or omniscience (or both) upon Paris who didn’t choose her best-in-show in his eponymous Judgement. Supreme power is what makes Jupiter/Zeus and Juno/Hero the couple to beat on Mount Olympus. And like Jupiter who can shoot lightning fire from his finger tips, Juno, too, possesses the ability to radiate outward from her entire being in such brilliance that it blinds and sometimes completely combusts those who behold her thus beaming. And speaking of knowledge: Historically, Sagittarius women in the greatest number comprised the list of most successful, world-renowned women writers to achieve global recognition. Austen, Dickinson, Cather, Wharton, Sand, Alcott, Emily Bronte the list goes on and on, proving how the proliferation of knowledge, to be an author who catches like wild fire at a time before the telegraph, and not that long after the printing press, is tantamount to greatest power and influence over the minds of many. And how else could a woman become a global sensation but to radiate outward in the expression of her creative intellect. The sign shares an “opposite” axis with Gemini, the buzzy mutable air sign of information which feeds into said Sagittarian knowledge. It also takes the dual energy of Gemini and combines it into somethint tertiary—again, that mark ‘twain.

One such person Hera burnt was Semele, the pregnant mortal mother of Dionysus. But she didn’t have to do it herself this time; instead she tricked her into asking Zeus to revel himself in full glory, which had the same combustive result; and Zeus had rescue the unborn Dionysus, sewing him into his own thigh (the body part ruled by Sagittarius) to finish his gestation. The thigh is the body part ruled by Sagittarius and the myth speaks to the struggle for power between the sexes, too. Jupiter gives birth to his own son, now, usurping the most feminine power to bring forth life. And Juno detests Dionysus more than any other god. Her dislike for him symbolizes the uneasy power strugle between the traditional ancient force she embodies and the would be usurpation of this power by the patriarchy whidh is personified by this “new” male god, inheritor of Jupiter, or his own youthful (re-)incarnation.. Dionysus is a most Sagittarian archetype in his own right, being the god of extremism in a number of forms. He is the ecstatic god of the orgy and, of course, wine, the classic drug of choice for expanding ancient minds, debatably associated with disorder.

We do see his character in famous outré male figures like Nero, Blake, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Ludwig van Beethoven and of course Twain who came and went with Haley’s comet. There is something of the wild man in every Sagittarius, a nod to being the sign of the Centaur, thus half beast; while Dionysus represents nature asmale, he is god of ritual madness and religious ecstacy, a liberator and rule breaker and the only Olympian god to have a mortal parent. He isn’t pre-civilization wild, but rather embodies liberation from the restraints of existing society, the return to a natural state. Thus his rites entailed the drinking of his wine and frenzied dancing, opening up the consciousness to altered arguably higher states while recapturing the wild animal state of being as well and a return to primordial nature. Though it mightn’t have appeased Hera, Dionysian cults and rites were mainly associated with, and driven by women, along with slaves, outlaws, foreigners and the otherwise marginalized. The rites included dancing to rhythmic beats, flinging ones head back, so to break on through to the other side. Sagittarius is the energy of lightning flashess of genius, where it borders on madness, blowing ones own mind. We still see this same triggering of ecstaticism in evangelical churches, in voodoo practice, and in native american rituals. Sagittarius is the sign of the jazz, rock ‘n roll and the Beats (itself a combined duality of being beaten down and also beatific, raised high, all at the same time).

What dreams may come. Two clients today. What I’m realizing is emerging as an overall client theme this year is pulling triggers. It’s time. A. and K. each in their own way are ready, willing and able. I will drive to Orleans and speak to Darry. She has a chilling Boston Marathon terrorism story to tell. I notice if I don’t concentrate on what I’m writing I may write words that are similar to those I’m stringing together, first, in the narrative in my head, mostly sound-alikes, but they might be strange ones indeed. I do not have longevity in my family and on my nervy Irish side especially the minds tend to burn brightly but extinguish early. That may just simply be my fate. We shall see. Get thee behind me eight ball. En route to creating new memories, I dissolve myself in the forceful soup, enough, purified by detachment (Aquarius) and free to roam the particle landscape, pixelated. I dreamt of little boxes containing various sized tiny balls, bellets, colored the palest robins egg blue each collection of miniscule spheres could be put into some kind of projector where it they translated, all together, into a single film. I had about a dozen of these collections. Some of the smallest pellets, like dust, were getting lost and I wondered what ill effect it might have on the short motion pictures they equalled and generated. The actual date of this dream was morning of Mardi Gras some several days hence. Why I feel it’s important to say that currently beats me.

Capricorn is a correction itself to the excesses of the previous sign of Sagittarius. I write a single sentence and then stop. It is the cardinal earth sign one translation of which is a mountain, a cone, offering containment, singularly, or in a range. My arms often sieze when i write, energy bottling up. It’s not even eight in the morning. I don’t actually have to do anything. I set myself deadlines, the nearest of which is the start of the astrological new year. That’s just the way it is going to be. From this day forward, friends, let’s see the humor and get ourselves back on track. We all have different means of finding some meaning and some relief. I realize that I am triggered about personal life issues all the time since the start of this administration. Woe it is to all of use. I wish I could help “the base” (play on words?). There is no reason to make excuses. I look for reasons for being a lazy git but there aren’t any. So what I’ve decided to do was just shut up and figure it all out and forge ahead as best I can and I will have produced something, anything.

Beginning tomorrow I must start the new routine. I must read for at least hour per day. Television, such as it is the winter entertainment will be relegated to the back burner by spring in anycase, despite the premier of GOT third season. My goal is not to watch any more series otherwise. I’m a doc queen, always have been always will be. I will feel so good about myself if I just focus on what positive thing at a time. So I will feature a book a day from my library while reading at least one a week. Maybe do a cosmic book club theme per week. We are making all of the websites fertile and exciting. All the words I have to say about the festival will be posted on those pages. I will share old shots from the archives, one a day on Instagram. I’m happy to be returning to the Marlton. It will be wonderful to book ten clients over, say, five days, working in the mornings. It is one of our homes away from home that’s for sure. Otherwise we are Eliot queens of the first order. I am always feeling this close.

Oh, right. I have no clients today. So it will be a day of catch up on other fronts, which is fine and fun and a long time coming. I’ve asked E.H. to join our board. A friend is divorcing another friend. And I am the luckiest man alive (sometimes I feel). Although that feeling is more fleeting than it should be. I will be asking future favors from my friends and I will be casting quite the large net in the process. Anyway we might agree that I am doing my best. I might be able to sneak out of here and get one last bit of hurrah on if possible. That is to say if I do two more fruitful timed writings. I have a lot out there spinning now which is great. Some thoughts I had on simplifying things: We developed a unique philsophy of twenty-four basic personality types based upon the archetypal power of each of the binary gender sun signs. Now we are going places with it. This is our strength. We are mystics, you can modify it with the word modern if you want to.

Capricorn is a correction itself to the excesses of the previous sign of Sagittarius. It is the cardinal earth sign, one symbolic interpretation being a mountain, something conical offering containment with alone or in a range. The horn too, akin to a mountain (the Matta Horn, or mother mountain), as befits this sign of the goat. Capri-corn literally means goat horn, the cornucopeia, or horn of plenty and the container of said bounty. Coming off the sign of Sagitarius which is expansion, growth, more, more more. Capricorn says enough is enough (Donna Summer is born under the sign). Capricorn is the energy of containment and restriction and thus of preservation. Mountains symbolize permanence if not the eternal itself. This fits the sign’s rule over the astrological tenth house which rules traditions. The planetary ruler is Saturn, named for the deposed god of the good ol’ golden age, (Greek: Cronos), who carried a scythe or sycle, with the planet symbol itself, even, recalls; he’s the prototypical old father Time, his Greek name linked to the chronological. His wife Rhea (Cybele or Ops, mother of the gods) is the mountain goddess in her mountain fortress, her diadem a turret; and she took god form, as Amaltheia, the mythic goat whose horns contained ambrosia, which she fed to her infant child Zeus, whom she hid away, so he might escape the fate of his elder five siblings who were swallowed at birth by Saturn who had a prophecy of usurpation by his offspring eternally hanging over his head.

Rhea means ease and Cronos is a deposed god, now, over the hill. Capricorn energy is retiring, retreating, restoring, reserved. It is the power of restraint, one such superpower Capricorn people possess. Capricorn is quality over quantity, a mountain of personal reserve. Talk about staunch character. The golden age which the Titans Cronos and Rhea ruled was thus called because it was a paradise, an arcadia devoid of any vice or lack where gods and men lived together, the latter for a monumentally long time. There was no ambition as the world was endlessly bountiful and provided. At their best Capricorn people embrace a similar mindset, refusing to struggle, though nobody works harder. Their emotional landscape is steep and rocky and not without some major landslides, but this inspires their development of sure-footedness and stamina. Endurance is the Capricorn way, which is the true metaphorical take-away of the sign’s grand-parental energy. We save up for retirement, just as we keep our reservoirs pure, whether real or symbolic of own resources, or those of our cultural tradition.

The Capricorn motto is I use which is to day I don’t waste, neither time nor energy, or fritter away that which is worth preserving on that which doesn’t take, but might only get, one higher. The goat is built for the ascent……

The eight dwarf is Snore-y. I haven’t seen my wife at night for the last two days because I am apparently a machine-gun earthquake at night these days. Today was strangely fun. We had a favorite client in the a.m. and then I did some yeoman’s work around house, mainly the kitchen, and drove to the dump and such. I have to say these are the things I actually love the best: don’t tell anyone. E.H. wrote to say she is joining our board and I’m so excited. I finally got outside and cleaned off both cars (otherwise I wouldn’t have gone to the dump where I sometimes wish I could stay, if that make sense). We are expecting a dumping of snow tonight and already going to Boston tomorrow to see JCM looks bleakish. We are troopers, so if there is any chance we can make this happen you know we will. I got really riled up working with a client. Sometimes it’s so hard not to empathize and take on all their pain and that’s what I feel I confronted today. As I’m writing this i just got this weird sense of relief in my neck; either that or I’m having a stroke because it felt a lot like a clot suddenly releasing into my bloodstream. Then again I do have quite a vivid imagination. So far so good!

The Capricorn motto is I usewhich is to day I don’t waste, neither time nor energy, or fritter away that which is worth preserving on that which doesn’t take, but might only get, one higher. The goat is built for the ascent but here’s the rub: Capricorn is the Sea Goat, and it has this fishy bit, which carries paradoxical meaning. Water sybmolizes intuition something Capricorns have in abundance, it also signifies emotion which we hope will fuel the Capricorn, not drag them down. The Sea Goat is also the perfect being to inhabit a metaphorical moutain-lake environment, the reservoir formed by restrictive power. Shan-gri-la, like golden-age Arcadia, where nobody ages. Just as the cardinal-water sign of Cancer, the axis-sign opposite Capricorn, is the source, Capricorn is the resource; and just as Cancer is associated with the archetype of Cinderella, so is Capricorn personified as the fairy god mother, a female personification of one’s higher power. Capricorns, whose birthright energy is faith, tend more than others to be one and the same with their higher power. And on the male side, we associate going to the mountain with, among other archetypes, old Moses, who let’s himself go grey via the experience, just as baby Moses, going from mother to mother along the (cardinal-water) river, is associated with Cancer, ruled by the Moon, the mother principle in astrology. Just as the fairy godmother comes with strict instructions (the sign of Capricorn at the very top of the Zodiacal wheel, at twelve o’clock, the stroke of midnight) so too does Moses receive and thus deliver a list of rules and regulations, restrictions—shalt nots!—to lay on us, ten to be exact, the number associated with Capricorn. God also told Moses to build his tabernacle out of goat hair, one might guess, because of it’s enduring, eternal qualities.

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

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

Capricorn 14° (January 4)

Was up most of last night binge-watching the new season of Sabrina because I’m a 14 year old girl. Fell asleep probably around 3:30 and slept till about 7 so today was not going to be the day I was planning it to be, still it was quite productive nonetheless and filled with endless synchronicities. I did my usual ablutions and cleaning and made a curried sweet potato soup that we will have tomorrow lunch. I prepped for some scallion oatcakes. And for tonight’s spinach salad with tomato bacon and egg. I paid some outstanding bills online and ordered myself a Moleskin daily planner. A new house came on the market in Wellfleet so I’ve arranged to see that tomorrow as well. En route to packing up my books I decided to organize them a bit by theme. Stella is arranging for insurance for her jewelry which triggered a conversation about a long lostt necklace of mine. As I was sorting out one of my bookshelves the necklace well one of them fell out . I haven’t seen it in probably 15 years. I have a feeling it was inside a book I was probably reading on the beach and to keep it from blowing away I must have tucked my necklace inside one of the pages and then forgot about it. I also stumbled upon a picture of me at David vermue wells wedding or rather outside my dates house before the wedding and I had just written to David sister today on the subject of his infamous disappearance. I have to say I’m pretty much over caring about that creep and I realized it’s always been a 1 sided relationship being that he’s five years older than me more than five years 5 1/2 years really and no actually almost 6 five years and nine months five years and 10 months something like that so I always looked up to him but he wouldn’t get it from the crap about me as a kid anyway if anything he would have been forced to hang out with me so whatever his eternal loss. I didn’t get any writing done on the book today but again that’s OK so much is being cleared up and cleared out and the more you do that the easier it is to do more of it so I’m just grateful for any form of forward movement right now to be honest and now that I’m in sober second semester mode it will be easier and easier to get up early feeling rested and get a lot pay made before well before the sun shines in this case I’m usually so in dread mode when it comes to this time of year faced with a long January into April on Olde Cape Cod but it can’t be long and dark enough for me this year. I need every waking moment I can get to devote to immersion in my work . I have a great many factors going for me which is facility in writing all the prep work I’ve done which has been extensive I just have to remember to utilize it in the process and I need 10 hour days in order to do that and I want 10 hour days in order to do that I want this book to be as excellent as it can be and so it shall. 

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1391-1395. 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’m getting all the nooks and crannies of my finances sorted out today and I feel tickets are really moving for tomorrow night’s show in Cambridge. It should be a fun one.

The third quadrant of which Sagittarius is the third sign is all focused on the mental plane, Libra being highly conscious and Scorpio deeply subconcious, then comes Sagittarius which is expansive enough to include the two. All mutable signs (again, the third in any quadrant), somehow combine the energies of the preceding two signs. Here Sagittarius blends the brilliantly concious with the cavernous subconcious into a superconscious or supraconcsious (I really do need to look those two words up). Only William Blake, a Sagittarius, would write a Marriage of Heaven and Hell or Sagittarius Samuel Clemens rename himself Mark Twain a play on the words, the mark, or point, between. Sagittarius is mutable fire which translates to wildfire, particuarly, lightning in the sky. Named for the wild-eyed lightning wielding king of the gods, Jupiter is not only the chief planet size wise in our astrology, all other planets fitting comfortably in it, it also signifies the energies of growth, plenty, generosity, optimism and expansion in all forms, but especially of the mind as it relates to the spirit. Fire symbolizes spirit so all the fire signs focus on the metaphysical level. It’s the most shamanistic of signs. It’s the stream of consciousness. It’s psychedelic and bent on breaking beyond boundaries of perception.

Knowledge, philsophies, belief-systems all belong to the Sagittarian estate. Knowledge is Power said Auntie Mame, a modern emanation of the female archetype, the wife of Jupiter, Juno (Greek: Hera) who was goddess of women, but of power and knowlege too, as it was her divine gift to bestow omnipotence or omniscience (or both) upon Paris who didn’t pick her in his eponymous Judgement. Supreme power is what makes Jupiter/Zeus and Juno/Hero the couple to beat on Mount Olympus. And like Jupiter who can shoot lightning fire from his finger tips, Juno possess the ability to radiate outward from her entire being in such brilliance that it blinds and sometimes complete combusts those who behold her thus beaming. But speaking of knowledge, historically, Sagittarius women, in the greatest number comprised the most successful women writers to achieve global recognition. Austen, Dickinson, Cather, Wharton, Sand, Alcott, Emily Bronte the list goes on and on, proving how the proliferation of knowledge, to be an author who catches like wild fire at a time before the telegraph, and not that long after the printing press, is tantamount to greatest power and influence over the minds of many. And how else could a woman become a global sensation but to radiate outward in words. The sign shares an “opposite” axis with Gemini, the buzzy mutable air sign of information which feeds into said Sagittarian knowledge. It also takes the dual energy of Gemini and combines it into somethint tertiary.

Sagittarius is about lightning flashess of genius, blowing ones mind, breaking through doors of perception to see things from both sides at once. Sagittarius is the sign of the jazz, rock ‘n roll and the Beats (itself a combined duality of being beaten down and also beatific, raised high, all at the same time).

One such person Juno burnt was the pregnant mother of Dionysus who had to be rescued and sewn into Zeus’ thing to finish gestation. The thigh is the body part ruled by Sagittarius and the myth speaks to the struggle for power between the sexes, too. Jupiter gives birth to his own son, now, usurping the most feminine power to bring forth life. And Juno detests Dionysus more than anyone. He is a most Sagittarian archetype in his own right, being the god of extremism in multiforms, the ecstatic god of the orgy and, of course, wine, the classic drug of choice for expanding the old noggin.

Her dislike for him symbolizes power being usurped by the new male god, inheritor to Jupiter, his own youthful incarnation. The dionysian rites entailed tearing apart of the bodies of youths by the bacchanates? Look this shit up. he also occupies this purple haze of Sagitarrius….his pinecone staff is the pineal gland is about altered states of consciousness. Anyway we have to talk about how for Sag more is more. Life a banquet. The genius  Genie and the Juno.

Headed into Boston today and it was a very relaxing ride. I probably should have phoned ahead because I was very much stalled in the lobby for most of the day which felt frustrating. Finally in the room, got ready. Had a little howdee do and a beer which hit me hard. Ubered to dinner, getting to the bar early so to have some oysters, and another beer. I never drink beer. Well that’s not true. I drink it in spurts for a week or so, let’s say, twice a year. I absolutely love it but it does not like me—I think I’m basically allergic to the stuff as it gives me inflammation, I find.  Anyway I had the lobster caccio pepe and some lovely Georgian wine, so by the time I got to the show I was feeling like a rat pack show host, baby. Show was a wow and we headed back to hotel right after as we were seeing D.B. again in the morning. After that appointment, we headed slowly out through Cambridge, stopping at Central Bottle for some Le Stoppa then over to Focaccia for dinner supplies. We are going to assemble rather than cook food. We stopped to check the family cray, then headed up 93 to 89 and into picture perfect New Hampshire.

What a place. We had a few hours to ourselves to unpack and bathe and put out the spread before the others arrived. It was jolly to see them and conversation was fun.

I would like to invest in real estate and in small places. I just want to be able to transport myself places, drop in and enjoy. I don’t want large places I have to maintain. At least this is my thinking today. And anyway I have nearly two years to figure it out. A lot can happen in that time. But I have to keep my head where my feet are in the short term. I think I need to set myself up in a city and really figure out how to run a soaring business; that is my main goal. I can’t count on the promisers in the world because they know what they’re doing even less than I do. I am the person with the power here. The most amazing memory feel was from Sydney street but that was an unbelievable seventeen years ago. I was in my thirties when I barely lived there. I still can’t believe that was before the first book was written as it feels more current in my experience than any other really.

Some thoughts on the Capricorn:

Well that every sign is in reaction to the sign that precedes it. In this case the expansion energy of Jupiter ruled Sagittarius is then checked by the containing energy of Saturn ruled Capricorn. The motto is I use. That is to say I don’t waste. Saturn is the old deposed, retiree god, Capricorn is the goat horn ofplenty, container, preserver of bounty, resource. C-E, the mountain with its natural resevoirs. Saturn’s wife Rhea, meaning ease, is the the grand mountain mama. We go to mountain to pray and receive god’s shall’t nots. 10th house rules rules, traditions structure, discipline, status. We’ve left wild Ecclesiastes and entered the Song of Old King Solomon. The sign has lotsa old-people energy.It rules ages 63-70. The orthodoxy. Moses, too, whom god told to build a tabernacle from goat hair. Cuz goats symbol endurance. Capricorn rules the knees: prayer;  skeleton: structure; and the skin: containment. Energy of renunciation, atonement, penance, retribution.

Cap people areretiring, reserved and most self-preservational on the flip side they can be too strict, rigid w/ themselves and others. Reward/ punishment. Faith is their superpower, fear their shadow; Panic from Pan the goat god. At this point Jesus is arrested, incarcerated so begins the tragedy from Greek tragodia,Goat Song.Jesus now playsthe Scapegoat, an ancient sacrifical figure that saves us all by taking on all our sins. Do Cap people tend to be scape-goated? Uh, yea. And, as self-preservation, as we are; we can also be the most self-sacrificing. I would absolutely take the hit if I could rid us all..Well Capricorns are resigned, resolute. And resistant!

Arrest? Incarceration? Capricorn bids we ask ourselves for what are we willing to sacrifice, on faith, and for what reward. We make our N.Y.’s resolutions in Capricorn to give up X.Out with the old. Saturn is sacrificed, cut down. His emblem the sycthe, a sickle. He is Old Father Time, the grim reaper. We should do thatsong.At Winter Solstice the young Oak King whacks the old Holly King, Saturn, Santa. Solomon. Obiwan Kenobi. Oh and the real Jesus? So not a Capricorn. Nope, he’s a Pisces. They added two months to the calendar since then—there are no lambs in December.This song on theme of incarceration and resolution was written by a Capricorn born on Christmas day.

This place of Heather’s good grief it’s so gorgeous. We had a lovely breakfast of shirred eggs and such; we traded stories about complicated friendships and it was great to share my experience with someone who has experienced something similar. We went for a gorgeous three mile walk around the lake, so lovely—we had walked it before. I had so much fun just kind of futzing around and talking with Barry about Afterglow and such. Then Heather’s niece and nephew came up for a visit and they were too precocious for words, truly. I managed to slip away a bit and back into the tub which is lovely. It figures that one of my favorite paintings in the house belongs to Mike Carrol.

I will need to get some thoughts on paper today about the Aquarius experience.

In response to excess restraint of Capricorn, Aquarius is revolutionary, evolutionary, break-out ushering in New Orders. Uranus rules; named for the god of the Universe, and its power is sudden and sweeping, often out of left field, at the eleventh hour. Aquarian people can seem far out and little freaky. They are literaly quirk-y, in that they personify the kind of sudden mutation of the sign, which, if you know your Darwin (an Aquarius), becomes the mainstay for survival of the species. The 11th house rules humanity and the future where Aquarian people seem to come from. They are ahead of their time. Which can make them feel strung out on a limb. A lone voice in the universe. Like that biblical weirdo Waterbearer, wildman John the Baptist, whose losing his head foreshadows this moment in the Jesus story: Strung out, hanging between life and death and back again! And things are about to suddenly, sweepingly change. New order.

In Greek myth, the cup bearer, Hebe, pours the nectar that restores gods’ youthful immortality as John the Baptist bears baptismal waters offering everlasting life. And here in the Jesus story that deal is about to be sealed. The scene is themed on utter despair giving way to everlasting joy. Two sides of the superpower-shadow side see-saw that Aquarius people teeter totter between. It is the Fixed-Air sign which translates to a point, or a thousand points, of light. A Star. Opposite the sign of Leo ruled by the Sun, a more distant Star. A steady beacon via which to navigate. True north. Immutable Truth itself. The sign’s motto is I know.Sudden, sweeping Revelation. Salome offering reveal-ation beckoning us beyond her rainbow colored veils. And the Joy and Grace that Truth and Revelation provide, that future glimpse of Enlightenment. Manna. Heaven. Or maybe we are losing touch with reality. Aquarius rules ages 70-77. Second childhood is a renewal of sorts.

Aquarius rules the ankles, the latest breaking (pun intended?)still fragile evolutionary feature, that enables us to stand upright. Anyway here we are at the 11th house of humanity into whose arms we might fall. The ultimate trust exercise. Why hath thou forsaken me? Here a song by a once and future avant-garde Aquarian.

I already told you everything we did today basically, as I was a few days behind and kind of got screwed up on days and actually got ahead of myself. So on this day I’m still in New Hampshire and enjoying the break. It does feel a world away here and would be fun to explore the entire region this month. I have to really get myself in gear for March where I’ve scheduled a whole helluva lot of stuff to accomplish. Wow.

Okay, so we’ve arrived at Pisces, ruled by Neptune, planet of dissolution, named for the god of the sea, the planet of energetic non-material existence. And yes we have gotten to the point where someone has “died” only to show up days later sporting some spiffy stigmata. And that not only did henot die; but now neither will anyone else who believeth in him. Which is totes cute.Pisces’ motto is I believe. Belief preceding proof. Pisces rules feet and before we walk on water we best believe we can. Science ultimately proves many a belief.

Like the fact that everything really is non-material, that all is energy in varying densities. And that energy can neither be created nor destroyed.Something the ancient Zodiac seemed to know along. So none of us are really going anywhere.Moot point. Immaterial! Ha, ha.

We just pass over the RoyGBiv bridge, beyond Time and Space, thru Salome’s seven colored scarves, to Oz or Nirvana to some immaterial universe, which is right here all the time. Pisces’ opposite facing fish portray the two-way street of birth and death, in limbo or utero. Pisces is Mutable-Water, the primordial soup of energy from whence we came and to which we return.

The 12th house is that of asylum or theasylum. Haven, sanctuary, oblivion, all and nothingness. Pisces people are the most empathetic, it’s their superpower living in a world of pure energy. They’re the most likely to achieve enlightenment and yet the most challenged in doing so. They can most easily let go into that belief energy and yet the most likely to get lost in delusion.

So Jesus is a Pisces. The Jesus Fish. And so is Mary. The Pisces fish are totems of Aphrodite, called Mari, and her son Eros. Mari is Mary whose della robbia blue gown fringed in white is the sea fringedwith foam.Eros at once oldest god yet eternal babe. Father, Son. Eros is Love. Jesus is Love. Cosmic Love. Spiritual Love. That which connects us all. Close your eyes. Imagine, believe, you are pure energy, letting your notions of matter dissolve.Feel yourself, as molecules, atoms, protons, neutrons, hadrons, quarks, as pure energy, sharing the same primordial soup as the rest of us.

We had snow overnight in New Hampshire and it took some digging out. And then all our bags…we were kind of ridiculous with the amount. I’m looking forward to staying put a while to be honest. It was great to talk through all the N/B stuff last night with caring friends. It was strange to pass by without stopping but it was right. Waiting for the walking green. There will be a couple more weeks of winter, despite what that hog queen said, and as a big joke on us for not having much in that way for awhile. Playing real good for free. Faggots please. Why can’t we own that word? I was called faggot for the bulk of my young life why can’t I claim it now. Anyway. This requires a complete rewrite so here I go again. I will be focusing fully on what must be a serious roll out of exacting work between now and March 15. I will have all the information I need and I will also be able to plan some travel in the process. I am excited to get my grand schemes off the ground before the even bigger ones pour in. It’s all in due course and I want to feel very good about that. And I should. I am going to do the lent thing for sure. Going to give up sugar and flour and anything alcoholic but for the occasional glass of organic red wine because I’m not an animal. I might give up meat as well just because. We shall see. All I know is that I want to feel fabulous this spring and I’m so tired of gaining and losing the same 10 lbs. It’s really boring.

I had some very strange and apocalyptic dreams as of late. Last night I remember calling out “stop planet” as if I could do that and I looked out the window which was very prehistoric landscape the way los angeles can be (particularly at night). I can’t really say what it was about but I know I felt on edge in the dream and when I woke up. I just feel like there is too much shade going on between friends; too much sangfroid and everybody jockeying for attention that is otherwise not forthcoming. I especially find social media so pat and flat and I really am looking for a way to transcend all this nonsense. We have some irons on the fire for sure. And I’ve watched supposedly gungho people drop the ball. It’s really boring and nothing else but. It isn’t bothersome per se. But I do resent all the dinners and meetings with people that go nowhere. Anyway, ones good comes over calm sees and success does find us already in the process of exploring our good. I’ve hung around with a lot of materialists over the years and it is a double edged sword for sure. It’s going to feel good to feel good again. And that will come from the return to the daily constitutionals once this winter weather takes a powder. We are nearly there. We all have responsibility to be as happy as we can.

Sometimes on PBS or other stations they would feature kind of oldies concerts. Well now oldie concerts feature people who are that much older than I am. It’s so boring to talk about age; it’s just as bad as talking about weight. And yet it is impossible not to measure I feel sometimes. But there are magic ways to turn back the clock. You’ll see. I’ll be doing just that myself over the next couple of weeks leading to the astrological new year.

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

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

Capricorn 13° (January 3)

I made a Golden beet risotto last night for dinner that we had for leftovers for lunch . I think I told you all that mark Marin and I were born in the same hospital within hours of each other he’s born on September 27th on born in September 28th as we both lived in Jersey City and Bayonne respectively like a mile from each other. We both moved to the suburbs too talent right next to each other around the same time in the 70s in the 80s we ended up living on the same street and going to the same Boston University and eating in the same vegetarian cafeteria . And we both moved to New York and I would see him at parties that were largely made up of performers and comedians . Then when he got his TV show is living room set was I exact living room that is to say a Brown crate&barrel sofa with Nantucket Gray walls which are actually green . I started doing the afterglow festival he was on a TV show called glow not to mention the fact that his comedy resonates with me because we have all the same issues. So I went on to Instagram today and first thing I see is a posting of the meal marked made which featured Golden beets . I don’t know that I’ve ever cooked with Golden beets in my life and so it goes. It’s about 4:20 in the afternoon ironically since I’m not smoking anything and it wasn’t a terribly unproductive day I did manage to reject the introduction and hand that along and I’ll get the artwork also out of my hands. There isn’t much to cook today which is also very good we will have a chicory salad with pears and walnuts and blue cheese again leftover from the other day not the salad but the ingredients. And we have that nice and warm and toasty red onion soup to eat as well. So that will be an easy supper Meanwhile I can’t say that I’m behind but I’m not exactly driving forward either I am doing the best I can do and that’s all I can do and that’s all I will do. I’m still in a bit of a real estate spin down but I’ll just let that ride. I’m going to spend a little time getting the T shirts and books moving. This week is going to bring news I know so I have to keep my head on straight. And I’m going to let that be easy I’m gonna let the winter work its magic and over the course of the next three months some odd days I’m going to draft this entire book all in one go that’s my plan 

I do find that I get a lot of words down when I really give over to this dictating jazz and so it’s important to do parent let’s try to think of a word something along the lines of pandemis ISM which is the narcissism that stems from global pandai everybody has to have their thing everybody has to have the way in which they are presenting and this marries to where I was in the book actually so this is kind of a good segue. ’cause I was talking about Bing a good performer which means you know like not pejorative but in the sense of like being one who doesn’t choke in the performance of things but they’re kind of pros and that way which is a good thing to be for sure. This is also day one of my dry white season. I don’t want to get ahead of myself I know that much but I would enjoy I would enjoy being the most productive may I could be in the next epic. It would be smart to be pre approved for stuff so that we can jump on them when it happens and I’ll see what all that entails this week as well if I can really get the bulk of my work done in the wee hours of the morning and that will put me in good stead to handle the mental machinations of the afternoon of which there will be many I’m sure what I want to emphasize is that we are approaching all of this from a position of strength not weakness that we are we have time on our hands there’s no gatherings being scheduled we have an impeccable history matter what sort of libel is he asked people might want to put forth and when I say people I mean monsters I mean animals I mean serious creeps with no rights to do with their doing and we have justice on our side and that’s all that child remain important in truth so we will be addressing all of that and I will get everything I need to to my bookkeeper and all that jazz 

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1386-1390. 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.

Today we are going to talk about all of it…and doing so might spill over into tomorrow. I will be writing the equivalent of three Blagues a day to “catch up” by March 3 when I see John Cameron Mitchell and Stephen Trask (and Amber!) in their Boston appearance of the Origin of Love show. But what has happened to me between today, somewhere between February 15 and March 3? Good question. Well last you saw us we arrived to help out someone who was undergoing a procedure. We learned in the days after that some existing pardigms had shifted very far in one direction due in large part to one individual. That individual doesn’t read so I’m in no danger of giving anything away—I learned that lesson when I accidentally put the name Erin Markey into my Blague, once, instead of initials or some petname as I typically do (I’m assuming, Erin, that you Google yourself or how else would you have found this Blague in the first place lol! Love you. Mean it!).  Remember when you had to hit the space bar twice to signal the end of a sentence?  Well here I am both doing the best I can and also fucking up more than I ever have. I have notables in my midst and sometimes it’s a challenge not to fall into beta mode. Thing is, I might very well be a beta. I would tend to be in same-gender situations as I’m only attracted to those who are more alpha than I. Otherwise what’s the point? I think females make the best femmes, not to say that a slew of males who are so inclined don’t individually debunk that generality. I actually wouldn’t know. There are so many things now as an adult, so many “guy things” that I wish I had been taught. The irony being that my own father shunned me because I wasn’t interested in his particular macho things when I was three years old and thereafter—boxing, American football, base/soft-ball—but he was an asshole. And I can say that because: I tried my whole life with him to find a common ground and he was, despite very good qualites, a terrorist eighty-five percent of the time. The bad qualities of my father were further embodied, one-hundred and fifty per cent by his daughter.

(Actual) today I noticed someone had tagged me on social media with a portrait of The Fallen Angel by some artist from 1898 or 1868  ( I don’t have the information in front of me and I’m not in the habit of going to look for things as such). Anyway I expalined that Lucifer (light bringer) is akin, archetypally to Apollo who challenged Zeus and also got “cast down” Zeus. We have not fully gotten into any of the myths pertaining to anybody but we all know (we all know) that the messages are there and ready to be said. And that we are the queen/queans to do it. Don’t you think? So anyway, I’m here to fill in since I got derailed on Valentine’s Day. There is a certain brand of narcissism that makes even other’s challenges about them; coupled with that, there are those for whom certain challenges aren’t actually dramatic or tragic enough so they embellish, bringing would-be tragedy into the plot even though it is entirely made up. Then, on a day when would-be scenarios should be happily avoided, it’s almost as if they wanted bad news. So they invent more problems. And you get away with murder when nobody is looking. But sometimes these sick people, who also tend to be quite stupid, pick on the wrong people. And they won’t know it  until they wake up at some point some morning weeks or maybe months from now to realize, hey, where’d Quinn go? Another good question. I hope the answer is: in Paris or Venice or some such. (Actual) today is a real turning point, the details of which I can’t yet get into.

We consoled G. this morning at 5am; and it took exactly two seconds to snap her out of crying. Then we played for a few hours and S. took her to school. I stayed in to write but the dog was acting really weird. It was hiding under my feet, tail between leg, shaking, eyes imploring balls of coal blackness. The walker had taken her out earlier; by the time she came again we chatted about how weird she was acting, the dog that is. And the walker agreed but took her out anyway for a short spell. The dog was still shaking and hiding under the hallway bench where all the shoes were. I mentioned to S and G when they returned. But soon the inlaws arrived. They had had a hard day as they attended, with S., a dear friend’s funeral. But I think they were so happy that they had good news that day from the hospital—we all were. Except, seemingly for one person, who arrived home after eight in a mood, a bad one, which he took out mainly on my beleagured inlaws which was not only mean and wrong it was so ungrateful and unspiritual it took every fiber of my being not to read the riot act. But I held my tongue. Until now when I choose to vent albeit masquedly. I’ve decided that’s a word.

Woke up this morning at 4 o’clock because one has no choice when someone gets up and bangs around and uses a loud coffee grinder. This sort of behavior is nothing new but this present exhibition started hours even earlier than usual.  The whining took the form of wondering if the inlaws should be delivered an apology. Of course they should be (they never were by the way). And I got an apology to which I said: I didn’t take it personally (which was really only half true). I did say that I found it strange because, by rights, yesterday should have been a day of celebration given the news from the hospital. But, you see, as I said yesterday, good news wasn’t necessarily what this character was after. I know it’s sick to say that but what other conclusion could one draw? The dog was still acting weird. I strongly suggested she be taken to the vet. This suggestion was met with a soliloquy about how her behavior signalled that she was dying—that she was “leaving the pack” by hiding under benches and in closets and that, as the person delivering this monologue was the “alpha”, she was especially detaching from him. Okay. So all the more reason then to take her to the vet, no? No. She had been given pain killers and she was zonked out was part of the non-reason why not. He set off. S., G. and mother inlaw were going to hang out together and have lunch. The land phone rang and it was S’s cousin saying her mother, sister of mother-in-law, was in hospice (and would die just two days later). Another tragic blow in the midst of a drama that should have been all good news. Then the cell phone rang. It was guess who.

Now he’s saying that, on the urging of his ailing wife, the dog does need to go to vet after all and that she actually had an appointment made by phone from the hospital. And guess who had to take her. Not me. But S. and G. with mother inlaw joining in solidarity. That fucker. Now my eyes were coal black. But S. being the kind trooper that she is rose to the occasion and after that went to the hospital, all three, themselves. They didn’t take our car because it was out of wiper fluid and the windshield was streaked. I would go get fluid and some wine and dinner fixins. The inlaws were not going to join because my feeling is they still felt burnt and abused by he who sucks all the kind air out of the room. I made homemade chicken stock and added it to a pasta sauce with onion and pre-made pesto and it was super yummy. It was just S. and G. and me and it was really fun. I said i wanted a dessert that was chewy, crunchy, cold and creamy—that was the challenge—and so I was brought a concoction of nuts and marshmallows and kefir and some frozen fruit bits. I named it the Uncle Lynnie. Upon his return it was more of the same as last evening only in a more silent and seething form before he took G. up to bed with him which, these many years on, is getting super weird. But that’s not my business. The next morning, TCM had on some great musicals in a row that we were enjoying watching—it was something of a cinema class, with Meet Me in St. Louis, Top Hat, and Annie Get Your Gun. We only saw the last bit of the first one. The second one was thrilling for its dancing and G. loves dancing. And the last one, during which she drew and through which we talked, she found inspiring in  that her description of it was that “it was about a woman who did everything better than men which made them angry but she did what she did anyway.” I’m paraphrasing. The we got a text: Have G. call me. Apparently we were not only ratted out there for apparently ruining the child by letting her watch old great musicals on a Sunday morning while we waited for her parents return but also to the parent’s parents who, when she was taken down to visit them, made comment about television that telegraphed the fact that they had news of our supposed bad influence. That was all brother.

Happily we had dinner down at the inlaws and escaped the crazy for awhile. But only after it became clear that the world had been let known about this brief hospitalization and that it was being used as a test to see “who your real friends really are” and apparently a whole bunch of people who should have been there (for him—this is him speaking) weren’t. And, as we learned, even those of us who were there were doing everything wrong despite the fact that we were shopping and cooking and cleaning and babysitting and chauffering and dog sitting and taking said dog to the doggy doctors. Even we were the problem. No words of thanks. Only side-eye derision. And folks, when I’m done I’m done and let me tell you I am done.

Could not get up and out fast enough. It being President’s Day, were weren’t hitting much traffic. I had replaced the wiper fluid and yet, as we got past Boston, it wasn’t working, and the windshield was turning from streaky to a complete white out. I barely got us off the highway where we regrouped and I opened the hood and it seemed we were already out of fluid which meant there was a leak. We got on highway, cranking the defrost, and doing all we could but we were in a complete white out once again and I couldn’t see where I was driving but for through a tiny unstreaked spot at the top of the window. We pulled off again, some exit in Quincy, and saw a gas station mini mart. I went in to ask for some kind of help and as it turned out the mechanics attached to the building were actually working and just opening and a young middle eastern looking worker said we could pull in after he shoveled. I didn’t mention it had been snowing like made all night and we had left in an accumulation of about four or five inches. I was praying that it was a hose that was broken and not the resevoir itself. It was the hose and it was cut in two places which seems impossible because one would have to remove the entire casing in order to get at it. It might have just frozen then cracked. Either way. We went to pay and they wouldn’t let us pay. I show of human kindness from strangers after days of shade from so-called family. A little cosmic blague from the universe to reaffirm our faith in humanity. We were only going to be home for three nights during which time there would be a number of marks to hit. I for one will get much of my finances in order. And make sure I’m up to speed on that score. It is essential to know my finances before I begin to fundraise and cast the next year’s festivals and series. And I have a show to promote for Thursday sales of which are starting to pick up thankfully. Now I will resume my thoughts and feels on the signs. I’ve taken a long enough break, me thinks, on that score.

Working on some materials for the lawyers today and continuing to promote our Desiree Burch show tomorrow. Life is good and I cannot complain. I have been enjoying even the bleakness of this winter. I am happy to be staying put and to be preserving as much resource as I may, gearing up for the Spring ahead, which I intend to enter with clear vision. Speaking of which I need to make a bunch of doctor’s appointments. Not very interesting information for you but you don’t really exist. I am a Blaguer without readers and I really don’t mind the fact. I want freedom most via this medium; and it has become something of a motor for me. I don’t always have brilliant or interesting things to say but I do my best and that’s all I can do really. I’ll admit I feel rather lonely today. I am happy to have gone higher in my aspiration regarding friendships, having set the bar too low for many years (as a result of my upbringing) always ending up with subtle or outright narcissists and, ultimately, abusers who have a need to make others (all others, not just me) feel less than. And then you wake up one day and realize you’re not being served in these relationships but where does one go to foster male relationships in particular at this age. It isn’t easy. I have thousands of acquaintances meanwhile and clients whom I love like children (weird to say? but true). Still I’ll admit that I’ve lost my confidence on the subject of friends; and for someone like myself for whom it is easy to isolate, that’s not always a good thing. Although it can feel like it—blessed solitude.

Everything in the positive: There really is no other option. I must lead with optimism on all fronts with nary a whiff of selling myself short. The books especially have got to be easy and accessible for all their high-mindedness. And I really must come down. Today I shall pave the way toward doing just that. First I have to get over some certain physical discomfort. I’ve been doing nothing but typing and driving and I’m feeling a bit worse for wear in the arms and shoulders department. I’m looking so forward to putting all the pieces together. It will soon be March and that will be the last of three months of prioritizing all the scaffolding work I hate to do most in my year. But it will allow me to get things primed. Still we must listen to Chanel about not banging on walls expecting them to be doors. Come Spring we will focus on the starting of things and begin to map out other projects that seem most promising. It will be around that time, in April, when we can do a good deal of local travel. We will have some understanding of where book projects might go and we will officially be approaching.

I really was in love with the Christmas show we put on this year. Everything seemed to click, but I dare say I was still feeling my holiday oats, which originated that week, for a month at least after. And my solace has been writing. I’ve had to fling myself around hither and thither, mainly lots of Boston and back, and writing too here has served and soothed me. It has become my salvation in so many ways where it has more often been my albatross. It has still been feeling very Februarylike, pale and stretched thin, soul exposed, transparent. The unbearable lightness of being. There is something about this time of year turning the corner, the new evolutionary generation of a year. That’s so Aquarius, which we leave today for Pisces. And not ungratefully so as in Pisces I can focus on the melting, dissolution being the energy associated with it’s ruler sign of Neptune.

Here I am talking about Pisces, while I should focus my mind on Scorpio. Some more notes I need to flesho out:Desire bring obtainment. Aspiration achievement. Someone said something like that. psychic possession. Miners for meaning. hearts of gold.Their brand of spirituality embraces mystery. Comfortable with uncertainty. They keep us guessing this is the whole Persephone on her thrown bit not.

Dragons of lust, obsession, fear, shame, repressed power to be released—which is akin to the regeneration energy akin with it’s sign. Eighth house of sex death regeneration where we merge most deeply with other the other motto we have “something together” an abstract possession. Joint banking.  There is often intrigue? Is there? I think I might be ready to transition to the next sign now. ‘Tis a long time coming trust me.

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

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