Scorpio 1° (October 23)
Its all good. My sleep is weird in that I wake up numerous times a night but unlike how it’s been in the past, I have no problem falling right back to sleep, the quality of which is dense with dreams, all with the same labyrinthian theme of trying to gather up all my things from various places in time to make some train or other departure. Last night I was with Nina McK and I was hiding a plastic water like bottle but it was Smirnoff’s so I was spiking my chemistry between grape and other fruity soda drinks. I went off into the station to find a men’s room and I had sense of being followed by some kind of foreign secret service; when I came out of the restroom I must have headed in the wrong direction because suddenly I was outside behind the train station, all very black, sooty and Dickensian, and I couldn’t find my way back into the station where I left all my belongings in the sort of station bar-resto where I was increasingly aware my party would have already packed up for said departure. And then I wake myself up instead of dealing with that stress. But this is just one version of roughly hundereds I’ve had of this nature the past week.
I’m kind of happy with the older Blagues below because they seem to have no fucks to give and I get that. I am trying to imagine going through the sixth year (which this is), a distillation of the first five years, and what to do with that in terms of the seventh year of this Blague. I should have just the best of the best to read through and I suppose I will then cut and paste them into different word documents like “Live (Stand-up) Show” or “Novel” or “Poems” that sort of thing. Right now I’m listening to the Rolling Stones which is underwhelming. I listened to Bowie’s 1. Outside earlier and it was very fitting and very Halloweeny. I made a joke about something. I have to be very careful not to blow this great time. I must be abstemious and keep on going in the same direction. I know that if I can make the switch and do first things first and then have all afternoon to myself it would be quite creative.
The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of Blagues, nos. 1031-1035. 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.
Ran to the computer to start this new Blague and the idea left me as I was confronted by something social media still on my screen. Proof that ideas do indeed go right out of ones head. Will it return we shall see. To be honest I couldn’t tell you if it does (or had) depending on what time zone I’m in. Any-wig, I’ve got to be me. Who that is I’m not quite sure. I couldn’t compete with the jocks in high school and now they’ve been replaced in my life with a large part of the gay male population. Either way I feel potentially bullied.
Today we decided at the very last to go out and grab a pizza at this place everyone goes to but we had never tried, despite living around here for the last twenty years. And it was just okay. It could have been delicious but the crust was too burned. And yet, get this, there brand and signage says things like: We cook our crusts well done and so forth. They seem to fancy themselves New Haven style. I really don’t know enough of what that means to criticize them or not. My accomplishments are such that I am still lagging behind and chasing clocks; but on this day I had to stop the madness and relax. And so we did. These past several weeks being the most paradoxical of my life.
I’ve had my debauches and my brushes with divinity, and I dare say they have oft come wrapped together. I am, as I say, acutely aware of the workings of my body while those of my soul go unpronounced. I like when words find me. Beyond what is labelled “deep work” it is simply shutting oneself away, an element of that work, that is the only key, really. The rest is affectation. Sacred space. There is nothing like it for productivity. There are writer billionaires for whom waking up and shuffling into such a sacred space is easy, as every other manner of life is taken care of. It must be difficult if not lonely. The rest of us must create it. Luxury may be living within your means, but it doesn’t mean not prioritizing having ones house cleaned and meals prepared. That said I enjoy cleaning my house, it clears my mind. And really, whose food would I rather eat than my own, besides Stella’s easy or Pascale’s elaborate fare.
All is and should be poetry. That’s the two-way channel, the one I prescribe clients open, while, for many reasons, I must practice what I preach. If not for the preaching, I think that my system sensitivity needs to be considered and better cared for. And anyway it’s time; so what to do but keep that foremost in my frontal lobe. Okay, all is poetry and “all is copy” as said Nora Ephron. I’m awake sometimes at 4:30 attesting to the fact.
Creatively on the workfront today I am considering the enitrety of my arts and entertainment enterprise, which is run non-profit, and what it might achieve. We have accomplished x, y, z and we now seek to become more self-activated, through partnerships, in proliferating works created at festival in Provincetown, through grants from the New England Foundation for the Arts and the Massachusetts Cultural Council, one of which is a touring grant whereby we will produce work in combined academic, museum and theatrical venues; and one shall fund the more portable Glow, which debuted at the American Repertory Theater, in Cambridge, in summer 2017; and is “a moveable festival” we hope to bring to venues around New England.
I feel this is the only part of the country I could live. I want to say I could live in California, somewhere too, but, before long, I get strung out, stretched too thin, there. Though meanwhile it is bliss. I’d like to experience Northern California. Only thing is I don’t like driving over bridges. I think it’s a vertigo thing. I used not to be able to stand up in balconies as a kid. I get all turned upside down. Seriously, my gyroscope goes completely off and I can’t feel steady; so until I do I will either not visit places, find away around, or hire a chauffeur. See…I was talking in the previous Blague about how, as a writer, a cook and a cleaner would come in handy (but then again no—not for me—as cleaning and cooking are therapy for me that perfectly counter sitting at a computer. But if I lived alone and all that I would first hire a live in chauffeur, because they can do other things too.
I’m feeling highly sensual that is for certain. I’m ready to begin putting the pieces together on this life collage. I really am interested in starting and staying small with the design projects. And be a bit more sweeping when it comes to the non-profit world. More the architect. Must keep it all very simple. Budget-wise as well.
So we just sit here and wait. I mean, what the hell, really: I haven’t had too much a dry spell. I’ve been representin’. I give myself a solid B this year for the Blague. Not my best and nearly half a year needing to be caught up on, but here we are closing in, and I’m opague. The Pisces man is always in some way a mystic. He is like Poseidon the essence of the primordial soup, where the mystical soul level foams and bubbles before taking form. Pisces is the mutable-Earth sign. When one imagines Posiedon (Roman: Neptune, the namesake of Pisces planetary ruler) arising furiously—he had a temper, tempests raging within him—from the sea, we see his face and form sketched in foam.
…and so I’m writing poetically on the signs, and spontaneously as that; isn’t that marvelous. I love the word marvelous though I cannot bring myself to marvy. Marvy, baby. It was marvelous when, just moments ago, I found paper in a book for which I was searching. This is always a good feeling and omen. Just when you start thinking of the touchstone of a thoughtform you knew you put somewhere—but where? And resign yourself to knowing it will show up in time. And that same day you happen upon it. It’s fun.
The zodiacal scholar, metaphysician, astrologist adviser, sometime psychic all around vibey dude.
William Leone began his journalistic career in Paris in 1986 working as an editorial assistant at Passion magazine; in 1987 he joined Avenue magazine as an assitant editor, reporting for their tabloid On The Avenue.
The real story is that I was an intern at Passion for exactly one day before, because they heard me speaking French on the phone, making me office manager. I had just moved around the circular corner from their rue Pont Neuf offices to a chambre de bonne, on rue des Halles. I cannot tell you how happy I was at that particular juncture in my life; and that is why I am spending the remainder of my days, collage like into place.
Today is the first full day of Pisces. I love entering the sign of Pisces, ruled by Neptune, which is the energy of dissolution. Pisces is the primordial soup from whence everything comes and to which it must return. It is during this time of year when, as a child, walking to school, there would be those foggy, misty mornings where the road was covered in Earth Worms, wriggling in the damp and puddles. Pisces is mutable water and it is symbolized by mist, vapor, sea foam and the like. Mist.
I want to go in two directions. How Pisces with its opposite-facing fish; I want to go further into the stormy, highly-tuned poirposed Poseidon power of the Pisces and I wish to continue speaking to the need to dissolve (the energy of Neptune is dissolution) into what might be combined, though opposite stemming destiny and truest desire.
I had moved to Paris in 1985 and I was under some kind of notion that I would be a cabaret singer, even though, as mentioned I didn’t sing until I did so for the creators of Hair. Another story I may or may not get to. But it is interesting and it is pure and it does speak to the fact that always thought of myself as a separate kind of being; many of us did that’s the point; though for me it wasn’t hinged on sexuality or gender but being beyond it, being some kind of angel of light, a part I could play all the way through my twenties and, I would say, up until around my thirty-third year. I will have to piece it all together.
Actually I sang once more at the Bell Caffe I just remembered. A boy called Ty—I will have to ask Chris Tanner what his last name was—he used to be a club kid in a scout’s outfit, anyway he was also very musical, and I had him arrange “Staying Alive” for me in 1992 I think it was, perhaps 1993. And I performed it at the Bell Caffe. I had the same kind of response I had each few time I had done something like this in the past. Before this it was probably in 1979 at a high school party when, drunk and stoned, I jumped on stage to sing Sweet Home Alabama. I was pretty well booed of the stage, mainly by the band (Paul Everett, a friend of Cindy Verms was in it…he would have been ten years my senior and had no place at a high school party). Anyway there was the one girl who that next Monday in school cornered me to tell me how amazing I was. That was the opposite opinion of everyone else at the party. I’ve always appealed to the 1%. Well that was the reaction I had after singing at the Bell. People seemed to hate me but for one woman, who was the same “type” as my high school fan, who came up to me to praise me in a similar fashion. This sort of thing would keep happening. It still happens.
This is a typical morning: It’s not even eight o’clock and I’ve already had a full breakfast, watched an episode of Parts Unknown, cut all the veggies, sauteed them and roasted a trio of peppers for soup, did all the dishes, answered all emails, and have been writing for the past forty minutes. After a bit of real estate porn of course. I know that some form of ideal house will be waiting for us the moment we have the cash moolah. No more mortgages in my life. I want to slap some green stuff down. In the meantime, I’m considering the ways I’m not, and need to get, ready.
It occured to me that I haven’t met a friend for coffee now in quite awhile. And I haven’t met Joe in now what is five years. Is that really possible. I really need to consider the ways I’ve been most productive in the meantime in order to perish the anxiety of that thought. I’m sure of done a lot. I now need to do more for me. I keep going back to the Ace of Cups (or should do) to meditate on the dynamic of what it is to flow as such, or to be flow, rather. Ah the Cancer man, Cancer woman dichotomy in a nutshell.
I am in a place of appreciation in the form of not taking anything for granting or undervaluing or underestimating. Now is a time for bold statements. For instance: I don’t think anyone but Starsky + Cox has written more intelligently and frankly on not just the subject of astrology but also the larger arena into which the discipline falls—call it esotericism or metaphysics or, even, the occult, which truly only means that which is hidden. Why does the sign of Scorpio rule the occult? You see: it is ruled by Pluto, named for the god who rocked the original cloak of invisibility.
This puts me in the mind that much of where I need to mine for my next book is in hidden places inside Sextrology, a quasi intellectual treatise wrapped in sex-sells packaging; especially in the house attributes and keywords sidebar sections. Much musing for the new book is therein.
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.