Virgo 9° (August 31)


Saturday. Mental Health day. I am going to watch a bunch of episodes of television I missed and then a few movies and that’s going to be my day. I’m having a hard time turning the corner but I just have to do it. As explained several days ago I got derailed from writing this for about eight days and now I’m playing catch up and actually writing bits of this show I suddenly have to do since a thankless creature canceled their show. I just rubbed Ben Gay into my eyes. I am procrastinating but I should remind myself that I don’t have to be doint any of this it really is a choice. The way I see it is there are 3-4 sections remaing.

The first section consists of coming out of this Angie thing and talking about how I can’t get beyond the 11 year old and why can’t I. Maybe I did open a can of worms. The magic the despair. At 13 I looked disgusting seriously disgusting. When Mickey introduced me to Andrew Stevens and Rex Smith’s love child Paulie this is what I looked like. I became a stoner. I astral projected listening to Pink Floyd under my Koss headphones. I almost lost my virginity to the older girl next door but my mother came home. I don’t know if any of this works I think I’ll try a different tack.

You know I know I’ve been sort of going back and forth, chronologically a bit here. I white-witch excited to the suburbs when I was eight in large part due to what, or rather whom, my father called the Mullingyams, which is an Italian dialect version of the word Mellanzane which means eggplant, his charming word for black people. In Jersey City I was often styled as an albino junior member of the Jackson Five, for instance, one outfit I had was a wet-look alligator vinyl aviator suit, bell bottoms and bomber jacket with matching Tito type hat that came with a faux silk white shirt with attached scarf, which I wore, of course, with platform shoes. This is how I dressed for school. Culture shock moving to Wyckoff where everyone, boys and girls, were in Levi 501 jeans or cords, Adidas or Puma sneakers, and Lacoste, or sorry Izod or striped long-sleeved rugby shirt, depending on the season. It took me one trip to the Gap to blend in but years to assimilate internally. In large part because I was only ever in town for the school year–we always rented and ultimately owned a summer house at the Jersey shore—so I never got to bond with kids from my town in summer the way others did. It seemed the return to school each year was like one giant inside joke I was never let in on. Also a few times during my upbringing I missed the first two weeks of school due to some mystery illness which I now realize was some form of Munchausen by Proxy because, as sick as I was, my mother always managed to take me shopping and to lunch and to see films that I was too young to see like Sweet Charity or Cabaret or Ryan’s Daughter or The Other Side of Midnight.

 And I know I did get as far as age thirteen in this story telling, but oh man—you know I had a feeling this was happening when I was writing this—but I didn’t realize to what extent I mean I seem to get stuck in the summer of my eleventh year. I have so much here (holds up book with pages and pages) and I mean, on and on and on. Why would I write so much. Why do I get stuck at this point.Yes that was the summer I was quote unquote molested—but there has to be more to it than that doesn’t it. I mean my first one-man show can’t get stalled at this one juncture in my life, do you think? I don’t know maybe I’m meant to question it. Maybe its a fourth trope of the solo play. Appealing to the audience. Solicity their participation at least in so far as asking them to draw their own conclusions. I know is that I refuse to get stuck here for pages and pages So I’m going to distill it for you and try to move on.

First of all I actuall hate that word, molested, as it relates to me anyway, I prefer the term, initiated. It feels less victimy, more empowering perhaps, more Greek, somehow which is fitting because in the previous school year, sixth grade we studied Greek mythology and I became immediately obsessed and I would remain so for the rest of my life. Also at the Jersey Shore in summer I had no friends but for the kids of the friends of my parents, most of whom I called Aunt and Uncle, who would stay, for a weekend or longer, in rotation. My father only visited us on weekends, my bad seed sister never spoke to me or acknowledged my existence, and my mother read giant Maeve Clincy novels under an umbrella in her beach chair in the day and drank increasingly more with girlfriends from Jersey City who also stayed “down the shore” or alone watching the black and white TV in her bedroom, door half closed, the hallway a play of light and shadow with each scene change of An American Family or Upstairs Downstairs or Marcus Welby or The Movie of the Week. 

I was always alone, even when I wasn’t. Besides being vulnerable to any such initiations I was also free to explore my solo interests unseen. I could walk to the library and back, carrying stacks of books on mythology and ny new side-hustle obsession, witch craft. I somehow blended the two. I specifically remember finding old curtains in the attic which I hand stiched into robes, special vestments if you will, that I would wear when I would invoke the gods, making my own original incantations, mainly to Dionysus. I don’t know if I started doing this before or after being pinned down for a week by my initiator, Kenny Doyle, who ended up killing himself in his late twenties early thirties, but I do have the sense that my foray into wizardry for juniors was rapidly accelerated after the fact. I wasn’t really aware what was going on with me because I was just in it. Only a couple of years ago did I come across my sixth grad picture from the year before that summer and my seventh grade picture and, putting them side by side I felt really bad for this kid who, though always on the fringes went from being very forthright and funny, extroverted and the proverbial class clown to completely broke,n withdrawn, sad and now purposefully isolated not wanting to be seen. The beginning of seventh grade was one of those years I didn’t show up for two weeks. But here I am still talking about it. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? That thing they say about being broken. Well it’s definitely true because it was at this very low point that stranger things began to happen.

 At the time I didn’t know that religion and theater shared the same route.

Actually it’s fine as I say I spent a long time im the summer of my eleventh year and what happens between that time and by the time I’m well into college, well, (holds up script) I’ve got that drafted too, for the most part, but, really, I really think I can distill the next nearly ten years. And after that I have another TROPE already prepared so I’m at least goint to leave this show by the time I’m forty. We may need to rethink the autobiographical set up actually.



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


Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go!
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