Scorpio 2° (October 24)
I crashed so early last night on the couch I was so exhausted and I didn’t really lose any sleep in the process of making it to bed. It’s far less stressful now on the home front with lawyers in place for protection, still I did send a long a little note of inquiry about having a conversation about the awful accident due to negligence that occurred. I did a whole bunch of tidying and otherwise continued to get my brain around a few things. I started separating the herbs in the garden into a few categories and am going to try and bring them inside in the coming week or so. There are many tricky bits to living in this present environment, but I think if it is all faced head on there will be very little to fear. It really is just a matter of embracing new cycles of life, whichh is the most appealing thing. And buying ourselves freedom and stopping giving away all our resources to someone else. I’m struggling to put words into works today for some reason. My e key is still sticking which is part of the annoyance eeeeeeee so frustrating I think it’s going great then I realize I have typed a bunch of words with no eeees in them. Anyway, I am keeping my head above water (making a wave when I can). I do feel awfully alone, I must say. I have not cultivated the sort of friendships that sustain me I realize. And I just feel that we are all so disposable to each other now. It saddens me. But what you going to do about it. It’s the thing about being someone that nobody sees as belonging to any kind of community. Last spring after it was clear Biden had the nomination I made a comment about how I hoped the Bernie folks in particular would get on board just like other Dems who wanted Warren or Buttigieg or whomever didn’t get the nomination. I woke up the next day to a vile hateful hurtful message from someone who, ok, wasn’t a close friend, but with whom I was quite friendly and with whom I have mutual good friend. They didn’t care how they attacked me. Recently I wrote to this person to say I was wrong for just letting that go and that I was kicking them off my social media. This seems to have caused yet another piling on of cance culture. I don’t know why it is that others can get away with saying awful shit but when I stand up for myself I get universally ostracized. I’ve noticed that my mutual friend aformentioned has been m.i.a. as well. I can’t look at FB anymore. I think I will take a three month hiatus and see what happens. I have so much to do and so many spells to cast I really can’t afford the distractions any more.
The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of Blagues, nos. 1036-1040. 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.
It’s nine am and I’ve already had breakfast, and prepped lunch and dinner. I pulled the two of swords, tentatively. Ever notice when you’re kind of hesitant you don’t totally align with the card you flip; however you must accept it to be part of your experience. At least when you do when you’re me which means psychic, witchy or crazy or all of the above. I like the two of swords though in that it favors the psychic mind. The character is blindfolded to increase second sight; the moon and rippling water portray the influence and power of subtle vibrations. We are all of two minds, the tricky rationalizing one and the one that is powered, from the inside out, by our emotions, to which our mind should be a messenger. That is one of the central tenets of Starsky + Cox’s own brand of metaphysics I dare say.
Gates is pleading guilty which is so great and it won’t be long now. The grand ironi is: it’s all so obvious and predictable. there really is no dramatic tension searching for evidence or anthing of that nature. it’s probably the easeiest case Mueller has ever had. Imagine that. Just some big, dumb unfolding of the facts involving the most doltish looking characters ever. I mean that shot that clip they keep showing on television of Manforte walking and pushing camera’s out of his way; he is so creepy and so familiar a character, the perpetually nervous bully. And a dolt. There was a new shot of him last night getting into a car to take him back to home/arrest and he hits his head when he gets into the car. It’s just unbelievably doltish. And Trump is exactly the same only blond or whatever that is. It’s been pale copper lately. Remember when it was white and before that piss yellow? Dolt. With that melting Mussolini of a mug on him. Everything about him is downturned. But honestly you could make the same doll and dye one’s hair blond and one’s hair brown and you could market them as Trump and Manafort dolls without doing much else. Maybe give them different color ties.
I cannot wait to watch it all come tumbling down and tumble down it will. We just have to keep him away from the button, that’s the only major caveat I see. But, I think, if proceedings are brought against him there will be people in place to protect us from the get go. I think that he is so universally disliked, even by his appointees, that they will side with the American people. Those in congress who have sided with him this whole time are going to get their come uppance, for sure.
Anyway for some reason I can’t come up with a tagline—and I want one—for this Cosmic Blague. You may not all know that blague means joke in French. (I can’t even type the word France without going off on another tangent about how much I can’t wait to get there. And I want to hit home the idea that the Universe is Funny or It’s a Funny Universe or that Jokes Told By A Funny Universe or maybe The Jokes of a Stand-Up Universe. The Universe Does Stand-Up. Jokes From a Comic Universe. It’s All A Big Joke. From a Funny Universe. Anyway I’m working on it.
It is all about writing stories and then stringing them together. I am definitely a storyteller but I haven’t shared much of my personal life with others except for very few intimates in my life, those I can probably count on one hand. I have a lot of friends but I don’t share the way others do. And I’ve never really shared much on a stage. Perhaps a story or two from my real life, so called. If anything, through the character of Quinn Cox, which used to be far more pretend than he is now since there is now no difference between the two me’s like there was at the start when I thought Quinn Cox would be a mask, a smoke-screen, through which I could engage with the public but the persona instead seeped into me and even what used to be the pretend things about Quinn Cox are now the real things about myself. It is strange.
Okay so here is the story of auditioning for a touring company of Hair. I lived in Hoboken in the late 1980s before moving to the West Village in the early 90s. While in Hoboken I worked at a restaurant called Lady Janes some nights and the guys who wrote Hair, Rado and Ragni used to come in for steak. I heard they were planning a tour so I rehearsed a song, Donna, from the score, but who knows what that sounded like. I had listened to the record over and over and over when I was in seventh grade—it was part of my sexual awakening as well as my show-tune obsession—but you know how you think the words are one thing only to find out later they weren’t…..?
Well of course I rehearsed with the correct words but when I got into the room something happened. I was already not very good and everyone else there was super legit. I remember this one African American guy who went before me who had like the voice you know the voice. Anyway I was so nervous that I reverted back to my seventh grade understanding of the words. They visbily winced, the auditioners, who included the show writers. I can’t stress that enough. Anyway there is a high note that is hit in full voice by Ragni on the original Broadway recording which was right in that spot where my voice turns to falsetto. It’s a high note at the top of a crescendo and it is held a really long time. I hit it. I could feel the architecture of my face struggling under the strain, like my cheek bones would conceivably crack from the force. And I hit it full voice much to the visible approval of the team. Rado even made a triumph fist pump upward and shouted something like, “that’s it!” or “there you’ve got it!” and I felt so good and that maybe I might even get called back. I didn’t, which was just as well. By the time I had left the building, auditioners know the kind, in the West 40s, I had completely lost my voice. I couldn’t make a sound. I had blown it out so completely. It didn’t full come back for another two weeks.
Do you remember whispering “I’ll never forget you” into my ear before flying out of a rehearsal suite, an entire floor of the Coopers Lybrund building, and my life in 1992, I wonder. You came into audition for Nina in the Seagull, a part that, you had no idea, had already been promised (shhh) to Laura Linney who didn’t have to audition at all. I was the reader, playing Constantin, for all the young actresses who came in. I didn’t read with all of them but I remember that Marisa Tomei and Cynthia Nixon and a slew of others auditioned. But I don’t remember much of anything from those few days except your audition, which I don’t quite recall but for different reasons that, if your reaction was true at the time, you will still remember and understand.
You came in and you were wearing something like a Betsy Johnson floral print dress, in rayon, that buttoned down the front. It might have had sort of a rounded collar. And you had on kind of big sneakers or running shoes. You were far more a tomboy than I would have imagined and you had cropped your hair short in a sort of 1930s retro-depression-era bob that was popular at the time. You could have worked at the Grange Hall in the West Village. Anyway, if you remember as you vowed to do, you will know what happened next despite the fact is was one big half-hour striking of lightning and then the aftermath.
For brevity, now—because I will be elaborating later—this is what happened. You bounced into the room and sat down facing me and Tony Randall and the play’s director Marshall Mason and Marshall Mason’s manservant major domo, Rand. There was some comment about how you seemed frank or forthright or something, and you said you came from a family of boys and that you had balls basically. You were radiating light—a truly beautiful being. Then suddenly—let’s read, came the hand clap, and it was explained to you that I was Bill or Liam or William or who remembers now what they called me then (a tangential story I’ll put in tomorrow’s), were to read with you, on our feet, and we were to do the final scene between the characters, the real killer, at the end. And then, if you do remember, you tell me what happened.
We were off and we were absorbed into the characters and each other and some glorious alchemy and beatificence. I know we scarcely looked at the scripts which seemed to fall out of our hands as we spun, clung, flung and flew around each other as if we were on orbital tracks so precise and safe, and the Chekhov words picked up true emotion as they poured out of our beings at one another. And you know that this scene ends with Nina embracing Constantin before flying out of his life forever; and so you flew from the room, wailing, leaving Tony, Marshall, Rand and me stunned, speechless; whereupon they collective leered at me with the silent words: Go after her. And I flew from the room, all of this happening in an instant, to find you at the end of the hallway with I supposed your handler. And you were weeping uncontrollably and through it I caught your eye, and you came running toward me, in that print dress and plump white sneakers, and you threw your arms around me and you whispered in my ear: I will never forget you. And then you flew again down the hall and out of my life. And then something overwhelmed me.
My body went into some kind of shock or seizure, my body morphing, as it once had (yet another story pin in that), in an Altered States fashion, and I was writhing and stumbling and moaning but not crying because, one realizes later, that the way in which my emotion that had been inspired and elicited was so intense and total and so seismically carthartic that it was getting stuck in my instrument you might say and i went down the hall and I was in complete emotional and phyiscal indeed muscular visceral agony that was surely unprecedented and would not end well or easily when suddenly I was jumped from behind and effeciently thrown onto my stomach to the floor and I felt the full weight of Rand’s body as he crouched on me and sought to roll, as with an invisible rolling pin, this invisible thing which had bubbled up so big as to now be trapped in my emotional, energetic guts. Apparently he had done this before. So I guess it wasn’t that extraordinary, this was a thing that happened to people, to readers, to actors when the reality of the moment that is spiritually bound inside a play invites the beings speaking the words and like high priests and priestesses they can explode all at once. Rand called it “breakthrough.”
I could and probably will go on.
I think I shall simply whistle in the graveyard once again and cut and post some sill thing I’ve written elsewhere to fill a space, a void but then, yes, something stirs and I’ve already cut and pasted so what now? I’ll tell you what I’ll tell you what. You will type your way through this measure and you will take your non-metaphorical lumps by way of certain and swift madness, the only way to have it so, and so it goes.
There is that same “project grant” from MCC the timing of which has changed up a bit such that it is for the 13th month period of June 2018 through July 1 2019. I want to spin the Glow fest we did at Oberon into “moveable fest” concept and do it a different place any given year. Or maybe not. We would do the next/first one in Boston anyway (since we technically did Cambridge last time) and can play it by ear.
But it makes me realize: we need an ongoing mechanism IF so and so likes doing the fundraising kind of work, which most people don’t. It would be such an asset to have someone to liaise both with the spaces we are going to be soliciting—including museums and universities—for your piece, but with potential local banks and other business entities that might give shekels to our efforts which will (fingers crossed) already be bearing the NEFA label, helping target the philanthropic set with me!
So I’ll be meeting columnist/writer for the Globe next Monday and also conducting first official meeting.
That happened. And I say so in red.
But I bet that, by the time I cut and paste this into the Blague it won’t be red and you’ll have no idea what I’m talking about. It wont be read and it won’t be red.
Well I dare say, if this is going to happen, whereby I have to write the next nine blogs in forty minutes that gives me about four minutes per. So I’m just going to keep on going and try to instantaeously link thoughts i most wish to express with this experience. Ready steady go. What do I think about Spirituality. Or what is my idea of it. Well I can say that my first sense of spirityality would have been had in two ways; only at the time I wouldn’t have realized this. The obvious form of spirituality is me going to church. Now, and I mean this most sincerely when i say. I have always romanticized my early Catholicism because I associated it with my sister going to the shcool attached to the church through fourth grade she only wnet to public shool for firth grade when i went for kindergarten.
That summer we had a waterballoon fight and Robert Walker tripped my sister who had the last standing waterballoon and she fell, went face down onto the pavement, biting into her lip which needed stitches and was hugely swelled and crusty for quite awhile. I imagine my sister already being trepidatious going to a new school, already the outsider, set up for self destruction.
But I was talking about my brand of Spirituality. Oh I dunno. I think where I was going was the fact that we probably, my sister and I, walked to church together a few times and I went to Sunday school; presumably, my parents went to church either before I can remember or never but likely kept up some kind of pretense. I do recall being in our church in Jersey City, to which we could walk, me in some kind of Patrick Dennis spacesuit, my crazy Irish small redhaired Auntie Mame, how much I loved my mother. So much.
But look I have to write a whole bunch of these so I’m going to move on now….
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.