Aries 13° (April 3)


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.

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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