Aries 15 °
So, okay, who am I…what are the selves I’ve kept cached…who have I been…where do I come from… Well, I shall tell you. Let me first say that it might be a Ligra male thing to seem “abstract” or “conceptual” to others—the Scales representing those forms in life, being the only inanimate symbol in the Zodiac—that is to say “unsubstantial”; but, all things being paradoxical, the opposite is also true: I for one have been so many selves, some by chance, some by accident, all as a necessary means of survival. I’ve inhabited so many characters in life it’s little wonder that, as an actor, I ended up playing relatively few roles.
It will take me days, weeks, months maybe to illustrate them all; but I think the doing of this might be the crux of this Cosmic Blague Mach III, as I am now in the third year of this venture (the second ending rather abruptly somewhere last June or November, can’t remember.)
The first character I played was indeed an abstract one, as if my earliest life were an allegorial play in which my character would surely have been called, quite simply, Light. This, too, befits the sign of Libra, the cardinal-air sign (translates to light) with its abstract archetypal god being Apollo, god of light and all symbolic abstractions thereof—goodness, reason, order, art, truth and prophesy, to name just several.
As Light my role was to personify goodness. And being strawberry blond with pale brown-yellow or golden eyes, I looked the part. I remember pre-language, knowing I was puregoodness—my favorite color was white like the apparel of angels, cherubs or classic infant immortals. I could have lived on all white food and often did: vanilla ice cream, shakes, malts, Maypo, white chocolate Easter bunnies, Jiffy Pop…Vichyssoise, Fettucine Alfredo…I was sent not to combat but to counteract and -balance the dark bitter chocolate forces of vice embodied most readily by my father (and his whole Italian family with their low thinking and their plastic slip covers, swarthy olive complexions, petty thievery, heavy thighs, excess body hair, bookie joints, poker chips, pungent antipasti, tripe and drama, deceit and constant deaths) and my wicked sister who blammed me for ruining our wall-to-wall carpet by letting the cap off a black magic marker, which seaped into a circular spread in all directions like her jealousy and her deception and her cruelty and her lies, knowing full well that I, pre language, didn’t yet have the words with which to defend or advocate for myself, and sickly relishing the fact that I, Light, would be abusefully punished, hit, an earth-struck angel in a pit of corporal punishment.
Light thus escaped out of his body, casting himself elsewhere, slipping out of this cruel worled ruled by sister darkness, through duvet covers and pillow cases and, yes, through wardrobes and sometimes walls, into timeless prismatic worlds of color for whole eternities, long enough, surely, to find respite and reappear with a plan to out-reason and out-fox and out-shine with whole inherent gleam, glamour, goodness, as a force thereof, biding terrestrial time until Light obtained the oracular power that was his birthright. Light’s terrible weaakness was his want to be loved by his tormentors, one of whom inhabited the twin bed on the other side of the room from his crib, the other pushed together with mother’s own twin bed in the next room. She, golden haired with alternately blue and green eyes, and fair, near blue with translucence, might have been Light’s only hope but she isn’t strong. She isn’t Light but Water, dissolution. She’ll stay, an almost willing captive, her phosphoresence but dim in the prevailing darkness so very like a jellyfish, and sometime medusa.
I had to wait, keep myself under a bushel, play dead, not shine yet…
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