Aries 16° (April 5)
Okay I have been home now for just a little over two weeks. I cannot believe it has only been that long, because not only has the world completely changed, but also I feel as if I’ve accomplished so much in the process. This is so much worse than I imagined it would be. It isn’t great to be an optimist during times like these. At least it is Spring and we are looking at a warm six months ahead not a freezing one. If we manage not to get ill this Spring and Summer, there is no guarantee of not getting it in the Autumn. Are things ever going to be the same again one wonders. The very idea of going to Northern Italy frightens me. I need to call the doctor and get the film of my MRI, not that I’m going to start any kind of physical therapy up again now anyway. But we will get to understanding this whole arbitration scenario in any case. These are just top of mind things I’m dealing with. They can totally wait. I just wasted hours doing nothing but looking at real estate. I never know where I want to live. Nothing ever feels like the exact right thing I don’t know why. Why am I failing miserably today already. I need to forge on. Okay it is now hours later and I did half of what I had hoped to do but I’m not too, too concerned about it because it is still a lot and this coming week will provide opportunities for sneaking in here and there. Nothing other than this crap happened in my world today. I have to diversify and get my mojo working. My work is so sedentary by nature. But as the months tick by I do have the opportunity to do a good deal of the work at hand, sitting in a chair, in the Sun. Make no mistake. It would be quite beneficial, actually, for me to do so. Otherwise I need to go for walks in any case. I am going to have a dry couple of months I think just to support the notion that I can. Meanwhile I’m tearing through my wine cave.
I am completely floored by the fact some of my closest friends are making jokes about this pandemic as they are decamped to their privileged second homes, not social distancing at all it seems. I truly don’t understand it. I believe that I may be losing these friends (out of choice) before this thing is over. I cannot for the life of me understand what is going on. Anyway, I’m going to b-r-e-a-t-h-e. S. did a session with Pema Chodron today which sounded amazing actually. I have to talk myself through the coming days. When I wake tomorrow at five as is my custom I am immediately focusing on the bit of the project work I didn’t finish today. And then we are going to Provincetown with masks and gloves; and then I will talk to my client about her branding project. When that is done we will have lunch and then I will do my yoga and maybe go for a walk. We have the tide chart posted. I have to take a line with the farmer and get him to fix things here on the land. You don’t need to know what that means, like not at all. I wonder if people still go to AA meetings in this current climate—I’m guessing they are all by Zoom.
The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of Blagues, nos. 81-85. I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:
Gemini and the cherries are barely ripening on the trees outside and yet the usually elusive Cedar Wax Wing is out in abundance, unabashedly eating the fruit, before it’s truly ripe, leaving just pits on the vine. Pits hanging from tree twigs—it’s pretty comical. Have you ever seen a Cedar Wax Wing? I hadn’t for years. It was the one bird I wanted most to see but it eluded me. Now they are everywhere. At least until the fruit is gone. The males squeal as if the fan in your window is squeaking. He has a brighter yellow belly and a sort of a tuft that he thrusts from his head and bolts of red hidden beneath his wings; but even he, the male of the species, is sleek and tawny and under the radar.
I awoke to Rick Steves this morning on PBS. Don’t get me started. You know his company is called Back Door Productions, right? Enough said. I love the way his “guides” are always some guileless young guy with a peach-fuzz moustache. Whatever. Point being: Rick and Steve are already the gayest names in the Universe. But to put them together? Where am I going with this. Oh yes: The episode to which I awoke was an oldie. He was in Northern England and he brought his (then?) wife and kids. They went to Blackpool where there was a ballroom with elderly people busting choreographed moves that would make your head spin. I love places like Blackpool. Asbury Park and Belmar, New Jersey, of my youth, were like that once, and they weren’t copies. They were built, architectually, around the same time. And their look is similar to Blackpool. There were “pavillions” on the boardwalk where old couples used to dance. Okay fine I’ll deal with today’s oracle:
We are seeing common wo/man enjoying the bounty of civilization. Remember the middle class? I’m old enough to have grown up in it. I look at the young people around me and they closely resemble the Europeans my age, at the time, I’d encounter traveling around, back during the Reagan era; when, for instance, it was nine francs to the dollar. I don’t like the euro. I miss francs and lire. I miss pre-globalization. I’m so, so glad I lived it. My youth strikes me as so post-war now. I’m glad, too, that I lived in New York in the late 80s and 90s. I’m happy to have sat front row at fashion shows before fashion was “a thing” and could take in the beauty of Linda, Naomi, Helena, Tatjana, Cindy, Kristy, Claudia (and, okay, Stephanie) and later Kate, all at once—all at once. Breath-taking. I would plop myself down front row and wait for someone to move me. They never did. I actually belonged there, probably more than most. But I did get the fish eye from Anna on more than one occasion. I suppose I took a Vogue seat. Oh well, too bad.
The middle class. Remember us? Now we have to be/pretend to be upper or lower. I’m bored. I’m bored with seeing my East Village New York friends style themselves like Upper Eastsiders from the late 70s. Really? You’re working a Nan Kempner look? How did we get here? Just as I’m tired of people grasping at some rent-stabilized life raft that no longer exists. You know what: it’s over. Get a livelihood. I sound horrible. I am horrible. I am sometimes horrible. You better know that about me. I despise artists, especially, who are in love with poverty and lament, lament, lament a changing landscape. Hello? That’s life. Change is the only constant—remember? Put that in your performance art piece. Psychosis is not performance art, by the way. Just like eighty year olds in Blackpool still trying to do some version of the Lindy Hop every weekend is a form of OCD. For real. We need to move on. I’m sorry the East Village is too expensive. Move. And maybe not to Brooklyn which is just as expensive. Move to Camden, New Jersey; or Blackpool or Asbury Park or, well not Tivoli. But move places. That’s what the American middle class did. They left the city and moved to new places, outside. They created new environments. They didn’t sit around bemoaning the fact that some dive bar or noodle joint or some barely great (to begin with) pirogi emporium suddenly lost its lease. They weren’t sinisterly-sentimentally attached to their past. I saw supermodels all at once and I’m over it.
To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree pointof 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!
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