Virgo 22° (September 13)

I’m down to my last window to avoid writer’s block messing with my schedule so no more excuses—I have to get anything down on paper that I can without any excuses on the subject. The posts below date back three years to summer on Islesboro

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 836-840. 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.

So this morning we went to the dog show at Apple Bartlett’s house on Islesboro, Maine. It was the seventy-third such show and Apple started it when she was ten. All goes to charity of course, and it happens on her lawn which rolls down gently to the sea in great enough expanse that it comfortably held about one hundred people, a “ring” for showing the dogs, about a 100 foot square area where she or her son(s) have sprinkled love-seat and individual sized plastic cushion on said lawn just down away from the house. The lawn then rolled left down a path to the water; center was a circular garden some 200 feet away with still more lawn beyond it; then the whole right of the lawn is initially taken over by a lean, flanking stable of vegetable garden, before rolling away into forest and more sea. One of the most beautiful spots I’ve ever witnesses. For the visuals, yes, but also for Apple’s classy mellow vibe. Her son called the show and he was funny like a more non-chalant Dave Letterman whose mean side had been all but yacht-rocked away. And the people…

Everyone, of course, has a dog, and though I didn’t think about it at the time I might at some point consider if there was any connection between the human characters and their canines. But I was just trying to survive without being too seen. We sat on a blanket we brought—more of a rug, really. My sister-in-law has been here before and she’s determined that bringing ones own form of Macintosh squares is the cooler thing to do. I suppose most people did throw down some kind of pliable surface. And how to explain: What first struck me, on arrival, was that ninety percent of the people were blond. And one always expects women to be dressed, while here the men were too. There were no jeans, rally. Young boys were in muted solid pastel shorts in an array of careful colors. Most had the same style and/or brand of shirt, most markedly, a horizontal micro-stripe pointy polo job with seemingly very fine fabric, as it drapes. We scanned for a few logos and will look them up later. The men wore hats, sometimes jaunty; some were in yacht-drag. The dog and the sea and the time and the means.

The women were beautiful and/or weathered and saintly matriarchical depending on their age or inclination. It was made clear many were cousins as well as friends. They all belong to the same country club where the kids sail and such all day and adults dine and dip in and out. Chris O’Donnel grew up summers here and a few guys and families who accompanied his own wife and kids (he was here last, not this, year) surely look like him.

Apple’s son soldiered through the pure-breed categories—large sporting dog, small sporting dog, non-sporting small and non-sporting large, however these last two categories had a total of one dog between them to show so s/he won first prize. Then there were the miscellaneous dogs. My wife’s niece showed her dog Lulu, here, last year in this category (but Lulu’s in New York right now alone with a dogsitter); so on arrival this morning Apple asked Genevieve if she would like to show her dog, Billy, which she did and it was very sweet. I’m guessing Billy is a Labradoodle. He had the mind, the whole time, that this was his event, and he spent most of the time policing the other dogs. He seemed distracted when Genevieve showed him, as if someone were taking him away from his duty elsewhere. But he relented and trotting in the most pleasing style. They received fifth place, a category, one imagines, invented solely for Billy. He won first price in this category last year against Lulu. But this year Harry won and we knew Harry from earlier…


Right so directly to our left was Chris’s wife and their kids, one of which, a boy engaged this older woman about her dog. Is that an English spaniel, he asked. Yes it is came the reply; and before he could quickly interject, because he was determined to do it, the lady said: but it is from England where they don’t bob [cut] the tail, which completely took the wind out of the wee O’Donnel’s sails. He was good but funny looking, while mostly the children looked beautiful in that bred way, not unlike the dogs. There was the twelve-year-old girl who is already six feet tall with model looks; and her brother about whom one could say the same—they may’ve been twins. There were likewise two Turlingtonian young girls, their hair in matching, difficult french braids. We didn’t hear anyone shout out Tookie (which inspired our calling this whole tribe the Tooks); but the children had names like Ware, for a boy. One of Apple’s son’s funniest bits was trying to prounounce some name which might have been spelled Geffwyn since that’s how he prounounced it before saying, I dunno, it’s Welsh.

Stella asked me if I thought they voted for Trump, I said no. It might’ve been because, or in spite of the fact, that we just passed the most beautiful Roman Catholic church which, at 10 AM was packed, on a Saturday. I don’t know if I’m connecting these two thoughts, effectively. But one gets the sense, on Islesboro, no matter how extraordinary the wealth here, that the people would see our present ruler as one step too far. There is a conscientiousness amongst the people. Maybe it’s an island thing. One probably feels it in Mustique and many places where you always wave at your steering wheel. But mostly I think it’s an Apple thing. She seems to set the tone; and if she doesn’t she should. I’ve only been here twice but I suppose I must imagine Apple as the unspoken Queen of Islesboro, ruling by kindness and right living, or so it seems. I have only ever met her briefly, but meetings with enlightened beings tend to be brief from my experience.


Lunch today was left over grilled chicken cut into cubelettes. Seriously, you’re not going to believe this. I no sooner finished typing that first sentence before I heard this sudden disturbing buzzing coming at my head; I didn’t know what it was because it was too loud for any one insect I know, or like a tiny drone, had I made that connection at the time. But no, it was a hummingbird. Usually shy, elusive this one was full on. I had heard the intense buzzying behind my head and quickly turned to find her stationery in the air, her invisible wings a sound. In the immediacy, I yelled quite loudly oh my god, which should have frightened her away, but it didn’t. She kept buzzing at me. Then I started cooing you’re so cute, you’re so cute, and she bolted away. Imagine being a hummingbird.

Anyway, we go to the Took store called Island Market. And we needed to buy some dinner food and figure that all out because we are seeing a Mentalist tonight at the Community Center. Yes, there was a dog show this morning and tonight it’s the Mentalist. The girls thought flatbread pizza would be perfect and they saw that the Tooks had one style of that pizza and I should get that plus arugula and some other things. I drove and waved and entered and found that it was pulled pork and pineapple pizza. Yeah, no. So I bought beer and left and told them we needed a new plan. Let’s have a picnic. They have a certain baguette, get it. Also some paté (if I wanted it which I do) and so forth. They didn’t have baguette but I don’t care. I will eat the paté tonight after the mentalist. So I’ll leave this unpublished until tonight when I can relate our evening…

…okay, last night was a trip. We got to the community having talked through the possibilities of how the room would be set up to a nearly eight-year-old asking us questions we can’t answer about a place we’d never seen. I finally told her that the room will have all white chairs that will be very comfortable. We arrive and Stella’s like white chairs and I’m like see. There’s a fishbowl set up into which we must drop little papers filled out in the center with a “something” like a favorite pet or what not, fold it, and then put your name on the top. The front person was a sort of nervous-happy local who was in ultimate earnest, and then this executive style woman, beautiful in her sixties, maybe, comes walking towards us, and I know that face. I look at Stella who just gives me a quick and intense: you’re on to something. And so I said to her are you Lois? And she said yes. So it was Lois Childs and I said my wife Lynne worked with Sylvia Heisel (they did in fact partner on an item-driven collection which I named called Region) back in the day—Lois actually modelled in one of they’re shows—and then Stella took over and reminisced about visiting Lois’ house in Santa Monica with Sylvia and all going out from there for dinner where Lois ran into Lindsay Buckingham. This made Lynne happy.

So get this, she wasn’t just a guest here. She was running this whole mentalist show. She asked how we came to be here and we said we were visiting at a friend’s of Nancy’s which is true, leaving the rest of it out, because you never know. And then we sat second row to watch this manchild come out on stage. I pegged him as a Pisces right away. A more comely Bieber with coiffed no-color hair and a knit grey blazer that draped and brown shows with red laces, palest skin with pink flushed cheeks. His name is Nat Lawson. And he mightily suggested that he will be a great one day. His confidence was astounding. He is ready to assume any 7:30 PM network game show, now, at the age of eighteen. Without an intermission, which he brazenly told us his shows typically include, we were there a fat hour. He threw a stuffed rabbit into the audience as a means of picking his first participant who then threw the bunny to pick the second, third, fourth and then Stella-Lynne caught the bunny and was tasked with holding the bunny during the first act before being instructed to kick off the second one. The answer to the first trick was that there were exactly four cards and then the cards would repeat in the deck; the deck was from a children’s game with which our host promptly distracted us, relating stories about his fourteen-year-old brother, the photographer in the audience, was way better at predicting math tallies than he, in effect, planting seeds regarding his supposed personality, subliminally impressing upon what was a highly suggestive audience, inserting certain suppositions about him that would sort of bore and dazzle the audience at the same time, bringing down their defenses to a point where they are ready to believe what’s being shown them. They want to believe. Pisces motto is I believe.

But I knew this guy had to be a Pisces—I actually don’t as I’m writing this know what sign he is—when he went into some story cul-de-sac, lullybying the audience into belief, wherein he said he loved strangers. If anybody knows anything about Starsky+Cox’s take on the Pisces persona, one would know we heavily explore to the brink of exploitation the whole “I’ve always depended on the kindess of strangers” notion.

Anyway, let me see if I can find out somehow if this kid is a Pisces—maybe he’s on Facebook—will let you know what I come up with.


So it turns out Nat’s a Leo. Well that might suggest the showmanship first and the bit of trickery and the need for the spotlight; we’ll have to wait on the misogyny. I’m kidding the Leos. You treat your womenfolk with utmost kindness. And, as we said, it was mostly ego and confidence running this show. All the five? segments were figure-out-able. But, as I said the largely older and wanting to be amazed audience swallowed it hook, line and sinker. But it was really fun and wholesome and Americana. The Leo Man chapter of Sextrology is called the Natural. Nat Leo, Nat Geo, Nat Lawson.

As far removed as one is here in Islesboro, ME, I have to say I feel completely confronted with my self in the best of ways. I think the remoteness is not a detriment, in any shape or form; in fact it just might be the ticket for moving forward. I really must this year write a letter last week December early January to tell people that, moving forward, we need to work six months in advance, now, getting commitments from would-be supporters. This way, if I don’t manage to raise the requisite moneys I will send back what I do raise. Or better yet, I will do the simplest imagineable festival in Provincetown; all on the strictest budget.

Oy, I think I just bummed myself out. The point I’m making is that, in Maine, one needs a coastal view. Maine makes a lot of sense, if you have a coastal view. If you don’t have a coastal view Maine doesn’t make a whole lot of sense excepting the fact that it is artisinal and you get get farm to table everything including pajamas.

Today nothing happened. We could have been anywhere. It was banal. There is a banality inherent in much of this experience. I am not one to talk as I am not the active sort I would have liked to have been. I didn’t come from an outdoorsy family who did things. I think the most beautiful combination about American life is having a lot of money and being really healthy. I still aspire to both. I would be a liar if I said otherwise. I still feel it possible on some level to find that perfect balance of elan, of equipoise.

I love the beaches in Wellfleet and I will be sad to leave them. I said that about leaving Provincetown for Wellfleet but it’s funny how you don’t look back. Somehow, soon enough, what you’ve done newly becomes better than what you did before. There are elements of life that are not entropic. Especially when you’re predisposed to detachment as a human trait. Sometimes detachment stems from a childhood environment of unreliability. When you can’t invest in much of you’re experience you learn to find happiness without certainty. Funny how that works. I have friends who come from very solid, stable backgrounds, both emotionally and financially, and I find they have been iller equipped to handle, yes, monumental and sometimes devestating things like the death of a parent with a sort of shock and awe at the mortality of those from whom they descend. Well guess what…


Again one of those moments where I’ve caught up completely on these Blagues. Not that I want anyone to read any of them anytime soon. I think what I realize is that I will go to any length to achieve a certain feeling. I’m talking about myriad things all at once. The first year of the Blague was so much about writing everyday and using the Sabian Symbols to movitivate me in that process. If you don’t know what the Sabian Symbols are tough luck, bub, look it up. Or just read the first 366 entries of the Cosmic Blague.

I tried the next year to write consistently but didn’t. I didn’t feel compelled to, necessarily; but then something happened year three where I felt compelled, once again, to write as many Blagues as there are degrees in the Zodiac (360), which means I get five days off in a non-leap-year. I think too much and other things that rhyme, of this I am aware. So I must be prudent in the way I approach any given day, project or experience. I do believe I might alienate people as a result of being too on them. And so sensitive when someone suggests I’m doing something wrong. Alarmist. Is that the word? I dunno but I do have a way of losing friends and alienating people. And for making friendships with people who do the same.

So it’s a Full Moon tomorrow…

From a website, edited by me into something else:

Tonight, much of the Eastern Hemisphere will be treated to a partial eclipse of the moon Monday (Aug. 7) — a prelude to the grand spectacle that awaits North Americans exactly two weeks later.

Even if you’re not in the path of the partial lunar eclipse, Monday will bring a summer full moon to the night sky. Traditionally, some Native American fishing tribes were aware that sturgeon — a large fish that inhabited the Great Lakes as well as Lake Champlain — were most readily caught around the time of the August full moon, hence it became known as the Full Sturgeon Moon. A few tribes knew it as the Full Red Moon because, as the moon rises, it appears reddish through any sultry haze. It was also called the Green Corn Moon or the Grain Moon.

…and I was thinking it would be a great day to make pinnacle declarations of appreciation. In August we are at our ripest. We need to reap that which we have sown—very full Moon anyway, one of two, in August, the second will be a near total lunar eclipse, in two weeks.

We did our moon ceremony and I am really ready to reap, let me tell you. This year I want to put $200K toward a house. I’m definitely doing it. If we can come up with $100K, including the $20K I’m saving us on rent. Then I can come up with another $20K; that’s 120K which would be 20% of a 600K house but forty percent of a $300K; and I would plan to pay it off in two years. Writing books and running the jewelry business.

Anyway, it’s a good time to take a step back and to make a change. This whole year ahead will be doing just that. I must cultivate patience, especially with myself. I need to slow down before I’m stopped….anyway, I imagine all elements of life coming together rather seamlessly. Right now I need to make a timeline for the rest of the year. I need to purchase QLab, which is a good expense. I need to make a Sparkler and Sponsor list. I need to send a Save the Date. So August is about festival, learning QLab, finishing the eBooks, chosing new songs, etc. September is about BOTAB and magazine writing and choosing songs. October and/or November are for Europe. We need to buy our tickets.

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.
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