Virgo 21° (September 12)
I woke up having a sex dream, me and Liza Minelli, both in our thirties. I have never had a gay sex dream to speak of, but I think dreaming you have sex with Liza must mean one is gay, right? Tried to get some work done but it’s not happening so Im gong to back off and just let it all fall away, not pushing anything too much. There is really no point in doing so.
The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of Blagues, nos. 831-835. 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.
There is something about driving North. You’ve heard our Graham Nash story which we just told to Justin Vivian Bond the day after their show at the new Glow Festival. Viv had never heard it and it was timely since their show was all about slut-shaming the women of Laurel Canyon. It’s a week since the show and I’m still singing John Phillips, Young Girls are Coming to the Canyon in my head.
Leaving Portland, we put a pin in it, not sure whether its exactly right, but surely understanding what is exactly right about it. It’s only about two and half hours from Portland to Lincolnville where you get the ferry for Islesboro. We didn’t reserve the ferry because it’s overly cautious and too expensive to do so but just showed up. We had no traffic except for the last half hour where we were stuck behind a white car from FL going thirty five miles an hour across SR90 then up Route 1, through Camden, on to the ferry. Of course the pulled into the drive to take the ferry right in front of us and just stopped; the man behind the wheel was too old to be allowed to drive from FL. Stella jumped out to get ferry tickets and she had no sooner left the car before a woman in an orange and yellow reflector vest starting calling us on. I had to ticket, so I said I’m waiting for my wife to get tickets, only to learn I’m in the reservations only line and there is a hold behind me of many cars that also just showed up, we had jumped the line. I’m getting chewed out by orange and yellow; and Stella, I soon learn, is getting even more chewed out by another lady inside being more than just a little local-eccentric. And anyway, the consequence for being shady with Stella is far more severe than it is for those being shady with me because I’m used to it.
Well the first people to pull behind me/us, the first car I’ve in effect cut in front of, was my sister- and mother-in-law and Stella’s niece—Stella’s father and two brothers had already gotten on the ferry in a separate car. So it was touch and go. I had to pull over and let all the cars I cut off go before us. But there was room for us after all, so all three carloads of our party heading to the home that was given us for a couple weeks by its owner, a popular TV actress from the ninetiees, headed there.
So we got to Islesboro in the afternoon, brought in our bags, then went food shopping. We were eight people total and dinner that evening was going to be easy, pasta with meatballs and sausage in red sauce my inlaws brought and we made an arugala salad with tomato and some cheese that was in the fridge about which others were skeptical. I thought it looked fine, perhaps a little wet, but i shaved off outer bits and below that tasted fantastic. We had beer and wine for those who like that sort of thing and it was fun, for sure.
We had seen signs coming in from the ferry—anywhere driving on Islesboro you have to wave at the person driving in the opposite direction along any given road. Typically a little upward unfolding of a few fingers from your hand resting on the steering wheel is enough to register with the other driver.
We sort of created our own polarized expressions for when we’re here. And, for realz, its quite a polarized place, the north part of the island being largely inhabited by locals and then John Travolta’s estate, and on the southside is where you find more blueblood types. There are two food shops, the fancier one of which likely be the least fancy in your town; the other one looks like a museum of dead canned foods. The fancy people we all the Tooks because, at certain events, more than one person would be called Tookie. So it stuck. The other side of the island (read:tracks) folks we can Durks, names for their downscale food market Durkees.
The Fancy gathering we spoke of where the Tookies lie? It is the annual dog show, held on the same day as the Durks favorite annual do—the seafood festival and go-cart race. I wanted to like the later last year when I opted for it over the dog show, to which all the rest of the family went; but on some level I felt the whole time I was taking my life in my hands. First of all the food, or what was left of it, was not something I was going to eat. And then the races are held in the street which, given the location, is already narrow and two passing cars would have to dip to get by each other.
And you have to park your own car first along that road and then walk up to all these doings. But then you realize you’re also on the go-cart race track and about to get mown down by the competitors.
So I had this dream last night, or rather this morning, which was probably the most vivid and magical and surely significant dream I think I’ve ever had. The dreamscape was already fertile and undulating and alive. There were elements of it that were familiar and new bits too; for the most part the default landscape of reveries is some kind of Provincetown through the looking glass. I seem to “live” there in my dreams in a dimension that has more similarities to, say, Provincetown in the nineteen-forties than the Provincetown of now. Everyone has there own house, there are fewer people, nobody is a tourist. The cast of characters stand out. In the Provincetown of my dreams everything is seen for what it is. There, Billy Hough breaks bottles and stabs and kills my friends. It’s a metaphor, but it’s real.
Okay but this dream so we had sort of moved away from the town landscape into more pastoral a setting. And suddenly, in a clearing I saw two large blue birds. Now when i say blue I mean like the perfect pale-medium blue. They were large (as magical birds are) and rather shiny. They looked only slightly dissimilar. I would say that in shape they were most like giant seagulls but they didn’t have giant beaks but more demure bills, at least the calm beautiful one did. The other blue bird had more markings on his head and he was pecking at the head of the other beautiful bird and I thought this was a violence at first and I was going to shoo the aggressive bird away. But then I realized it was a courtship ritual and they were just about to mate which they did although I really didn’t see them do it but you know how fast, and quick, birds are.
Then the birds and the dream began to morph. They and the world began to spin and suddenly out of the head of what I now realized was the female emerged a rainbow colored lotus. Yes you heard that right: a rainbow colored lotus. So at first I thought I was witnessing some kind of unicorn emerging. The beings themselves, you see, were growing such that they were no longer birds, as they spun around or the world did: They were now more like dolphins or large sleek dogs or miniature horses as the female’s rainbow lotus protrusion from her crown chakra continued on in it’s RoyGBiv JackInThePulpit sort of way. And then suddenly the were in human form.
The female, now obviously a queen, was the most beautiful woman, blond, hair parted in the middle and still sprouting that rainbow lotus, dressed in copious satin like a renaissance noble, all folds and facets. Around her neck, where one might imagine one of those elaborate tudor colors with its origami folds, instead was a swarling net of gold filament dotted with red jewels or fruits or some combination of the two; and the king, let’s call him, was equally though less captivatingly turned out, dark hair, mustache and pointy beard, swathed in the same style fashion, only sligtly less copious than his counterpart’s.
They were now in a clearing on the other side of some trees and in between me and them Stella was there; and as if trying to quickly tell her that there was a hummingbird right behind her so look quickly, she said “I need my glasses” which were off to the side and she grabbed them and put them on and the figures were still there and she could see them. Only t they had morphed even more and in a darker direction. They were not headressed in black and I thought in the dream that, now, these chief god/esses were showing us their Chtonian aspect. Stella had missed their more rainbow technicolor incarnation but she was their for their even more intense and powerful (and dare I say right for a Capricorn) incarnation.
Suddenly there was a third person to my right, a young, handsome presumably gay character reminisicent of the gay best friends we’ve had in our lives. And he asked the magical couple: “Are you European” to which the upper-case Lady responded: “Not quite.” I knew would this meant. I took it to mean that they were Merivingian. That is what they wanted me to know.
I woke up and told Stella my dream immediately. She asked if I started Swann’s Way, the Proust book that was sitting on my bedside. I said no, not yet, but I plan on reading this book that I have planned on reading all my life, this day, now, here on holiday on Islesboro in Maine. “Because you know,” she said, “in the very first chapter, which is really trippy and in which scenes morph one in to the other, the narrator speaks of the Merivingians.”
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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