Virgo 5° (August 27)


Headed into Provincetown today to get the posters out there and circulating. That’s all I wrote on the actual day of this post. You’ll have to go back a couple of days to realize that I am in a bit of a time warp. I was thrown a major curve ball early in the week and it caused me to lose my way with my Blague at the same time it has also necessitated my writing a one-man show in the span of just a few days. So I’m going to continue on from where I was on all that….

The day of my christening came and Mickey was holding me as the priest did his whole water thing, dripping in on my forehead or whatever, and well, even to this day, I’m sure this is true for most of you, but just the sound of dripping water, let alone the feel, can inspire, well as my mother put it. And as if on cue, your little thing rose up and you let loose and peed right in Mickey’s face. That was a sign I guess, or an excuse, or something, for which my mother was blamed, as if she was working her powers through my little, as my father would call it cummasicuam, an Italian dialect version of come si chiamo which means “how do you say” in this case a watchamacallit because, the Italian side of my family, not mafia per se, but maybe a bit bookyish, not bookish, decidedly not bookish, but bookyish, never talked about sex or body parts or anything of that nature. They didn’t even call it a peepee. Cummasicuam. Watchamacallit. I we getting a picture of my formative influences? Anyway, it was another eight or so years until we moved to the suburbs, originally an old Dutch settlement called Wyckoff, a name which you can imagine every young boy growing up there had fun with, and not knowing that her sister had moved to the next town over, Peggy and Mickey literally bashed their shopping carts together at Stop n’ Shop; but still I didn’t meet my aunt until I was thirteen. Of course on my birthday every year I would get gifts from her address to Master William Leone, that’s my real name, William Leone, and they would be weird gifts princely gifts like velvet waistcoats or a chain for a pocket watch or a monagrammed tie clip. I had met two or three of my first cousins once or twice—they were weird, wild animals for the most part, and overly sexed, now that I think of it, as a young age, the youngest Anne Marie or Am A-M, who was just three years older than me, I remember, once, we were doing mad libs, I was 11 and I would say Noun and she would say Masturbation; I would say Verb and she would say Fucking. She was fourteen.

Anyway, I was finally going over during Christmas, at age thirteen, to meet Aunt Mickey who looked like a severe version of my own mother who was forever being mistaken for Rue Maclanahan, a fellow Pisces, all of five one, with her tiny hook button nose, aristocratic airs (despite being raised with no hot water) all Estee Lauder youth due, her soft, sage, siren sense of drawing everybody in. When she drank, she caved in on herself. Not Mickey, who was taller and tough with a long, sharp pointy nose; she stood like this; her hair was a dyed version of my mother’s natural sandy red, a little to bright, her fingers covered in huge rocks, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, all gigantic, and she carrid a giant key chain which you knew was mainly a weapon. The first inappropriate thing she did—she was surely drunk and unlike my mother, came out of herself, emboldened—the first thing she did was I need to introduce my two favorite people (I’m just meeting her remember) to each other and we have to be friends. She dragged my tiny thirteen year old self over to meet her best friends son, Paulie, who looked like Andrew Stevens and Rex Smith had a love child and, who I realize now, of course, was gay, and Mickey was trying to put us together. The second inappropriate thing she did, before it was time for me to go (which I knew because my mother was sending me mental signals which were confirmed by my father’s beigy pink champagne Cadillac Coupe de Ville outside, back to pick me up where he left me, probably, just forty minutes before), was to usher me upstairs where she said she had something to give me. I was terrified. On the way I caught my first ever and only glimpse of Mickey’s son Tommy who by then was already a heroin addict who would die of AIDS. She led me up the shag covered, fairly dramatic stairs, of her colonial style home and to her impossibly large bedroom where she opened a closet-dressing stuffed with hanging clothes and stacked clothes and boxes and racks of shoes. She got up on a low round foot stool, like the ones you still see in libraries, and reached up so high her arm disappeared from view and pulled down these folded items, fabric it was, and said they were a present to me. M’ok. They were tied with string or ribbon or some combination thereof. She put them in a bag. When I got home my mother asked to see what Mickey gave me. And as she loosened the string or ribbon I could see the light of realization being cast across her face. “Son of a bitch, she said, these are all my suits and dresses—she’s taken them apart at the seems, stitch by stich.

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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