Taurus 10° (April 29)


I know how I can be. I am strangely linear. I want so much to do things correctly. I wonder at so blue a sky yet a mourn the white streaks from planes that could get me out of here. We are trapped all of us, sheltering in place. But this is not my place, not really. My soul lives on a different shore and it feels separated, now, from the remainder of my being. My skin still crawls and I will seek to remedy that by the outset on Friday when I can consult a professional. Meanwhile, I am trying not to exacerbate the condition. I come across a shopping list that says lamb and Badoit, ail and peas. I believe it is our first ever food shopping list to go to the market on the rue Rambuteau; I’m so homesick for Paris I could just scream. I am trying to to feel the searing pangs and yet I do. I just finished reading Circe and it’s pretty fabulous. The ending was a bit conceit-ed, nonetheless it worked for sure. I think I am really utterly letting go of some biggies that have plagued me for some time. I have sensed them rattling around my psyche, being shaken loose, but there is something about this time, in isolation, when I feel they are truly releasing. I’m looking forward to more assistance from this government, the reality of the equation. Everything is changing and we are going to let it. Eighteen months from now will have yielded another infusion such that we’d have the ability to set things right, in the ensuing six years. That would be the hope at the very least. There can be other versions of this. But we might as well shoot the moon, now, as I really don’t know what the future brings but I have never looked to it more directly and realistically. I think part of me, looking back, say, ten years, was okay with living in the moment, doing shows and otherwise being creative and focusing on more social aspects of life, while really I think I maybe have done more whisting in the graveyard during that epoch than I might have let on at the time.

In order for everything work over the next year, my projects must dovetail. The project at hand informs the product while it also draws on the private consultancy and vice versa. Everything is the one thing; and if I can steadily weed through and out (I’m thinking a couple of hours every blessed Sunday). Then by the time the next two years roll around, we will be in just the right kind of shape. I am blessed with stellar credit to boot, and who the hell knows what kind of crash we will be seeing all around us. We live in a place of second homes, in large part. And it is very possible we shall see a fire sale of sorts. Tomorrow is the last moment that I can affect some real change. I need to play managing director in the early morning, mapping it all, then I’ll take a break to speak with the psycho du jour, and then resume and make as much magic as possible. I made a delicious vegetable soup with North African spices, with a little side of thyme-onion brown rice (leftover from last night’s roast chicken and sautéed bokchoy din din); and tonight we will be having more veggie fare in the form of eggplant steaks and kale. The overall feeling around here is one of ringing out a rag. I’m ready to get great big bags and fill them with the trash of my last thirty years, mindful of what I want to take with me, as far as I can see where that is going. I have always wanted a proper library with a gleaming new piano. And a bathtub or two and a true chef’s kitchen. The rest of it can be the best it can be, but these are areas on which I won’t compromise. I wonder where the Fates will take me at this juncture. I should like to reach out to all the people I have known, to let them know of my existence, what I’ve been doing all these years, the how and the why; but I’m not so sure people really give that much of a fuck. I do believe we have created something beautiful; just like with the book projects: at this point it is in the fullest belief of the thing that the thing must be made and the knowledge of its appeal must be wrought into its very making. We have the luxury, now, of catching up to ourselves, any sense of being behind the eight ball, a specious notion, at best.

The farmer is outside talking loudly on his phone. He has been more annoying than ever lately, but I am taking it as a test (it is only a test) of my nerves, mettle and resolve in the face of the same kinds of petty challenges which would have escalated in the past. That Dead Song “I Need A Miracle” comes to mind right now, because I do need one everyday, in fact. This whole concept of being late with things is really dumb, as I said. I don’t know why I make up such things. I kind of want to shave my head. If there was a barber shop open, I would be tempted to go; but I might as well see what “Mindful May” will bring as we do some dieting (live-it-ing). I think part of me would have been right, actually, to have moved to Portland, Maine in the eighties instead of New York City, as I did. I know that sounds strange because so much of who I am was based on what my life was like there, but the fact is I believe that life brings me now to the same place I would have been brought to, anyway, at this point. We lived (still are living) through the AIDS crisis, which moulded so many of us last gaspers of the Baby Boom, the movie of the same name being pretty damned terrible, launching James Spader’s typecasted career as the baddy. To this day I have never seen Top Gun. Harry Connick Jr. wants to teach me how to play the piano, I just might let him. I just heard that some (Virgo) friends I’ve known (who’ve, in trademark fashion, disappeared)


The following blocks of texs are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 196-200  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:

Stella and I just letting new dreams materialize in a floating fashion. And last night, especially, was spent out in the company of good friends, English folk who have lived in Paris for nigh on twenty years. And whenever we get together with them time both flies and stands still; I know we none of us ever stop talking and yet I can never quite remember specific threads of conversation. And not because we’re over serving ourselves, but there is just this other dimensional quality to our evenings together and always has been. We are like four kids in a sandbox falling into imaginary thoughts and games. It truly is magical. And this came off picking up a little present of a book of poetry that another dear young friend of ours left for us at Shakespeare and Co. bookstore on the quai; we were there to attend a party for Gentlewoman magazine; the party was actually quite lame, but it was memory bliss for Stella, especially, as the late owner George who is no longer with us invited her and her family, I believe, up to his private lair for tea one afternoon in the early 1980s. It was such a famous place and he had amazing stories about the dreamlike world of Paris in the early part of the 20th century when so many American novelist expats lived here.


For the first time in like forever I woke up didn’t have coffee and lay down on the couch to perhaps fall back to sleep. The tall lady was like what? She was totes surprised. As I was because I usually wake and shake and start writing my blague. So here it is nearly eleven a.m. in Paris and I’m just taking a look at what the oracle is today: 

The point is that we cannot sustain constant activity, emotionally or culturall. There must be breaks. I don’t withdraw into my own sphere of selfhood enough, probably. And I have of late been burning the candle at both ends, giddy to be in the city of light and delighting my senses. Even though Paris beckons I must rest today before being absorbed into the delicious swirl. My batteries need recharging, yes, but also my imagination needs something of a reset. I have a bunch of creative projects coming up and I need to be rested to allow them to bubble up. As it is I’ve just come off producing a festival which was exhausting and I moved house which was/is always traumatizing and then we came on this big trip. Boom, boom, boom. And it’s been superfun, but super fatiguing. Both body and psyche need a time out to catch up. And to be rid of toxins i.e. certain people, places and things.


It’s not always easy to know if you’re scaling an upward spiral or if you chasing your own tail. And in a world that is hell bent on comparisons—people have commited suicide due to feeling “less than” simply from too much Facebook surfing—we can be easily defeated by what seems to be everyone else’s success but our own OR we can be inspired by our man real and faux friends and let that move us. It’s always a choice. Personally, I like to imagine that, in my many circular paths, that I am doing the things I repeat that much better each time with a margin for a little backsliding on my otherwise upward trajectory. There should be an algorithim for that. But really, I know that the people who post selfies of themselves with C- or even A-list celebrities, or tout their many accomplishments or places of residence are no more or less happy than any of us. We have no way of judging this; our only goal is to be happy today than we were yesterday which is enough of a challenge. The only true answer is to simply love more. And especially yourselves. That is all.

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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