Pisces 21° (March 11)


There has to be a real switcheroo right now. Things will be coming to a head. And if John Bolton gets anywhere near decision making things will really go pear-shaped or, perish the thought (and everything else) mushroom shaped. I feel that we are nationally hitting a rock bottom. The country is a sick addict and it must enter recover. Of course we must first stage an intervention. This is what I think we should call what used to be known as a protest. We need to tell our fellow citizens that the country is powerless over its addiction to sex and greed and rage and bullying as personified by the circus peanut in chief. I’ll come back to this later I don’t want it to color my whole Blague entry.

I was speaking the other day about learning later in life how much my father prejudged and hated me for not being all boy. And doing it so, so early in my life. It actually made me wonder (as I saw a documentary on this recently) whether there might have been some kind of question as to my gender, or something, at birth. I remember my earliest Halloween costume was “football players” which now seems like an overprotestation, speaking of protests. I see a lot of my father in the circus peanut; and of course my evil, estranged sibling is born on the same day as it.

I loved dolls as a very small child. Five years her senior, the fact my sister had an array of Barbies and Liddle Kiddles, I remember getting into them when I was home all day. That is to say pre-school. And I started pre-school actually at the age of three, so we are talking very early memories of me. There was some kind of hair dye thing for her blond Barbies. Now let’s not get started on the fact that this must have been a toxic substance with which I was left alone, age three, in my room. But I do remember dipping her dolls hair in different dye mixtures; moreover I remember her violent reaction to my doing so upon my return from school. I totally got where she was coming from. But get over it. I’m three and I’m left alone for hours by an extremely checked out Pisces mother whose credits include falling asleep with the gas burner on, starting a kitchen fire; and leaving both my sister and me in a car, at the supermarket, in neutral instead of park, so we rolled backward into a concrete block in which a street light was lodged. Ah memories.

Anyway I remember being made to feel a great deal of shame about the doll thing from my father which gave license to my sister to create whole rallies around making me feel like I was a freak by the time I was four. But, I suppose this is a testament to my resilience—and this is something that only occured to me for the first time in my entire life—I channeled my doll envy into something creative. First of all I don’t think the doll thing for me was about loving girly things per se. It was the fact that they only dolls we had were female. Really it was just about playing with something that was a human replicant. This was far more interesting to me than playing with objects. The only other toy, up to this point, I obsessed on were toy soldiers—I had this amazing United Nations forces set up of soldiers, in varying positions, some shooting rifles while kneeling of course (that’s a classic) that came in a package with this great U.N. white army truck. And there was cool military paraphenalia like plastic army bags and utlitiy belts you could put on the soldiers before loading them into the white metal truck that had a canvas U.N. blue canopy on the top. That was rad….but I digress…..

Where I really channeled my love of figurines, shall we say, was in drawing; and specifically in my rendering of the Flintstones.

This is becoming a two parter. So tune into the next Blague on the subject which will be March 13ths entry. You see I already have some words written into the one following this one because, well, let’s just say I’m floating between days here. (I did mention that I tend to write a few paragraphs at a time within entries….well I also sometimes write a few entries at once and I didn’t expect this to be a two-parter, anway)…


Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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