(For last year’s meditation on the Sabian Symbol for this degree: click here)
So I’ve done the math and I have to write at least two Blagues a day for the next nine days in order to catch up. Fine. It’s my penance—for what I’m not sure—but being the middle class un-entitled under/over-achiever that I am, I simply assume punishment in any form.
I made a list of topics I could tackle but of course I’m not looking at them. Today is a beautiful Spring day and, not one to ever complain about the weather, I kind of like the fact we’ve had a chilly spring. The tulips and blossoms are still out and about in Boston, whereas in NYC they’ve been replaced by solid shades of green, for the most part. We were just in town to see Kiki & Herb. I saw town because I’m still a New Yorker in so many ways; and I’m so grateful I get to spend a good week a month there, for the most part. However I must say I’m also very pleased to make a, sometimes, hasty retreat, once the magic has worn off, back to our beloved Boston, which is very much its own city and yet a sort of bedroom community for us. After being in NYC, even for just a few days, returning to Boston seems like going to the country. I can stroll down the long avenues of the Back Bay for hours (or, if Stella is with me, she will tell me how many “steps” my stroll has translated to) without seeing or passing more than a relatively few other individuals, all of whom seem to have low blood pressure and a very open schedule.
New York on the other hand has become such a tourist city filled with people who walk out of buildings or stop in the middle of sidewalks or at street corners looking up, and not in an optimistic way because one suspects their posture is a recipe for getting hit by a bus. But New York has one thing over every other city and that is Synchronicity.
Things always “happen” to us there. We arrived at a hotel we found on hotels-tonight or whatever it’s called—I don’t arrange these things—not because I have a dutiful personal assistant mind you but because I have no technical acumen. I’m not even sure I have any apps on my phone. Anyway, we headed to the Dover Street Market named for the Dover Street Market in London which is actually on Dover Street. In NYC, it’s on 30th and Lex.
We entered and beelined to the Rose’s Bakery for coffee and polenta cake and our server, an adorable redhead with street-performing body language, came to take our order. There was a moment of recognition. “Are you Starsky + Cox?” You know the answer to that. And it turns out she’s this actress and aspiring astrologist who has been talking to our assistant expressing her want to meet us; meanwhile Stella has been watching her performance videos with interest and thinks she’s a great talent. Her name is Ruby. Which I thought funny because I was deep in thought and work, typing away as I am now, on the Limo Liner en route to NYC, and only really looked up once to see a sign and it said Ruby Road. Now I was listening to the Beatles and thought that was its own synchronicity, confusing in my pea brain lovely Rita with Ruby Tuesday. But never mind. Here was our first synch.
We strolled downtown. I had just shown Stella this picture I took in France of a grafitti which said L’Amour Est Un Art Martial” which means Love is a Martial Art, which I think is a great thought, and especially as a grafitti. As a resident of the planet that orbits between Venus and Mars, representing love and war respectively, I am, as should we all be, profoundly aware how one is a metaphor for the other and, I like the way this sentiment connected the two—martial art indeed. So, downtown, with ten minutes to kill before our dinner reservation, we popped into yet another new New York incarnation of a favorite shop found elsewhere, Resurrection, the vintage clothing store.
As you enter there is a large bookshelf with big art books. Within seconds a giant book jumped off the shelf and landed with a loud slap-thud. The freaked out sales girl was like this has never happened. The title of the book being some riff on Bowie’s Life On Mars. Fine. Book gets replaced. Half a minute later. It flies, not falls, off again. Whack-wham. And now other salespeople, who helped put the book up there, are all scratching their heads dumbfounded. Of course, we were a wee bit less surprised, explaining that we are familiar with planetary themes, and so forth, and stranger things have happened. But, as Cindy Adams says (once said…is she still alive?): “Only in New York Folks” does energy work in so specific, dramatic and synchronic a fashion. Then it turns on you quickly and you’ve got to get the fuck out of there.
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