Sagittarius 9° (December 1)

Someone got up at four-thirty and brought me along for a ride as well. It is now four hours later and I haven’t gotten any work done as of yet and have to do way better than that if I’m to make the magic as needs making. The hardest thing to do, really, is just get in. But that is why I am here today. I am really frustrated as I attempt to enter. I can’t seem to get my brain around it all. And what I said yesterday about disposition feels hard to embody today but I am trying. It would be so easy to escape but I fear what I might sacrifice in so doing. I suppose I should let things be sticky and just work my way through from there but lord it isn’t easy I can tell you. 

In social interaction as a couple with such a mate, she plays the role of translator, but with nary an eyeroll. She may mistake madness for genius in a partner, drawing on her classical archetype as spiritual champion to an ideological hero as she might see him or her. That’s just some of the sentences I wrote today as I get my brain around this entire process. I’m a few days behind in terms of posting posts. We hear from our publisher today and my anxiety goes through the roof. There is so much on our plate right now and I know I’m being tested for a reason and I am ready to rise to the occasion. It would be wonderful to find a way to land, but really, right now is about not getting sidetracked and staying the course. I pray to Athena, the goddess of helmsman, that I will be able to sail this ship. The beauty of that metaphor is that there is no shirking of daily responsibility, in order to get to the final destination, one must make watery tracks every day. This is what I have on my mind and on my plate and I have to make hay while the Sun shines as I race against the nippings of the dirty dogs at my heels. I have all the power I need at my disposal and the trick is to let oneself be guided.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1221-1225 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.

My particular spritual father isn’t Hemingway, it’s Fitzgerald, a superior writer, though obscured, in large part by his own reputation and (thus) a fellow Libra. I love everything about the myth and the man, whom I know less than the myth. But I have always thought that we would have made great friends. I can feel his pain if not his genious. And just imagine the two of us, traipsing around Paris, on a lark and on a bender, young, tan and full of the dickens. We would try to impress and outwit one another. We might buy each other ties as presents. We would meet our wives for dinner with inside jokes. Where had we been together all day they might ask? The answer may include the words bars, hammams, parks and haberdasheries. He may have bought me this hat on a whim. We are more than friends Fitzgerald and me; just this short of lovers probably. In a couple days time we might disappear without a trace to the Riviera for nearly three weeks sending one funny but not so amusing (to some) telegram. There would be rumours which we scoff and in which we each, secretly, revel. We can’t decide between the two of us who is the most good looking. From the inevitable sizing up that happens when you share a hotel room, I know mine is bigger.

Scott really is an amazing person. That one night, downstairs, when I ordered les grenouilles, he was absolutely on fire. A little manic I’d say. I think he wasn’t being square when he said he didn’t drink in the day. It really seemed he had; and I have a pretty good radar for that kind of thing. We had had a perfectly normal breakfast, although now, come to think of it, he was rather quiet and monosyllabical and yeah, cagey, I suppose. After my little walk to get cigarettes and postcards he was already gone from the room, which felt a little loaded with unncecessary deceit. Anyway I was headed to the beach and got one of the last lounge chairs. It would prove to be the hottest day of the week and I had to run to the water lest I scorch my feet. The families were gone by midday and didn’t return in the afternoon. I had my lunch en place. By the afternoon only half the chaises were filled and there wasn’t a kid in sight. La Rentrée happend within the span of an hour, this extinction burst of families crowding the beach were all, apparently, just taking in a little bit more on their last morning before checking out. I made eye contact with several of the adults and probably made it obvious on my exiting the plage that I was staying juste en face. In my perverted mind I imagined some of those beachgoers being so enamored that they followed me or planned to show up in my hotel bar in the next two hours. About which, it turned out, I was right.

I had smoked half a pack on the beach in my frustration and my lungs were literally hurting—I could feel it in the shower—like when you get waterlogged, as a kid, from staying in the ocean all day. So I was rather lost in self-recrimination as I descended the hotel’s sweeping stairwell, muscle memory walking me across the lobby’s marble floors, around giant potted palms, to the moulding-mirrored doors, still closed, leading into what at first seems a tiny hotel bar until you see it is a long, narrow bistro, to the right, leading through blue light, cooly reflecting off checkboard floors, ceiling fans blowing the high chalk walls rolled the hotel’s long narrow bistrot, spilling through its sidewalk café. So long it was that the square of light that marked its entrance, still at the bar where I stood, would appear to fit within the circumference of my watch face…

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Want what you have. It’s a cosmic spell. Wanting what you have inspires three-fold appreciation. Peter Frampton, Donovan. Taurus are evasive. Henry Cavill. Bjork & Yorke. Charles Daniels. Christo Jay. Dane Chenery. Reginald Johnson. Paul Nesbit. These are names I come upon. To be honest I was in part making a list of black people in Provincetown as I know very few which isn’t a shock as we unfortunately live in the whitests of places. Not that I have very much against the whites (except everything). I do think one of the things I’m most lacking is a bit of socialization. I think I’ve forgotten how to be with people on some level, such is the solitary life of a writer. I think that’s also why I do things like festival and such. Just so I see more people. The consultancy is even going through a phase where most clients live a world a way, some of them, and we do appointments by Skype.

So I have to start working out some bits. I mean, really, I suppose, bits, or attempts thereat, will comprise the bulk of this Blague for the next few days. Let’s just say Provincetown is a tough town. For those of us who live here it is a tought town. Foc’sle. Alex Carlton. Bu The I Dint Haaa. The town has changed so much so fast Ryan Murphy has only managed to buy four houses. R.P.’s opposite of the P.R.rs. People moving out people moving in. All because of the fo-ore of their skin. It reminds me of the white exodus of the early 1970s, where the whites left the city to the largely black population moving in. The gays are the new white people. As you can see I’m not quite there yet. Bits are now just junked up, gluey, gunked up in my exhaust pipe. And so this is a bit dada-tastic today but that’s okay. I’m not really myself yet. I took in so much over the weekend and then I overloaded myself again over these last two days.

This administration is feeling like so much leading up to that explosive “going away party” Cerse Lannister threw. You don’t make a ton of friends doing what I do. Some here might ieven call me let’s just say Tenacious. I prefer to call it Absorbing. This is a Cancer man thing. As the sponge, paradoxical: Yes like a sponge, taking it all in, but also absorbing meaning irresistably enthralling, someone who sucks you in. Charles Daniels. Omar Neil. It makes me nervous when people, newscasters say, well, especially newscasters, but also politicians all kind of pundits, when the can’t get through a sentence without slightly mispronouncing and then repeating, repeating what they say; so that the pattern of the discourse is like this (hand motion); I get so lost in anticipation, angst really, sometimes total panic, of when they’re going to make their next mistake.

They say…well somone says something but, having stepped away, i no longer remember what I was going to say, let alone, them. I have two weeks to drop a suit size. Sorry that thought slipped out. Maybe I should just stop here.

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I should focus on the two signs of Scorpio today, but I won’t. And I, I mean Marthe, should focus today on doing some hotel write-ups and, in the process, I should make some inquiries as to places that might be so kind to host us. The thing is there actually time to do this? and I should make it part of Sunday’s focus? I think I need to stop, drop and regroup: and take a look at my big black book.

Oh the sense I feel remembering fashion weeks in Paris and Milan; duh, of course that’s what we’re doing. I don’t know if I can truly stomach New York again; but I know I need try. I will work out some math in the morning but it should be quite easy to accomplish; meanwhile staying uptown will be a nice change; and I look forward to catching a vibe.

All I’m doing really now hinges on how it is I conduct myself henceforth. I do have to be careful about my relationships—it’s an area where I’ve been cavalier in the past. And I would do well to begin building back a few bridges. Though I dare say the bulk of what moves me is the ability to work with people more readily on creative projects. Something is beeping outside and it’s driving me a bit bonkers.

We did some local morning radio today, which was fun, and then strolled and had ourselves a wee Kofi; we got into a nice chat with Tim about product and learned that Chris Mart. has been in town this whole time; who knew? We did some box office jazz hands and headed home and realized we wanted to go beack that evening to P to see Midnight at the Never At.

The play happens in a sort of limbo state of afterlife where you can build your own existence, or at least a room in this case, from your memory. The setting of the play, thus, is the back room of a Greenwich Village gay bar called the Never At in the 1960s where there is a little stage where the main characters once performed a show at midnight called Midnight at the Never At. What I realized is that limbo and memory go together and it’s very Pisces in that sense, the triple goddess in triplicate, numbering nine, the muses whose mother is Mnemosyne (memory). Mnemosyne would be a nice name for a luxe supper club, itself. I do love a luxe supper club.

But that’s all of a same piece as all the feelings that are bubbling up of late; I really could cry a lot if I set my mind to it. I have such pangs in my heart and viscera; such sadness and regret and anger being released, chaos of emotion distilling into wisdom.

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I don’t like talking about the orange menace, but my question is: if he has a short list of twelve people what does that tell you? that he considers pretty much everyone in his inner circle not to be above suspicion. Think about that. He can’t trust even the ones closest to him; it’s the same reason why he throws everyone under the bus; he doesn’t think anybody likes him so like a sixth grader he’s going to dump you before you dump him, because you were going to to it anyway.

Who here has ever had a panic attack? Who here has ever had a panic attack while driving? Who here has ever had a panic attack while driving, feeling like you’re going to have a heart attack or stroke, and then a commercial comes on the radio for stroke rehabilitation? Time to pull over. But I find this sort of thing to be one of the ways the Universe likes to fuck with us. Prankster that it is. That’s a cruel joke for sure but sometimes it gives us funny ones like:

Besides what it says about the Cape Cod demographic, Provincetown is High School. Commercial Street is the Hallway along which many people share lockers.

I know I need to back to find more of these and bring them forward and work on them. I just, most of them being on a Provincetown theme. Like you really can’t get away with being a total a-hole in Provincetown. Trust me I know. (Laugh maybe? And a little bit more about me if it’s funny.

I mean if you’re an asshole to someone in a big city, you know it’s not that small a world; or if you live in the suburbs, say, and you have some kind of run-in or whatever, it would be isolated and disconnected and alienating but…in Provincetown which is Here if you get into a sit with someone, it’s like that scene in Grease and you’re like Rizzo and everybody knows you’re knocked up by the time you get to Tim-Scapes. That reference will only make sense to some, my execution of the analogy not withstanding…

There seems to be a hurricane coming our way. That would really be the icing on the cake. Well I guess I’ll then have to do some recovery relief. I mean, really, what is one to do? It actually isn’t the end of the world. I would live to fight another day. There is in fact enough to do by just doing it

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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. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.