Capricorn 22° (January 12)
Heard from Dave his girlfriend is buying a house in Brewster. We start our own process this week. I am really not much in the mood to write things. I find that certain “moods” inspire me to a thousand ideas but then other “moods” in the aftermath leave my mind a blank…From the page to the stage, the sage of the age…Sextrology isolates the new book activates. Something about John Dewey that the self isn’t ready made by the choice of action…Mars as Id. Mars in Cap equals Classy in the Raw. Mars filtered in Capricorn takes that ajbectifying id energy and edifies it such that the primal energy of the planet coninutally sparks the enduring, endurance motivated Capricorn (endurance calculating the concept of the as a sort of fiery fountain of youthful sparky energy, secret sauce. Also explains capricorn’s warrior spirit and their like of camouflage prints.
The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of Blagues, nos. 1431-1435. 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.
I took two cars in to get inspected and our old girl needed all new brakes, basically. That will be a pretty penny. There is no rhyme or reason (feeling) to life these day; rather all seems rather random. And depressing I might add. Have learned that a close friend has been going through it; I had no idea. I am learning from experience that success isn’t necessarily a contributor to happiness. People are a mess and that is a result of some carefully tailored propaganda. We have to fight back, first and foremost, by not falling down deep holes. I write a few sentences and then I’m distracted today. I don’t think it’s just me. I’m finding that most people seem super scattered and incapable if any kind of commitment or follow through it is becoming a bit insane. People also seem more high maintenance than they used to. I think I blame social media for that. Everyone wants to be a star without doing the work, paying their dues. They want the perks and none of the process. The profit not the progress. And this has been a rapid change, I find in my line of work, over the past seven or so years. Oh, and everybody thinks they should have a podcast if not there own TV show.
Someone I know, and know personally, (we are actual friends) who has a very big job at the top of the food chain at a major media network contacted me in December saying they wanted to create content for me and I should (immediately—hurry up) put together a bio for their team. As I said that was December. So what you going to do? You can’t push people. Maybe they are feeling themselves (or their cocktails) when they reach out and touch others in that way. It doesn’t matter. No judgment. You still have to love people. At least that is my view. Then again I’m not as hard on people as I see them be on others (including myself). I am trying to move the needle which we call moving the spoon. Our ancient car which was supposed to come back today isn’t. I had such high hopes that my new mechanics wouldn’t work on Cape Cod time but alas. Today really feels like spring finally here—crocuses and daffodils are doing there thing. I made a minted pea soup that we ate over last couple of days, with tulips on the table. If that doesn’t make it feel like spring I don’t know what does. Lamb probably. But one really has to separate the animal from the meal in ones mind, which for some reason is easier to do than when it comes to veal. Though it shouldn’t be.
I’ve been doing a lot of casting this week which really wasn’t the plan but in the end turns out to be the right thing. Things are rolling along I’d say. But I would like to keep the drama to as minimum as possible. One more sentence or two and then I’m going to take a shower. I don’t not believe in just writing anything. I find it’s like putting down mulch or fertilizer. It mightn’t be the thing you want to see grow before your eyes but it does create an environment from which things can spring. I have lists upon lists to go through and I hope to get to some of them today. I am looking for the magic in the ordinary, always. I saw Heather Mattarazzo beamed in on Instagram. I wish I was better at social media. One can always hire someone but what does that say. I need to remind you I’m writing a bunch of these al at once. Let’s just say it is 4:31 in the morning and I now have four of these episodes to write à la meme temps. Nan wrote to say that I seem to be getting younger; I promptly pointed out that I don’t post recent pictures. I am concerned (as all telegenic narcissists are) that I’ve let my manner slip a bit but that is what April is for. Someone I know lost eleven lbs in thirteen weeks on Noom. I would try that but I don’t like the name.
I think Amy Schumer’s new comedy special is fantastic. I find Tig Nogaro (sp.?) completely unfunny. I might try my hand at all this myself in the coming year. I mean isn’t that supposed to be what this is all leading up to? I will first need to make certain sacrifices. I’m ready to do that. I don’t have any family of my own in either chronological direction; and I find the New England contingent to be conditional at best, save for my parents-in-law who are truly divine beings, in spite of their Yankee eccentricities or indeed due to them. I’ve always wanted to write the phrase or indeed due to them.
Well I cheated a bit yesterday by including an old to-do list in the Blague entry. But I had to remind myself of what is ahead these next few months. It is such a lot of work that I do non-profit, and I notice, this year, that my relationship to what’s in store has changed. That is to say that my actual brain chemistry seems altered, comparatively, in the face of the same task. I know that I am need of a total rehabilitation of spirit. I have been running, running, running and now I am doing so on empty. I know it won’t be easy this time around but it will be most crucial. Anyway I was thinking of the end of a certain summer, in my salad days spent at the Jersey shore. We had a large house in what now strikes me as a city by the sea, compared to the more rural setting in which I’ve lived these last twenty years (twenty years!) on Cape Cod. That very first day, sometimes post hurricane, the very first days of September, right before having to pack up and head north to school, the weather would one day shift. It would have been scorchingly hot for a fortnight and maybe with no more fanfare than a brief thunder storm, the wind would change direction. You might be sitting on a beach and see tiny tornadoes ripping through people’s “blankets”, a term used to describe the entire estate any one person or group thereof would bring to the beach. Little cyclones of dried seaweed and shreds of candy wrapper.
“It’s Billy weather,” my dear mother would say. I don’t know how she knew this because it was true. I also don’t know how she knew to say it, as if I had been alive for hundreds of years with a documented track record of my liking a sudden hint of autumn, a foreshadowing, in what might even still be late August. I would don a wool sweater, typically hunter green or navy blue, with glee, either over a red or blue or green pinstriped button color shirt or tee or sometimes directly against my allergic sunkissed skin. The scratchiness was a sacrfice to fashion or some preppy social construct. I think about that day. That day which probably only happened once and yet “Billy weather” would indicate a recurring pattern. It baffles me. Like it baffles me that, when going to study abroad in Grenoble, my mother gifted me a going away present of Joyce’s Ulysses she inscribed with the words “From one Irishman to another in France.” Did she read Ulysses? I doubt it. Did she know a lot about Joyce or just that he was Irish with a thing for France. I will never know. Why didn’t I ask?
These are the things that run through ones mind in the middle of a sleepless night. I think of Castor Wilde lying wide eyed nearby some centuries ago listening to the screams of the fisher cats and owl hoots in the night in a dark so dark and terrifying until the clock struck four allowing certian comfort to set in. I think about his cotton nightshirt, soaked at the collar, and the herbal scent he exudes. This is something he and I share. We seem to give off an air of eucalyptus for no known reason. He gives up hope on sleeping and flings himself afoot. He walks on air to avoid the creaking floor and witches stair down to the tiny square patch of landing at the front door flanked along its sides with thin columns of pained glass windows through its beveled whichness he spies a fawn nibbling on the wild strawberries in their patch of white and yellow blossoms. This is the place he is and always has been.
The men will soon appear. The place for the barn has been set just one hundred feet or so back and to the side of the house. Castor peers through the mud room window at the dew glistening blue on the grass. At that moment a coyote slinks through the yard all apologetically side glancing. There are no bunnies about. A yellow flicker is heard rapidly pummeling the iron cap on the chimney—it sounds like a mechanical, not a natural thing—wow this is hard. He is missing something but not sure what. Is it Jenny? Marcus? Childhood? No answer comes. He pads outside, the brick step like ice on his bare feet, but the air warm under the cold and floral. He sneezes. And some thought goes from his mind. He grabs the bucket and heads into the inner garden through the arch of unblossomed wisteria through the field of would-be wild flowers and down the path that separates the Wildes from the Woods.
The first thing you do, when you think you’re having a stroke, is to delete your history. The thought of being dead and knowing that people might see what you were up to online. I say people because I don’t have family. We maybe will tackle that later—this is a workshop so I’m not sure which possible avenues I’ll choose yet. And also part of this performance is about letting things that occur to me occur to me and I know that sounds artsy fartsy but you see I am a natural psycic which scared me in my youth, as it did my mother in hers. I am squandering my gifts. Certain spates of time can be characterized as epochs wherein little bits of your soul get bitten off. When you’re young you have a lot of soul to lose; but when you get to be d’un certain age and all is beyond not ahead of you, well, you’re pretty threadbare when it comes to affording any further loss of that elemental self. And there are other certain times in life (like now) when one feels close to that entropic erosion, as redundant as that word pairing might be.
I was reared (told they were geniuses of our age) on Gertrude Stein and Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Kandinsky and Mondrian and Miro. Nowadays I deal with cabaret stars who think they are geniuses and perhaps they are. I’ve always thought it and underrated medium. In 1985 I was moving to Paris and fantasized about singing new songs in an old style as a vocalist called Pan; some version of that fantasy did not not come to pass. I also thought I’d have four kids (I even had the names picked out); or that I would have a crepe truck (thirty years before food trucks were a thing); but what I ended up doing was not what I ended up doing and, then again, very much so. We had a lot to do this week; and I was not my best self. Spring does that to me every year; I tend to go a bit cuckoo. But now I have to get it all together and make sure I am hitting my marks with ease, joy, precision and a sense of unfolding. The Irish got it right with there let the road rise to meet you concept. Life on life’s terms, letting it meet you half way. That’s the proverbial ticket.
I’m most proud of Taylor Mac for mounting an original Broadway show. That is just something so fantastic. I’m proud of all my friends doing any number of things like one-offs and podcasts and one-offs; but I’m most proud of this major work by a friend-artist. Taylor always goes big or goes home and I have never known him to go home. Ever. If you can believe it Taylor was in the first ever show we ever ever (did I say ever) did back in March of 2005. I had just been at the other Kripalu which we call Crapola. And when I got back I shook my Scarlett O’Hara to the heavens and said as gods are my witness I will never not be on a stage again. So I forced my way into the cabaret scene with our little Cosmic Cabaret show in Chelsea at a placed called Elmo. It was a great show. We in some ways did more with that show then we had with any since—it was a series of shows based on the signs—the first ever one being called The Rage of Aquarius. Kenny Mellman and Rachelle Garniez and Raquel Cion and the Cucumbers, John and Deena, were in it. And even Richard fucking Barone directed it. Anyway, in it began the storyline we didn’t follow through about me being “the runt quintuplet” found days later. Skulking in the corner of the womb. Anyway I did a search for this phrase on my computer just now and what came up, or fell out, was this whole big two-person play about us and being truklus and going to Camp Blavatsky, all of which was based on semi fictional stuff. This was before we met Matt Ray and focused exclusively on music.
I really don’t know what went on today. What I do know is that things are complicated, psychologically. There are Skype calls with friends. There are trips to stores. There is the hiding of facts and the functioning of bad habits. Dysfunctioning, I think I should say. I don’t feel obliged to paint a rosey picture, why would I. I am an honest warlock if nothing else and things have not been going great around here, and mainly due to me. I’m a complex and complicated (they are not the same) being. I have much in the way of accumulated hurt and resentment. I have sangfroid and fomo and an inferiority complex that sees me continually strike up relationships with people who seek worship and are incapable of reciprocation. I have decades of the worst family drama your ears have ever heard and then the sudden end (death of parents and total cut-off estrangement of sibling, by choice—the thought of ever seeing that being again fills me with horror). I write thousands and thousands of words a day. I am also my own cleaner, cook and overall handy man. And then I have an entire business, no, sorry, three businesses I run. And I’m about to chuck everything and take a deep dive into solely one (plus a dovetailing two) enterprise(s).
The rest will seem crazy but it is taken from talks this day on social media:
We will find out that Bernie Sanders is a Russian asset. Mark my words.you ask a psychic for facts? lol. no: as i said: he won’t show tax returns, he is now doing Fox News Rally, he never shows up to vote in Senate, he and Jill Stein divided the vote to keep Hillary from office. That is all. totally serious. I think both Bernie Sanders (who barely shows up and hardly ever votes in Senate and won’t reveal his tax returns and is now doing Fox News Rally) and Jill Stein as Maureen McCarron points out are both on the Russian payroll.Why did Bernie abstain in vote against sanctions against Deripaska (Russian oligarch) wake up people. Bernie divided the vote on purpose. Staying in the race. BS so obvious. and paradoxically that’s what they bet on. paradox. doing things that our rational minds would conceive of as improbable. but not. we are wise. we are awake.
We are watching. and we are ready. CASE IN POINT: GO TO ANY NAYSAYER’S (OF THIS POSTS’S0 PROFILE AND YOU WILL FIND THEY ARE BOTS. BOTS BOTS not even sophsticated enough not to “react” to the words Bernie Sanders” before understanding the context. BAM BITCHES CASE IN POINT: GO TO ANY NAYSAYER’S (OF THIS POSTS’S0 PROFILE AND YOU WILL FIND THEY ARE BOTS. BOTS BOTS not even sophsticated enough not to “react” to the words Bernie Sanders” before understanding the context. BAM BITCHES irst of all: I am a fucking psychic and not by choice but I’ve come to accept it and keep my mouth shut around your wives, boyfriends, husbands and girlfriends (for starters). Second: every one of you that denounces this post is blind and not like Tiresias who at least gained the second sight that is a gift and a curse.
I want a Woman. I’m sick to death of men and old men I’m sorry to be ageist but that’s how I feel. Call it self-loathing I don’t give a fuck. I have been “over affectionate” myself in this life and this Biden BS is just that. So let’s stop talking about the mayor and Beto (uch, sorry, personal feels). I want Elizabeth or Kamala or Stacy in no specific order. Although I think Stacy should get Senate. And EW should be our president with Kamala as VEEP and we look at 16 effing years.
Trump, Epstein, cronies are human traffickers. And all the girls separated from their parents at the border are product. Look into his eyes (if you can stand it); he is purest evil. Because we who are good can’t conceive of such evil, we imagine others can’t be as bad as they are. He is the baddest, the worst, the most craven of beings; and he’s in the White House. All that said, I trust in the powers of Good and it will all come round right in the end. We need to send Sabrina to Washington.
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.