Libra 29° (October 21)
It is probably best if I just get to it today as I have many marks to hit and I’m running out of time and excuses. There is no more wiggle room in my world and I have to embrace that eight of pentacles energy. I suppose it was necessary to go through the anxieties of this past two months as they have clarified our position and engendered support. And we can now refer to our supporters which is going to make somebody’s mind explode I think. Ah well, too bad. I have a choice and I think I’m going to do what needs to be done to set myself up for success. There is a certain flow I can get into when I have some help but that help requires a bit of antidote whichh has more consequence than it is worth. At this juncture I am listening to my body which seems to do what to do. I’m just going to chill into this day and listen to the music channel and get as much done as I possibly can. I think that’s all one need ever do in the end. I am typing any old words. I am curious to see what will come of this television deal. I need to wave some magic spells around the rooms today. That is fine and dandy and easy to do. I am feeling the magic and I am feeling the mediation and I am feeling the rise within myself of some semblance of continued success here. I’m excited to read all the past stuff at this juncture because it is getting a bit weird and wooly. I hope you enjoy it too. I am enjoying alighting on certain goals. I am going to keep the process alive. We had a nice pow wow on the real estate front and that is feeling very doable We are so delayed because of the state of the world. Well, we aren’t delayed, the world is delayed and we need to adjust accordingly is all.
The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of Blagues, nos. 1021-1025. 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 will attempt to write only, now, nine Blagues a day for the next three days and I will thus be two weeks or so late in catching up on the last six months. Not bad. And I’m tired of blaming myself for being so-called remiss. I am fat and my bit seems to be off and my joints ache and my blood pressure is high; my hair is too long and I’m tired all the time and I can’t bring myself to shave let alone exercise. This may be evidence that I am depressed; and yet, I am not designed as a depressive. I wonder if my liver is already cooked despite the fact that all my blood work comes back totally normal. Sometimes I feel like the healthiest sould on earth whose real age belies a youthful appearance; other days I’m convinced I’m rotting from the inside. Funny how one can’t tell the most essential thing about himself.
I do think I owe it to myself to create the one-person thing. I mean, it only makes sense in the scheme of things. There is so much to say. And starting with the work on the boat, I think I can string something together; and I have a great soundtrack idea. I must waste no more time on that. I started writing today’s Blague by way of a Francis Bacon dissection of my own mortal fears and, after a brief turn, I find my mind has shifted to a more metaphorical mode for mining. Pin in that. I also need to write a play I’m thinking of two men and ancillary characters on Skype or otherwise video. Now I think this can inform the one-man play, ultimately as well. I need a wee workshop. That’s what Afterglow is all about. The mirroring of the first seven-year cycle of the festival with a family of artists who’ve moved on. We are at a critical year.
Jude Law always seems proud of how widely he can open his mouth.
Many ideas and impressions flowing, flirting with mania, and finding some genius, finally. Two projects. The one-person thing. Get it out, get it down and move it around.
I expect this will be a lean year—Afterglow is not about presenting performance stars as it is having a hand in creating them.
Provincetown is America’s oldest continuous fine-arts colony as well as the birthplace of modern American theater. It is where the Mayflower and pilgrims first actually landed. Provincetown is home to famed Hawthorne School whose painters included Robert Motherwell, Hans Hoffman, TK; and the world class PAAM museuem, a sister entity of New York City’s Guggenheim. It’s modern theatrical group, the Provincetown Players, led by Eugene O’Neill and Susan Glaspell, also had it’s brick and mortar Provincetown Playhouse in Greenwich Village. Provincetown is in many ways an original; yet it is soul-linked to NYC. Starsky + Cox, along with other cultural figures like playwright Tony Kushner, novelist Michael Cunningham, poet Eileen Myles, Rachel Maddow, Ryan Murphy and many notable New York deigners, directors, writers, actors and editors, retailers and have homes here; and still more spends summers, as it is at once the chicest resort hot spot and the most charmingly original fishing village in America.
I have been sleeping like I’m made of marble. I am so physically exhausted by the end of the day I can’t even look at television. I just finish up in the kitchen—we’ve been on soup only pretty much for last ten days, hearty soups though—and after that I’m not to full to lie down. It is very February. Super bleak and wet and cold and I’m getting really deep into it. The kitchen scenario is so sick right now—running like a machine; and the effects are catching to other areas of the S+C household. It’s getting super fun and super creative up in here. I’m happy we’re going to be tackling the next few big projects together. And what do I have better to do this time of year in New England?
Yes, typically, at this time of year, I am in some balmy clime. But, this year we really made the choice to see winter through here and do a lot of dreaming and scheming while digging through all the stuff of our lives deciding what’s archive material and what’s debris. It’s going to be fun to go through all the old boxes and be able to indulge in all the design magazines and such we bring up. It’s wonderful to be able to enter back into the world of asthetics. I’ve been feeling lacking on that score.
Bikram is now just a week away and I can’t tell the world how excited I am to get back into the hot room. It’s been a long three years of recover from car accidents and such; and it’s going to be such a joy to be back in my body. It kind of goes with the whole Spartan existence thing. I wonder what I might indulge in this weekend that won’t put me off my game too much. I guess it’s small doses of organic red wine for me. That’s about my top speed now. But getting old isn’t all bad.
My dreamscape has been absolutely nutso which I also credit to the lack of inebriates in my bloodstream. I have stones on my desk with strange assignations like “action items” and “songs”; that just goes to show the level of priorities going on around here. What is an action item, you ask? Well it’s a certain instruction given to a client or reader to help them to exercise a part of themselves that’s abandoned, ignored or atrophied.
Rather more of the same. But super zeroing in. And am ready, actually, to tackle another whole stack of papers in the corner, with their many random notes and ideas, and the off ephiphany, funneling these into their proper slots.
I have put a green notebook bedside to recall dreams and early and middle of the night lying awake thoughts, plans ideas, recollections, insights and the like, hoping it will catch something.
Several nights ago I dreamed I was in a large house I owned in “Wellfleet”, which was more like an in-harbor town looking down somewhat from a cascading hill onto a town set on an estuary. So water was a walk away. The house was gothic in style, with a wrap-around porch with an ornate sort of bannister work in wood. (out of dream)
The other day, S asked or said or something about resentments being heavy. Oh, yeah. I seem to always make a dent in the bed as If I weighed two-forty or something. I’m not my thinnest but surely there must be more to this than just being fifteen pounds overweight—bone density or something. Most people weigh more than I do. We ordered a foam pillow top for the mattress, which I thought would solve everthing. Nope. Now just a deep slope of foam. My side of the bed is like Wales. The foam top has the consistency of silly sponge which I love. The thing was really heavy. I loved silly sponge as a kid; and to a lesser degree, silly string.
I’d like to learn how to make a simple sponge cake. I think I’ll put it on my to-do list. I believe it will be the 1,114th item on it. I miss writing by hand—remember: most of all I’m typing up here now was written free-hand first. I thought it would make a better product and enable me to clean up spelling and grammar as I go. I promised myself I wouldn’t change actual roll out of words nor slick or spice up as I go.
I find it an exercise in mindfulness creating content sream of consciousness. (back to the dream)
It was an ornate, gothic meets Victorian house but it wasn’t tall but rather more horizontal and arts and crafts like in floor plan. Still the rooms looked 19th century, dark greens and deep reds then light greens and pinks and white. One might suspect an elevator, cased in ornate wood, to be lurking around the corner. Where all the rugs are oriental, and innumerable large potted plants of varying leafy and spiky varieties cast giant shadows on walls down hallways. Darkening damusk and the hour was dusk. I could tell, looking out and down onto the waterside village as the sky was lit by the newly set sun, stars twinkling in palest blue. You know those moments when you do realize yourself the embodiment of this orbiting orb in space able to perceive and reach out to the other sparkling spheres out there, feeling a sense of holding hands all together over space.
Lamps were burning in the rooms. I entered back through a wooden screen door, the sort that slams and must be stopped and eased into place with your ass, gently. The house was filled with people coming and going in groups, singly, all overlapping at atonal intervals (like I hope life can be) , the way it often feels in Provincetown.
I don’t know if I’ve ever said this before but sometimes the voice in my head is an old African-American woman. She will blurt out things suddenly like: “Teresa”. Or sometimes she will scold or impart advice in a weird, wood-cabin Southern vernacular. It’s just the way it is if you’re me and you really listen. There are other sounds though not voices. And hers doesn’t make me question my sanity…much. Not this noggin which has been stretch to psychic limit more times than I’d care to admit. I have come closer to an actual Altered States experience than anyone I, you, or probably anybody, know. That will certainly go (back) into the show. I need to wipe the slate clean and get things close to the edit. It will be a bit of a challenge but it has to happen. I would like to get the sponsor letter out by Friday. and I really don’t see why not. Put it on the list! Along with create Wikipedia page. I am going to figure out a way to hire a new assistant. It is way overdue. Bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan.
It has been on the list to go through last year’s Black Book. And it relates to what we were speaking about the other day which is the metaphorical mining. I have many ways to do this, mainly, because I’ve been writing this Blague for, count ’em, three years. I am entering my fourth year. Before the new cycle begins, I will be mining some of what was written last year, just for a couple of weeks, reading back, and collecting certain “data” to layout the o-p-s, the ops. Isn’t their a god called Ops. I will look this up. I get a feeling it’s someone important associated with a chief god with a more recognizable name. Even the god of the Jews has a name. In this way the Christian “father” is more abstract, distant. Or perhaps I project the qualities of my own biological father onto the Sun. You wouldn’t have liked him much, trust me. Okay going to Google Ops. Wiki says: “Ops, more properly Opis, (Latin: “plenty”) is a fertility deity and earth-goddess in Roman mythology of Sabine origin. Her husband is Saturn, the bountiful monarch of the Golden Age. Just as Saturn is identified with the Greek deity Cronus, Ops is identified with Rhea, Cronus’ wife.” Like I said. It’s the archetype of the Capricorn woman and I was just musing on the fact that Capricorn women really do use what they have. The sign’s motto is I use and while others might get something new and seek to preserve it, Capricorn women love to begin wearing things in.
Ready to start reviewing last year’s black book, into which I write ideas. Oh right! I was saying that I was into mining my own stuff. This is one way I’m doing it. It is on yesterday’s theme, too, of I Use, which I touched upon or rather bounced off of like a pinball. It’s one of the elastic elements of my psychology or my psychosis, the twain of which seem ever to meet. It is definitely an action item, with a Capricorn theme, getting folks to Use what they have.
On a totally unrelated note I’ve decided the “color story” this year for the festival will be olive and pimento; and so i picture a burst with a red core that bleeds into orange and yellow and then green-yellow and then olive green into a darker green-black and then finally almost red-tinged at the periphery.
Some words regarding the design project include Ted Mueling, hair items greek Jane Austen Neo classic. Things “conjured into being” like the Middle Earth rings of power. And once we get into this next phase of Blague it will be on the theme of “A Year of Living Cosmically. It might have nice things about born this week. I need to redesign the Twitter pages and there should be something to do with a “consciousness caché sort of thing. We are the fairy godparents of the mysticore movement. Also there is the blue book idea and my color-idea, you know what I’m talking about. All of this has to be packaged and trumpeted to the masses.
One of the stories I put into OPS can be the story of how I was hit by a schoolbus. Maybe that explains it. It is a good story. I’ll write about it tomrrow. It occurs to me that I don’t have a problem completing things I have a problem not completing things.
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.