Capricorn 16° (January 6)
Epiphany indeed. I was up for most of the night again but this time it was because I was glued to the set. I didn’t go to sleep until I was convinced that Dems were going to win both seats. I am going to offer up my fatigue today in thanks. Patience wearing thin, I wrote to counsel, and am having some soft expectations. More validation on El Fuckface yesterday from yet another longtime Wellfleetian. After doing some clean-out yesterday, dropping a weight on my foot, icing it all night, I woke up with it feeling better, totally convinced now that nothing is broken. My eyesight is really blurry. I need rest. Today was meant to be such a good day and yet it wasn’t. This was the day that the deplorables stormed the capitol. It is impossible to fathom. They seem to have been let in. I need to rework my schedule. All bets are off. So much for dry January. I made a delish flounder with green beans and fingerlings. Then we just got drunk and watched MSNBC. There is little more to say.
The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of Blagues, nos. 1400-1405. 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.
So bummed that this snow globe of a world will prevent us from driving to Boston today to see JCM and Amber perform. Truly gutted. Oh well, what can you do. I took my life in my hands just driving down the road to go food shopping in Orleans. I had some moments where I truly thought, I’m going to spin out into oncoming traffic. But I just went slow and followed the existing single tracks, even on a double-lane one-direct road—otherwise, trying to create new tracks, one would all too easily go into a skid. With economic choreography I did all the shopping and then headed to Eastham to hit the PO. I passed a packed parking lot, this place called the Red Barn, so I stopped there for a moment to use the facilities and answer correspondence. The place was filled with some alt-right looking folks with a slew of young kids; I got a vibe that it was some kind of post sports thing or party. Otherwise why would so many children be dragged out for pizza on one of the most dangerous driving days of the year. It was weird. Like they had all just landed there. This giant black truck pulled up next to me with this twenty something guy with something red white and blue of a bandana or something hanging from his rearview. He had on a baseball cap of course and I got a very Jesusy vibe. Why are the most close-minded folks freaks for that two-thousand plus year old hippy whom they probably would have beat to a pulp had they met in person. So strange to me.
You know how the internet seems to know what you’re on about? Specifically, how Facebook shoots you ads for things you were looking up, or someone in your household was Googling for, and it feels kind of spooky when the only horror about it is you’re being gently hacked all the time for the purposes of greed? Well life’s own synchronicities are something like that only grander, more cosmic and not sinister.
I am made all too well aware of my body when I get stoned which is the reason why not to do it. I think it is a nerve thing. I’ve always been wired that way, highly strung I guess.
Some snippet of writing so far today: Following Capricorn, cardinal-earth, which correlates, among other things, with the old-guard and the edification of tradition, comes the eleventh sign of Aquarius breaking through all that with avant-garde aplomb. The energy is both revolutionary and evolutionary. The sign’s ruler Uranus is the awakener, sudden and sweeping. Named for the god of the universe it points that which is ahead of its time—the eleventh astrological house rules the future—and and all that is new to explore, and what uncharted territory, metaphysical or otherwise, one can boldly get into. That Aquarius people are known to be quirky or freaky is more than pop-astrology, it speaks to the mutant energy of the sign. Aquarius is the future in the present, the sudden and sweeping mutation, the oddity, by which, nevertheless, the future unfolds and, literally, all species evolve. The notion of evolution is thus encoded into the ancient Zodiac—those crazy Mesopotamians! The male and female Aquarian chapters in our book Sextrology are called The Visitor and The Vision, respectively. The former refers to the alien quality of the men of the sign, in particular, as if they are visitors from outer time-space; while the latter speaks to the revelatory energy of the sign, something which women of the sign, especially, embody.
Even the fact that Uranus is named for the Greek god of the Universe, while all the other planets bear the Roman verions of their mythic namesakes, suggest something of a departure from the norm that characterizes the sign of Aquarius. Uranus, meaning sky or heaven, has many a debatable and probably composite etymology. We derive the modern word urine from the name, and most root words have watery origins and associations, like “to moisten”—it is said that Aphrodite emerged from the sea fertilized by Uranus’ castrated bits (Saturn struck him down just as he was later struck down by his own usurping son, replacing him as chief god). Uranus is associated specifically with dew, which parallels Aquarius woman’s association with the goddess of the dawn. Ruled by this starry god the universe, and placed opposite Leo (ruled by the Sun) on the astrological wheel, Aquarius is associated with distant suns, a single star, if not the infinitely sparkled heavens filled. In the Tarot, the Star card depicts the astrological Water Bearer. This is the fixed-air sign, which translates to a point, or countless points, of light.
I had so much anxiety this morning. I needed drugs and by that I mean Netflix. So I watched the entire series of The Umbrella Academy which, despite some talented-actor moments, was truly bad. I think if something comic-bookish is going to work, since the premise is always fantastically preposterous, that it has to achieve certain artistry. I liked the one actor who played Klaus but of course the one gay character also has to be the comic relief—we haven’t ventured very far from Paul Lynde’s Uncle Arthur on “Bewitched”.or the early writing and portray of Jack on “Will and Grace.” Klaus is also a heroin addict which makes sense since he looks a lot like Billy Hough thirty years ago. Now Billy Hough looks like Skeletor. He’s just one of those people who have managed to pull the wool over the (only) famous people he targets for friendships, appealing to their vanity as much as his own. I just have this strange, sweeping and sudden realization of being alone in a world that I no longer recognize; and the need for me to do something with that realization. I must develop accordingly. I must launch myself into some self-preserving and yes -serving endeavor where I need not the affection of those who cannot (any longer) provide it, which is fine. Self-sufficiency doesn’t come easy for those of us who have lived co-dependent existences fueled by grossest dysfuntion that slapped us in the face as we exited the womb. Can one be thrown to the wolves and raised by them at the same time. I wonder.
If my fascist father who “gave up on me” because I couldn’t play football or softball by the time I was three would have had any class at all he would have recognized that I might be a good skiier, or play soccer fairly well, or be quite good at tennis. My inability to be him was his excuse so early on for not having to deal with me at all. I do think that when it was just my sister and my parents he maybe even came home early for dinners and they were all three of them a family. But my mother’s father died a month or so before I was born and my maternal grand mother became unwell and had surgeries and needed extra attention mainly, staying with us in my infancy and such. I think he needed any excuse in the book not to come home until around 10PM at night which was pretty much his schedule for the entirety of my growing up. And in summer he would ship us off to the Jersey shore and not live with us at all during the week. That’s just the way things were. I didn’t have much in the way of community growing up. My parents didn’t belong to anything. It was a very dysfunctional upbringing and because of that I’ve struggled to be healthy of mind, body and spirit. I was an unfotunate target early on of unwanted advances shall we say. But even that has made me stronger I believe.
About my interaction with EM: She’s not a great person as has more recently come to light. She caused me a lot of pain and a lot of stress and some real financial cost. But I think the worst of it is being blamed for taking issue. That symptom cause thing is always such a gag. I have faith that the truth will always be known. That is my hope and wish.
More about Aquarius: This is the fixed-air sign, which translates to a point, or countless points, of light. The air element symbolizes both thought and social experience, that which is in the air, if you will. The buzzy mutable-air sign of Gemini translates to thought and information; the cardinal-air sign of Libra signifies thought forms, ideals, principles that can be put into action; while the fixed-air sign of Aquarius is about hard and fast truths. The sign’s motto is the emphatic I know—when we receive a revelation it comes on suddenly, swiftly and absolutely and it alters our truth and consciousness irrevocably.
The dawn itself is a metaphor for revelation, an awakening. Aquarius women tend to be bearers of truth, glad tidings, that might uplift others; they draw upon the archetype of the “descending goddesses” who would bring good news to mankind (and who fell in love with mortal men). In addition to Eos, goddess of the dawn, this includes Iris, goddess of the rainbow (a very Aquarian symbol—the eleventh house rules diversity in sexuality and gender—divergence being akin to sudden spin-offs in mutation), the goddess Hebe weds Heracles, who, via their union is raised from a mortal to immortal. Hebe, goddess of youth, is the female cup bearer to the gods who, by her grace, pours out the nectar, the manna, that preserves their immortal life and youth.
This Leaving Neverland documentary is hard to take on so many levels, not least of which is the abuse of withholding his love and attention from the boys he molested (and manipulated into falling in love with him), burdening them with such dark secrets to bear alone. To me that is the cruelest bit about it. I wonder who in Jackson’s you life molested him in this fashion. One of the older 5? Parents? Who knows but I can guarantee this pattern didn’t start with M.J. but wow did it ever go out of control. To have all that money to build an entire ranched designed for pedophilia is like ancient Rome type level perversion. It is so very shocking. And yet there are those, like MJ’s other pre-pubescent companions, who will claim that it was an impossibility. Anyway, far too much of this morning will be spent watching this shite. And there will be more phone and Skype calls with friends to plan trips to hotels and spas; and frankly I’m just sick of the constant distractions. It occurs to me that I need some kind of agreement between the two of us on the subject of anything we are jointly taking in. I am not loving this day, but I will somehow have to find some kind of throughline to make it all make sense. At times everything just seems to fizzle into nothingness. We had an agent approach us, someone we’ve known for awhile, but instead of wanting to hear our idea, s/he had an idea for us to do. How is that supposed to work? Why don’t we just pull book ideas out of a hat instead. I mean really. I know I can’t do everything right but I’m tired of the must-be-doing-something wrongs. I am going to take a major step back and try to find something that makes my heart sing again. I left the world of publishing for a reason: the constant run-around. If I’m going to reenter it it’s going to be on my own terms. Seriously.
Stoned immaculate makes so much sense to me. I remember the feeling well as a youngster in the pure suburban late spring air and sunshine, being so overtaken, a cow in the distance, walking through the tall grass with friends so many astride, what a glorious feeling to be young and alive and anonymous. The 1970s had so much breadth. Mornings walking to middle school in March when the earthworms would emerge and you had to step over them and puddles while some would cut the poor creatures in half—I don’t remember of they became two different worms or not. I do know that from the primordial Pisces ruled time and ooze these two gendered wrigglers emerge. We are this close today to being totally amazing. And I’m going to do it. I’m also giving myself something of a genuine last hoorah. I have to turn the corner with the changing of the time this coming weekend. The ensuing spring bids me back to my body. I want to buy a windbreaker. I want to ride my bicycle. I want to be in the breeze. It’s a long time coming this winter as lamby as it was for much of it, this last leg is going to make for a cold spring too me thinks. It’s all part of the divine unfolding, even these banal things. I get glimpses of the future I also feel for myself in my process.
I remember the optimism I felt when….when….oh dear, I just lost that thought. I was probably referring to a composite of various times in our lives. Let’s say it was when our first book was just coming out and there was this exhilirating sense of the unknown and the unknowable. I can get back to that garden. Oh I know I was thinking about the advent of moving from Myspace to Facebook and how it felt so connecting and modern and fun and like we were all onto something new and beneficial. It did feel like a legitimately new world. And in my more recent past we spent winters in Los Angeles and it was so affordable to do so. I’m going to need to be at the top of my game again very very soon. Like tomorrow really. C’est bien possible. Tout est possible. It will be smart for me to keep a low profile, again, if only for the next several weeks. I love Courtney Barnett. I’ve just sipped the last sip, metaphorically speaking. So I will continue this a little later (and by that I mean tomorrow). One of my goals (once again….and I say once again because lost in the annals of this Blague somewhere is some similar treatise) is to begin, on day one of Spring, with an integrated plan and social-media presence. So much on the brain today. I can feel the tide turning for the better and yet I am all cramped up in anticipation of the inevitable extinction burst.
The writing is on the wall in any case. I have to be pristine now in so many areas. This new venture is going to require so much fortitude and my fear is that I won’t devote (or won’t be allowed to devote) as much creativity to it as it needs. That is why for me it must dovetail with other efforts and other emeans of manifestation. We will get into all of that…
Wishing you were somebody you’re not, or that you are someone else, is certainly a sin. I want to get to the crest of the wave, paddling as fast as I can, and to stay there and ride it awhile. Right now what I need most to do is remain dissolved. One has to go inward even to find ones kindred spirits. I imagine it is end of summer and I head back into Boston, on the ferry. I find my pool to swim in; I make dates with people. I practice tennis. I receive acupuncture. I run my thriving non-profit organization. This shall be my legacy. I will appeal to the venues to help keep artists moving. I will launch a propganda campaign about the importance of Provincetown’s legacy of experimental performance. Every venue will get the same schpiel. There will always be a place in Provincetown, year-round, for the festival. We can move it to a proper theater or take to the high school or to vixen or the Harbor or Provincetown hotels. The point is we can make is happen, anything happen, by talking about it every day. Luke Perry is dead and won’t be talked about for very long. Farrah Fawcett without the Michael Jackson effect.
Feeling pretty triggered these last two days since Leaving Neverland. It’s like I actually miss those two men Wade and James. I wasn’t loved and molested by Michael Jackson but I did have a very serious like-siutation starting when I was just eleven. So I really relate and the film really started to undo me quite a bit. There are more of us than we all know. Again I always say that the biggest irony to come to light will be that the supposedly miniscule unicorn population of bisexual men, those we suspect make up the least amount of the LGBTQ community are actually the most abundant majority of the entire male population. Six percent of men may be gay but of the remaining straight I would say at least eighty were really bi. And even the straight ones would bend it for Beckham let’s face it. I realize as I write this that I’ve been pretty preoccupied with the subject since watching that film. I never think of myself as being repressed because I’m pretty out about who I am and the experiences I’ve had, dating back to when I was that chicken tender. That word chicken is so Everything You’ve Always Wanted To Know About Sex But Was Afraid To Ask. At least that was the first time I heard it. Imagine a word like that emerging in this present climate. I mean even the fact that there was an acceptable word to mean, well let’s face it, an underage bit of trade, well that’s just sad. And yet there are far sadder things about our society today overall. The naiveté of what was taboo at that time is just proof of how carefree a time it was comparatively.
Over the past couple of years I have undergone a near complete change of the friendship guard. It was exactly seven years that I had met and finished with an entire group of people. It’s so strange how accurately that time span can represent an era. But it truly does. The only friends that truly matter I feel are the ones you’ve had since forever; and i’m very fortunate to have childhood friends and high school friends and all the friends i met in college and just thereafter who represent my closest bonds. Even the small stint I did in 1986 in Cambridge—having returned from Paris in May and by the end of the next summer I was already living in NYC—where I worked at a restaurant, The Harvest, in Harvard Square—I mean, I met so many great people that particular year with whom I’m still close and that was just a waystation. The prior year in Paris yielded my main lifelong posse and, oddly, I have most of my acquaintances from the twenty plus years I lived in NYC but no real true friends. Strange that. Anyway, so many incredible and new things now on the horizon and I feel as if I have exited some long, dark period of mourning. At least I know this about myself: I do process things pretty fully, if with a little backlash!
The other night I dreamt about Karen Siegel. I finally saw her and confronted her and asked her why she never made an effort to keep in touch. I suppose it happens. Though I dare say I would like to find her one day. The same with Sharon Pierce maybe. I don’t even know if she spells it Pearse or Pearce; that’s how unimportant such things were with good friends. Anyway, today is really tough. We had a come to hey-Zeus moment last evening; it really is a result of not holding regular meetings and things getting all second guessy and bottled up. Anyway, after some frustration we will push through today. I’m going to get back to the abandoned Bundy doc—it was creeping me out weeks ago when I started and so I had to stop. New Moon as of this morning so I am ready to move on! I think because I am nearing the end of one big slice of annoying busy work that I am feeling a bit freer already on that score. I’m having fun for the most part, being creative, and if I don’t look to carefully at my schedule I don’t feel too crazy.
I’ve just connected with this character called Nicholas Kahn whom I apparently grew up with, having gone at least through middle and high school together. There was a friend suggestion on the dreaded Facebook and I looked at our mutual connections and it was a hodgepodge of old friends and current connections. Weird. Anyway it turns out that he is this amazing artist that works in collaboration with I’m guessing his partner. I will find out more as time unfolds I think. But the crossover here seems a bit on the endless side. Anyway I asked JCM if he know him and he didn’t but now he is following him which is great. I’m not sure he follows me, even, but I always seem to be beside the point in these equations. I was thinking about New Year’s Eve when so and so invited friends of ours to their house but we who introduced them were conveniently left off the invite list. I’m nost sure why that is a trend but it is rather reoccuring a theme. The way I interpret it is: I’m meant to process this sort of thing in this life and rise above and keep the focus on myself. I’ve always been other orientated so it’s hard. I’m very sensitive by nature and have gotten hurt easily in situations where others might just be like who cares. But I take things in quite deep and it has often taken be a long time to get over hurts. That coupled with the fact that I have never had the best taste in friends—I tend to link up with the narcissistically self-obsessed.
I think this bring me full circle back to the Karen Siegel bit. I have no idea how or why I never heard from her again. It really does weird me out; and it makes me think that perhaps she stayed a friend at the time because she had to on some level. Probably because her brother nearly killed me when he pulled out and we got hit by a school bus which caused me a major injury and amnesia. I don’t really care all that much though I have to say
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.