Cancer 1° (June 21)

First full day of Summer and a new moon and I have precious little to say, I’m afraid. I like the notion of taking a little time for myself today, and the turning of a major corner, but I really have zero to say about life events right now unfortunately. So I’m going to let this day just float by, and if I have some notes to add as a result of my reading various chapters tomorrow then so be it. I should be going for a dip but even that feels a bit tricky and dangerous. Here are some Gmini man thoughts:

• Operator, can’t sit still, always setting wheels in motion

• Urbane, man on pavement, ear to ground, finger on pulse of cultural (local) experience
• Quintessential insider, infiltrates milieus that strike fancy, forming allicances, ringleading
• Sets own rules, rabble rouser, voicing needs of common folk, rogue, anti-establisment.
• Drawn to media driven professions, commercial exchange of ideas, revolving cast of characters
• Craves stimulation, interaction with family friends, private clubs, lodges, cliques
• Partygoing, playboy drawn to homegirls along American dream theme.
• Same sex irascible fun loving, negotiates exploring “scene” against unbreakable brotherly bond

sidebar principle the principle of consciousness where Ares is objective Taurus objective Gemini step to 15 next leave you experience from both angles at once text in impression and information at the same time delivery is on messages and agenda interaction it’s all about master of Commerce communication all such exchange sign motto I think

Gemini ruled by Mercury smallest orbit around sun echoes Twins inclination for inside tracking my always close at hand hotbed of activity. Planet namesake Romans Messenger Mercury Hermes represent pure intelligence astrological principle of consciousness 3rd house attribute of Commerce community communication Aries masculine objective tourist subjective female Gemini two way St both dynamics simultaneously. Hermes neutered or bisexual combining Aphrodite or map roditis

Mercury rule Gemini fitting traditionally masculine it’s mutable every third side. Dualistic neutral istic synthesizing 2 signs that preceded. Gemini info maniacal putting his own notions in motion objective subjective. Combination masculine and feminine energy add up to being a CDC in sexuality too. Mercury God crossroads streetwize DMT downtown with the load out. Sprightly pinky God geminid character involved in handshaking really dealmaking Internet level of human interaction

combining objective subjective first individual in the Zodiac to step out of narrow personalized view of experience existence and focus on what’s happening outside of themselves field of experience. The glyph hands outstretched antenna attuned, all about plugging into immediate surroundings. 3rd house immediacy in terms of time and space the quick and dirty here and now . He lacks patient long range planning are pitfalls the first bright lights big city thinker . Scrappy St survivalist notoriously clever anticipate others needs and lose during situations to his advantage

sidebar planet symbol recall wink at God also caduceus representing  dualistic nature of life antenna symbol emergent human mind from integration of divine circle and earthly cross

Mercury God merchants thieves conducts toll to Hades psychopomp Gemini have their own underworld connection 3rd house Guilds gangs fraternities organization immediate family quotes intimates kith and kin emphasis. Small networks band of borthers.

3rd house immediacy also equals instant gratification constant stimulation information they have hub of excitement. Also need to experience life in the hood small orbit lifestyle advance being surrounded by heavy trip of cronies. Steady pool of easily acceptable female playmate. Science corresponded to age 14 to 21 gymnast Max with teen spirit somewhat anxious attitude toward romance sexuality schoolyard Romeo continually perfecting his spiel, Sales pitch till after it ingenious courtship rituals food companions Goodfellow. Gemini lives in world contingent on pecking orders him at the top. Associates with guys he can boss around. With opposite sex like you ternal high school dance field of activity friendly business outside preoccupation. Is worth determined by caliber of arm candy. While Taurus get the boudoir gigolo Gemini is presentable daytime escort Papa Roxy ready Playboy. Easily impressed over excited embarrassed by sexual exploits bragging to buddies or sheepishly avoiding the subject. Process of courtship that thrilled , playing field, like he is a material character in business

Sidebar sign quadrant portent we need to communicate communicate with small circles of friends interchange of idea information Commerce. Find glyphs duality pairs of opposite divine soul mortal body negotiating via human consciousness mind.

whatever career Gemini acts the upstart , juvenile disregard rule , riding roughshod, reputation it’s renegade . Can’t do by rote must shake it up and fly by the seat of his pants surviving pilot living on earth design rules nervous system. Expert at pony tricks questionable tactics Mercury patron jumpers jumpers magician

Bible biting into that Apple duality . Gemini most aware love his metaphoric they get there is visibility in the world just as he is proud to focus on the naughty and nice bits of everybody else design personified knowledge of good and evil fall off it. She is pure unadulterated consciousness on full throttle. Crossroads the whole of his experience process of synthesizing disparity. Fires on double barrel contract ING and conflicting sentiment. At hairpin turn the friendliest and pierces character. Smiling 1 second hearing the next. Swings between emotional extremes one big mixed message

beautiful hair changeable on intellectual and social plane. Aligned with flarity embodies black-and-white duality and every shade of Gray in between. Twin people both sides of every coin simultaneous . Multiple personality while Gemini woman split form . He strives to establish boundaries in life she works for resolve and synthesis

tough nut to crack. Hormonally raging team. Most difficult to find to understand. His exuberant makes him easy to love but he is the hardest to trust. In relationship rules change constantly 1 second follow me next kicking up storm. Bible being cast out of the garden and bliss

page 101 I love it is quality there equals social experience beautiful versatility and change Gemini best illustrated as ether static electricity information pure consciousness deadline

scrambling to survive in the world existence is chaos free for all no rules but every man for himself . Crux of Cain and Abel story each of whom had a twin sister . About pending for themselves in the wilderness. Even when born with a silver spoon in mouth he may be overshadowed by circumstances or other sibling and that he has to make good for himself. Against with creating a buzz about himself mutable air bravado employee trickster affectation in short putting on a very good show.

Robin Hood, male sprite, Oberon’s gofer, Robin of Sherwood god of thieves stricter roges, wastrels. Antihero, good-guy gangster. Fonzie is another type. You can’t disagree with a Gemini can never admit he is wrong. Ever changing moods, he’s the boss, exists on the Power of his own Postive Thinking. He must adopt hard and fast prefudices and bottom lines and rationalizations or he might second-guess everything he says or does.

polarity he is like Adam having just bitten into the Apple bastion of conscious perceptions buzzy ideas walking talking news bulletin human rolodex myriad connections opinions advice on all subjects

all comes down to outsized fear of death the biggie of them all mortality and immortality the price paid for consciousness Castor and pollux the diascuri cast your falls Pollock strikes a bargain half the year in Olympus half in Hades. All about bird imagery soul taking flight from body achieving immortality Gemini wants to make a mark to be remembered hearts and minds. This is why he’s going. Dancing as fast as he can whistling in the graveyard. Peter Pan and the complex that bears his name he turned off 14 to 21 year old attempting to escape the proverbial hook Neverland no time keeps to his flock so not to be picked off. His goosie frame of mind has roots in early childhood. His surroundings may have seemed stable but anything but.

sign number that of circumstance 3 events happen in threes experience has a beginning middle and end third party perspective knowing the difference between dual forces number of life cyclical nature couple giving birth to a child

parents may stay together for appearance sake. Home environment is dual. Static in both senses of the word stagnant and fraught. Parents preoccupied with their ongoing drama father typically off somewhere in Neverland mother is strong but agitated disciplinarian iron fist. Twins finds solace in siblings some friends his age. Mother may complain about her husband to the Gemini even sending him on spying missions. Gemini is the go between mother scout but father’s accomplished too delivering apologetic missives. Gemini may distrust other males except for those in his gang whom he rules. Strives to please mother wanting to win good boy Pat on head. Eventually strikes a bargain of vague interaction formalized indifference with his father. Still Gemini will tell you he had a happy childhood . He doesn’t know he’s over compensating playing the big shot Playboy operator ringleader as a means of healing his hurt for being ignored as a child.

Body and soul. Working the room edgy enthusiasm shaking hands kissing cheeks polishing connections running the show social setting . Organizing outings with friends colleagues calling meetings aghast when associates don’t work at his Quicksilver pace. Professionally too has a pack coterie of insiders handpicks Hotshots following his self styled example. Street smart mien . Ultra slick flashy urbanite , gritty inner city chic, when artist or musician embrace the street spirit. Look of a working man. Famous geminis pointy eared chaps eternally boyish characters shot through with nervous energy an electric presence.

age 14 to 21 the teenage eternel bachelors rat pack mentality birdlike pecking order courtship ritual prankish punkish leader of a merry band mischievous juvenile delinquent

Gemini has style walks the walk snappy bouncy gate youthful confident talk the talk clear and deliberate form of speech over pronouncing each and every syllable. Self conscious employees wardrobe grooming to Telegraph image he wants to project that he is in the loop fashion conscious painfully trendy cosmopolitan looks a downtown sensibility. Fashion and music preferences inner city experience modish looks hint of street about them the zodiacs mutable air ether

wants to look hip and happening visible evidence of his Association with of the moment awareness 3rd house . Style never print more formal wants to communicate a humble neighborhood figure divorced from never divorced from common experience or ethos. Suspicious of bourgeois sensibilities and those who espouse them. When other guys in suits he might be in a fonzie variant of levis and leather. Peace for peace his garments carry a heavy price tag then the stuff shirts around him . Snazzy watch haircut trendy of the moment short laddish coughs. Gemini rules the hands penchant for rings reflections from his gesticulating mitts may ride motorbike or scooter make you real avoiding traffic

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 441-445. 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.  (For thirty days this paragraph will include this parentheses to say: I realized that in the summer of 2016 I actually didn’t post for some time, such that for the expanse of two months, I will continue to number the past Blagues, as above, five at a time, but there will be nothing to post from that period.)

(Crickets)

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

Cancer 0° (June 20)

Yeah, well, sometimes I need the writing of this Blague purely for the reason of sanity. It is relaxing not to have to type, and to get into the flow of speaking out the words instead of forming them through some coalition of brains, screen and fingers. I was watching the Cedar waxwing’s just now grateful that they’ve moved on to the second Cherry Tree meaning they’ll be around for awhile longer. They are the most special creature I think I’ve ever encountered; they’re like spiritual beings that float in every June. The early part of today was tough; it’s a bit of a slob going through Sextrology and encountering the past . It’s a little embarrassing actually to discover the ways in which the work is not as good as I thought it was. There is relief though and the two dimensionality of the work in a sense because we didn’t say a great many things in the end and we really focused on sex so I feel pretty free to say a great deal moving forward. And still there’s more nagging at me, the friendly cancellations, the accumulated gaslight, which at this point either threatens to unravel me even more or pushes me forward into a completely new era. I’m going to go with the latter and let success unfold. Today will see me turning a corner and that was the plan in any case; however we also found out that we might be taking a boat trip this summer after all—depending on border closures and so forth—and so I have extra added insensitive to make this switcheroo. We will be having lobster rolls for dinner tonight to commemorate the start of summer at 5:43 today, and then tomorrow is a new moon, so it is as good a time as any to make this change. Drove into Provincetown this a.m. and only about half the people are wearing masks. I do not get it. I am going to limit any contact of any kind, especially with that town. I’m not sure why it is that we have no more donations, especially as certain people said that they would be sending. Not sure what’s going on there but I’m certainly not going to push. It is a very hot day here on the eastern seaboard and I’m going to do precious little on the work front today. I just want to move things along as best I can and take a nice little break so that I can accomplish all that needs accomplishing. It really needn’t be too much of a stress at this juncture.

It’s kind of annoying around here these days thanks to the loud mouth farmer and all his redneck friends crowding the property all day. I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of good to say right now. I had to unsubscribe to someone’s newsletter because she sends too many of them and she has never worked a day in her life and fancies herself an indie-rocker when she is simply a spoiled trust fund baby whose mommy (who married someone super rich) bought her a house in Provincetown so she can do nothing but self promote and make terrible music. Besides she is friends with the evil theater director who tried to shake us down for money. Idea for a one-man play parody: The Night David Drake Extorted Me. That would be quite a good piece of art. I despise that creature, he is the absolute worst. He has fooled the world though. I have pretty much gotten to the point of realization that the worst people I have ever met are those who are in recovery programs for decades. They never seem to get any better, although I suppose they could be a lot worse. But the fact remains they pretty much stay the same. You’d think if you went to forty meetings a week something might transform in your psyche, but no. And how anonymous is it anyway. I mean if you go to a meeting in a petrie dish like Provincetown and say “there is this guy who runs a performance festival and he was really mean to me” then everybody knows you’re talking about me. Seriously, the worst people seem to  make these awful meeting rooms there stage for malignant narcissism and that’s really just about that. This is a very negative space for me to be in I realize but I just can’t help it. It’s really hot out and I’m aggravated.

But I can’t leave this post today on a negative note so I will try to get some positive vibes going here. I’m going to make fried corn and lobster salad and drink a lovely pink sparkling cabernet franc and take a hot shower and let loose some prayers. Tomorrow is going to be a very big work day; and I have to move a few mountains over the course of the next week. I truly cannot believe that the GOP is now quoting one of our friends in keeping LGBTQ legislation from happening in the senate. I don’t know how we got to this particular place to be honest.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 436-440. 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.  (For thirty days this paragraph will include this parentheses to say: I realized that in the summer of 2016 I actually didn’t post for some time, such that for the expanse of two months, I will continue to number the past Blagues, as above, five at a time, but there will be nothing to post from that period.)

(Crickets)

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

Gemini 29° (June 18)

Well someone is in very hot water. She is a news anchor that has been taking money from a disgusting guy for some time it seems. And not just a little money but a lot of money. I don’t know why I actually feel for this person but I do. Not only is there going to be no way she could ever pay back fifteen million dollars because she never made any money she only spent it; even I am shocked though that so much money went into her projects, with so little to show for it. I thought her benefactor was some kind of mob guy, or maybe was a money launderer. What I didn’t realize was that he was an accountant for a shoe company who embezzled from the company. That is so much worse somehow because he was obviously stealing just to impress her; as the theft began right around the time she started receiving the bulk of the dough. I still cannot believe that this is how this story is ending, or at least still unfolding. I wonder why Rick doesn’t go to jail? Why is he not charged with a crime? I actually don’t get how these things work.  I guess I’m not really sure how it will shake down but what I do know is, even though she is a horrible, greedy person with one of the worst brands of energy I have ever encountered, I still can’t help but feel a little bit bad for her—I know that sounds super strange but it’s true. I don’t want to imagine anyone being so upset or frightened. But, really, what is she going to do. There is no way in hell that she could ever get another job or that any of her (always failing anyway) projects could possible take flight. What was Rick thinking? Did he expect her to truly make it? Did he just plan on continuing to steal money from the shoe company? This is really quite absurd. And she will end up penniless and alone. Is that what is going to happen here? How will she ever take care of her child, not that she ever made her daughter the priority she should have been. I mean, the woman moved to the other side of the country. She wasn’t even loyal to the criminal who was feeding her all that dough. She took up with that creepy criminally minded douchebag, Hunter, as well. And I did a search and he pretends to be an aviation expert with his own private airline which of course is not true. He is a weasel man who wrote a (self-published) book called something really stupid. Actually he only co-wrote it. She is well into her forties by now and I think he might be thirty. Or he says he is. He also claims to be a Harvard graduate which he is not. There is a story in the Crimson about how he went to the extension school, which is not the same thing, by any stretch.

I hope people get what they deserve. These are the worst kind of individuals. Something that became quite clear toward the end. To leave your children. To be given (who would’ve thunk) these great sums of money and never ask where it came from. Even if one doesn’t ask, one doesn’t then take the money no questions asked. I actually feel for this person because I know how ill equipped she is to handle what is coming her way. Why do people feel that they deserve to live an exorbitant life off the misery of others. They stole someone’s livelihood. This must be criminal, no? How are they not already arrested. Why has the FBI not taken them away. These are the questions I am asking today. I finally got out to get a haircut by my octogenarian cutter. We also went for a majorly long walk on the beach which was quite a revelation. I watched two seasons of Fleabag, finally, one in the middle of the night. I am exhausted and a little bit behind but I’m going to do some major catching up over the next three days just so that I do not have to feel undue stress. I am aware of those who say they do not like me. But the thing is I don’t think I like them. So that would make us even. I have when people sink to the lowest common denominator. It is just too easy to do. By the same token I am shocked that certain friends have only become less and less in touch with reality. I tell you: Money really corrupts things. I’m looking so forward to riding the next wave into shore. On that note the ocean feels warm enough already to swim which is weird but I’ll take it.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 431-435. 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.  (For thirty days this paragraph will include this parentheses to say: I realized that in the summer of 2016 I actually didn’t post for some time, such that for the expanse of two months, I will continue to number the past Blagues, as above, five at a time, but there will be nothing to post from that period.)

(Crickets)

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

Gemini 28° (June 17)

The last couple of days have felt painful, not sure why exactly. But everything just seems so very empty and not because that is something new, but because it is the way it is and these present times are simply exposing the reality of the situation. I am cooking up a storm, and staying on top of work for the most part, but I am so aware, more than ever, of the ways I have personally been a target of cancel culture, mainly because I won’t kiss ass, I kick it. People have always gotten away with murder because they have plenty of people who want things from them (and to whom they give it); people literally get away with it. I remember moving to Provincetown and S. telling me how R. would sleep with people, mainly really young guys, in the early nineties, having unprotected sex, knowing that he was positive and infecting people; and that on one occasion in particular this kid found out and went to him crying his eyes out asking why didn’t R. tell him and that sociopath showed no remorse and told the kid it was his responsibility. And this R. person is someone who is worshipped ubiquitously to this day by people who privately admit he is at least a sociopath if not a psychopath. But S. still plays in a band with him and kisses his ass because when it comes to self-servingness people’s principles go right out the window. I brought many people to Ptown and most have them have sunk to the lowest common denominator, meaning that took up with the band of sociopathic follows that R. leads. This is the depths of the experience I’ve had in this town for nearly two cycles of seven years. I am finished with all of that now. I have done my level best to keep the spirit of Ptown’s live stage heritage alive but nobody gives a crap about that. All they want is to cling to their cult leaders. R. is not the only one. He inhabits and lords over the lowest rung of that hell. But there are other figures too, two of which leap to mind, both of whom have the same initials. The cancel culturalists. The ones who think they call the shots and by whom so many other people are impressed. But when you get close to them (as if that were possible) you see they are insecure puffs of smoke, pointing the finger, depressed and mean. Men in their sixties who are fourteen year old mean girls. I’m not sure how we as a culture got to such a place where our liberal ideals mean nothing in the face of what’s really important: a multipage spread in Architectural Digest.

I will do the best I can today, as it is all I truly can do. But the fact remains I don’t want to be bitter. I’m not bitter. I’m disappointed by the fact that the so-called bastion of artistry and diversity has turned into one of the worst elitist enclaves on the planet. I want to simply disappear from this environment into the kind of memory where one day someone wakes to ask, where did he go? It will be a good question. I have to figure out a way to disable my social media presence too. Fine for the brand to have one but I really can no longer sustain this book of face, for instance. It is something that must be sacrificed in favor of my happiness. We are finally returning to a more anonymous existence and I want to make the most of the fact, I truly do. I am saddened by the kinds of characters I’ve had to contend with in this place for so long. I fully now lost my interest in this environment which has been ravaged by the disease of superficiality. Everyone sinks or rises to their right level and I am now on the ultimate rise. I have tried to be helpful, I have tried to contribute as best I can. What I won’t suffer are these greedy fools who need so much and give so little. I’d like to say we had a good run but I’m not even sure that much is true. I will make the best of what is on offer. I will plow through. I will come up with great ideas and I will make magic in the process, but first I have to let go and enjoy this exile and let it rid me, like Circe, of the painful treatments of the past. I am willing to dig deep, deep, deep to come up with something. I am no longer anybody’s fool, I can tell you that. Credit due is not always credit given. I’ve decided to begin the great unraveling and to figure out a way to give to the cause without having too stress to much in the process. I think others are being so cavalier at this juncture, posting pictures of their perfect rooms and water views while pretending to care about the sick and dying from disease and the victims of brutality; but even pictures people post of themselves protesting are meant to telegraph to us who they are, not really to help the cause. Look at me, I’m out in the street with a mask on for a few minutes using protesting people behind me as props. I know that sounds cynical but I also know the personalities of whom I am speaking. I have known them for decades and some people will do anything for attention and social media audience build. I don’t want this. I want to go higher. I want to live in a world of peace a stillness and power. I have far too long cared what the person sitting next to me thinks. It is now time for people to mind what I am thinking and feeling and saying. With power goes responsibility this I realize

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 426-430. 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.  (For thirty days this paragraph will include this parentheses to say: I realized that in the summer of 2016 I actually didn’t post for some time, such that for the expanse of two months, I will continue to number the past Blagues, as above, five at a time, but there will be nothing to post from that period.)

(Crickets)

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

Gemini 27° (June 16)

And so here I am, back to random thoughts about people of the various signs.

Taurus man page 52 quiescent is that a word and yesterday and today notes To Do List also page 52 the spelling of Avant gardist Taurus man the Gardner Taurus woman the garden Aries man initiation initiative Aries woman the director of natural force embodiment of pure life force…………..the myth of Myrra from which we get the word Myrrh

we do say Aries man is the fat folk but I’m thinking actually it’s touristsAries man symbolizes life force carnal fire coursing through his veins Aries woman harnessing that power. Athena is a director of life force.

chapter says Aries needs to open his quote “viewer”. But I think we change this in the new book since it is Taurus that is myopic.

Aries nomadic, conquering herds and hordes, living “off the animal”  lots of fleece and mutton in contrast to Taurus where the Bull is the fructifying agent.

Everytime a Bull appears in mythology it becomes this kind of love-object. Zeus as the Bull beckons to be ridden, he does not force his maleness.

“The concept of male changes from Aries to Taurus dramatically.” And Gemini is both and in order to be so, successfully, he must be clever.

Aries Nomads versus agrarian farmer Taurus. He farms for friends and those to people his life. His life is his garden. b

What does myopic really mean and metaphorically speaking

theseus is careless forgets his commitment for something better ariadne as female Taurus archetype the one left behind ends up wedding dionysos Fact Check which would be another quincunxas Dionysus is Sagittarius archetype.

tourists sense is a superpower . What keywords signal super powers in the sidebars go back starting with Aries to figure that out

latency not mentioned in tourists psychology or in main text how he can win the right friends thinks the company he keeps is of utmost importance it’s actually who he sees himself as both men and women are huge namedroppers I think what we spoke about is

seeing that which is latent in others

Machiavelli was a Taurus. Throat gullet ingesting devouring relates to the minotaur. Garden needs to be fed and watered

note to make: note to may: in the tourist chapter we may flirt with the notion of the for instance gay male tourists Taurus um being so feminine as to border on trans sexual or be MTF transsexual but what we don’t do is discuss the trans Taurus man that is to say FTM to whom this chapter more holy applies. It’s finally funnily paradoxical

in the couplings section add words like marriage material to the gay combinations

Taurus. Body rule. Voice and taste and appetite, thirst, like garden Flowers thirsty Burlington

Taurus man Adonis add on a meaning Lord.

We have to speak about Taurus man being the Bull liking to cuckold. She does it too but not as a turn on.

we have cited all about Eve as analogous to Snow White fairy tale which is a retelling of the bio meth uh huh iron Io myth. But what we didn’t say was that what Eve wants most is applause. She wants praise more than anything else but she confuses it with love as does Taurus woman as a rule.

Kathleen will create security at all costs and get praised for doing so but poor substitute for love her choice

fixed earth glue a fixative that by which we keep things together create union Venus Taurus woman especially plays this part even if passive. Gabriela Collins brings everyone into a center

what happened you don’t love me anymore but am I bothering you by talking oh what if you loved me more than you do I have to tell you something or not I like getting a shift in but I have to say that the dictation is a very good tool for me good I am so like yes we put it on the To Do List today

Taurus women want what other women have. Kimmy Schmidt archetype. They actually learn through relationship with other women in particular. That’s the main takeaway from the Io myth. There should be a pop culture sidebar. Also Hannah in girls it wasn’t called women what sign Dakota Fanning Pisces and Aries.

The move from Pisces to Aries is like that from Dakota to Elle Fanning.

Taurus names. Get to Megan Fox. Cleo Demetriou (young!), Emily Alynlind (young!) Catherine Tate, Ellie Kemper. Amber Heard, Kelly Clarkson, Lana Condor, Lily Allen, Candice King., Gal Gadot, Adele, Carmen Electra, J. J., Kehlani,

Wonder Woman is both love object and superheroine, the two aspects being intertwined. Her “weapon” is a lasso of truth. A lasso draws one in. Very Venus. She flies an invisible plain. She let’s herself soar with total transparency. Maybe better for Leo?

Pisces people take our advice and implement it more than any other sign, client-wise.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 421-425. 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.  (For thirty days this paragraph will include this parentheses to say: I realized that in the summer of 2016 I actually didn’t post for some time, such that for the expanse of two months, I will continue to number the past Blagues, as above, five at a time, but there will be nothing to post from that period.)

(Crickets)

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

Gemini 26° (June 15)

I supposed if I’ve learned anything today it’s that I have a pretty terrible memory. I really thought that I had written this Blague every day for the last five and a half years. I knew there was a period a couple of years ago where I went months without writing and then actually wrote seven Blagues a day for months in order to catch up and fill that gap. What I didn’t realize was that in the summer of 2016 I stopped again and started up again, only to completely stop again for a few months—no surprise—the day after it won the election. Today, though this will appear on the June fifteenth post, I am writing this on the fourteenth, which is that birthdate of that monstrosity. It is time to invoke the gods for an end to this tyranny. And I suppose in some way I am accepting of the fact that I am temporarily relieved from the tyranny of sorting through old bits of text. And the good news is it will make next (the seventh) year’s process of writing this Blague that much easier, as I seek to categorize all my work to date into files that are at this point undelienated to me. The only thing is, in recompense, that I will need to write in things here instead, which is also fine, I hasten to add, because I will be going through mountains of other writing to create new departure points in thought for a creative project at hand. And so I accept what this Blague is telling (and giving) me; and anyway, I didn’t mean to lie to you dear reader. I truly believed I didn’t let a day go by without writing and I dare say I can’t imagine a single one of you (and I mean that litereally, in addressing my readership) will discover the truth of the matter. Still, please forgive my unwitting mendacity in all of this.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 416-420. 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.  (For thirty days this paragraph will include this parentheses to say: I realized that in the summer of 2016 I actually didn’t post for some time, such that for the expanse of two months, I will continue to number the past Blagues, as above, five at a time, but there will be nothing to post from that period.)

Originally excerpted June 8, 2016:

Library Journal

“While many astrologists lump the genders together under the signs, Starsky and Cox, who consult private clients in New York City, here separate the very different male and female qualities. For each of the 12 signs, there is a corresponding chapter that includes subchapters on men and women. Both genders are described in three ways: “Sign + Mind” covers general personality traits, “Body + Soul” indicates eerily accurate physical attributes and modes of expression, and “Sex + Sexuality” details sexual attitudes and behavior, the feature that is the most fun. These descriptions are accurate and entertaining, even encompassing gay and lesbian sexuality. The result is an extremely engaging, detailed book; readers will easily recognize themselves and their loved ones. Libraries that own Linda Goodman’s classic Love Signs will want this winner, a strong candidate for a Valentine’s Day display.-Marija Sanderling, Wells, ME (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.”

Publishers Weekly

“Juicy, gossipy and occasionally titillating, this astrology guide by New York authors Starsky & Cox explores the zodiac signs “from the perspective of gender, sexual identity and sexual behavior.” The authors contend that each astrological sign actually contains two signs-one male and one female-and that men and women of the same sign often manifest their sign’s energy in opposite fashions. Thus, a Capricorn man may be “an unadulterated sybarite who puts the pursuit of pleasure and laughs first in life” while his female counterpart usually sees life as “a long, hard road that requires pacing and careful negotiation.” Determined to give each sex its due share, the authors divide their book into 24 chapters (Aries Man, Aries Woman, Taurus Man, etc.). Each chapter contains a psychological profile of the sign, an analysis of the sign’s physical attributes and expressions and a description of the sign’s sexual attitudes and behavior. This last section can often be quite explicit, describing not only romantic ideals and compulsions but also specific positions and fetishes. In discussing Scorpio’s sexuality, for example, the authors declare that “of all the women in the zodiac, Scorpio may be the most open to anal sex.” In addition to the usual lists of famous sign natives, Starsky & Cox pepper their chapters with allusions to movies and books, artists and writers-J.D. Salinger, Matthew Barney, Sylvia Plath-making this book a good choice for stargazing bookworms and artists. Also notable is their decision to consider both straight and gay relationship matches. In their introduction, the authors declare that the zodiac is “a mandala of human existence,” and their book gives readers a chance to contemplate that mandala in all its variations. (Feb.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.”

—————–

Originally posted November 9, 2016:

It’s not like I don’t have enough (writing) to do, but I must bring back the Cosmic Blague as a daily practice, now, if only for my own sanity. And maybe some bits of yours. Let’s hope. The knee jerk reaction is: Today is a dark day. And in large part that is true. That said, it also feels like an opportunity to stop doing things the same way and expecting different results—the definition of insanity. My first go-round of the Cosmic Blague was in exploration of the Sabian Symbols. I will link to those former posts corresponding to the degree-point on the astrological wheel for each day; but I’m not going to get into to that. I hope the remain helpful—you’ll tell me—but I can’t go back and read them at this juncture. I must be all forward movement. Though I do think the title of today’s Sabian Symbol does match that sentiment.

Trump won the presidency a few short hours ago. I have moved from shock to a sort of quiet resolve not to watch any cable news—I will watch Judy Woodruff on PBS and that’s about it. I’ve not just had enough of the constant news coming from the television screen or the screen on which I’m currently typing this. I’m in a sense tired of my own blind optimism, not just on a grand scale, but in my own life as well. As I type this I am awaiting responses from a number of emails from “friends and colleagues” who are keeping me in a holding pattern. And with this sentence I release them. And the next: Anybody whom I empowered with decision making over any subsequent next moves in my life is hereby absolved of that responsibility. I’m doing it for myself. And I’m chasing noone.

I feel for Hillary. I feel for Bernie. I feel for Stella. I feel for anyone like myself who invested time and energy and upper-case Hope in an outcome over which we had scant control. We voted. We did our best. We lost. That’s the reality. And though the way my molecules feel newly arranged today was not of my choosing, it is so. I am not just mourning the lost of this election, I am mourning a large part of myself, whom I was, and whom I shall never be again. And for that I’m strangely thankful.

Mars entered Aquarius this morning and so we shall probably see a great deal of anger and revolt played out on large scale—in protests and demonstrations—as well as unrest and upheaval shifting to humanity at large. Paradoxically, as Americans voted narrowly for isolationism, they have thrust themselves onto the world stage, no longer safe within the bubble of some shining mansion on the hill. We are no longer a beacon. We are evidence of undereducation. Nothing romantic about it. Just the plain truth: We are two nations. Unfortunately, the other nation here all turned out to rally around a common orange cause from their rural strongholds. While much of our nation stayed at home in their cities, failing to get out the vote as they did, twice, for the now present lame duck president. But what are you going to do.

I’m certainly not going to spend a second longer than I have to feeling bad about myself or what is assuredly a sorry state of affairs. Fuck it. I’m going to go higher in my personal and would-be shared aspirations and and I’m going to sit deeper into self-reliance and purposeful solitude. I have a profession with many prongs, the first of which is helping others over hurdles via my combined talents as an expert astrologer and metaphysician and as an intuitive with powers that pass through me and to which I can claim no award—as to do so, I suspect, would dull them. And nothing makes me happier or lifts me out of a blue mood (or a would-be deep abyss) more readily than giving of myself to clients who benefit from the work I do as honorably as I might.

I am also a creative. I am an author. I am a writer of all sorts. I am also a performer and an actor, not being one and the same. I love to sing and play music and write and perform things that make people think and make them laugh. I also have other talents that I’ve used for personal and professional purposes. But I say now, with Mars in Aquarius, sneaking up on my natal Moon, that I am going to be far more selective in my work as a producer and promoter of other peoples; and far mor indulgent in arts and crafts that I do in the privacy of my home which, I’m grateful to say, has enough rooms in which I can steal myself away.

I am fortunate. I am fortunate because I made myself fortunate. I am reliant on nobody else for my peace and happiness which is why even the slightest self-destructive move can cause more devestation to me than others. I cannot phone anything in or just subsist and let weekly paychecks roll in. I have to be a warrior. And today, as the warrior Mars is in the reformational sign of Aquarius, that of new orders, I am examining what that means to me, foremost, with a tertiary glance, perhaps, at what that means for the world. I am a  warrior for myself. The path is indeed illuminated as the script of the below Sabian Symbol suggests. But it is illuminated not by blind faith. It is illuminated by my determination. I am a warrior for myself. Then for my loved ones, who are few. Then for my clients, my readers, my audience such as it is.  People say all shall be revealed. That’s great. I prefer to be the revelation. Armageddon? It only means a drawing back of the veil. The veil—the parting clouds of Iris’ rainbow over which we go, the rainbow colored veils of Salome—are endemic to the sign of Aquarius (John the Baptist being one personification of the Water Bearer). Mars rips through the veils and I say: Shred that shit up. I’m thankful for my illusions having been removed. It potentially only makes my own path clearer.

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

Gemini 25° (June 14)

Surely one of the darkest of dates given the birth of two creatures who have wreaked havoc on my micro- and macro-cosmic worlds. But never you mind. I am now officially cooking with gas in regard to a certain project that will be my main work for the next calendar year. I am getting my brain around it all, and just doing what I can to make some artistic and intellectual beauty. In the process, it has been decided, I refuse stress its way. Anyway I have some random notes which need typing up in any case so I might as well just put them down here:

We will include: The quincunx, birthstone or crystal, tree, animal totem——who ram, ewe, boar?—Parenting what kinds of offspring did Ares have?

Needing final list of jewelry styles. Aries men needs to be more the Shepherd archetype leading the flock solo endeavour. The hero archetype maybe even work in heracles having to go through self imposed trials. Iron Man. Reading house lists for ideas. Aries is outwardly challenging loves to debate. Jim Parsons? Issa? Kumal? Jessica Williams. Eddie Redmayne. The woman in the Danish girl. John Oliver. How were work with clients .

Aries man is the most self obsessed of the astrological characters. He fascinates at his own experience personal experience that which is right in front of him the metaphorical equivalent of the baby playing with his own body and entertaining only that which is in his immediate via. He wears an open expression like Ewan McGregor, typically pitched forward in conversation talking at others with a challenging glint in his eye. Very rarely someone you’d describe as laid back . Forever proving a point , convincing others of his position. Even if the strong silent type there is a sense of seething beneath the surface. He is never retiring. Learning to be a team player because it does not come naturally. Site Michael imperioli.

Aries man is the most indie of the sign. Vincent Gallo. Diane von Furstenberg. Ares is the God of blood. Research his foreign equivalents. He is most cut and dry.

What sign is Betty Friedan? Where does Pallas come from? What does it say that Athena takes on her name? She is the most irascible. What sign is the actress who plays Wonder Woman? I wish to say more about Lilith. Aries is the type of girl that could survive for 50 years on the tiniest trust fund. Along with psychology look to the sign quadrant also the sign glyph for inspiration. If he is most cut and dry she is most cut and run. Ewe is an animal form of the primordial goddess. sign glyph: we didn’t say it is her brow and wisdom. Nor have we discussed her as goddess of helmsmen. In the Bible Rachel is the holy Ewe.

I feel like she would be the person to raise a single child as a single mother….connect to that myth and the link to Hephaestus.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 411-415 . 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. 

Originally posted June 2, 2016:

It would seem that every person I pass on the street is more qualified than Trump. Why are the so few who run for the highest office in the land so wrong for it compared to, well, just about anybody. How did this happen. Is it really just money? Or is it related to sanity. Especially on the Republican side. Is having a screw loose a prerequisite for candidacy? Or, okay, people that are already in politics. Why isn’t Al Franken the next president. I mean we got lucky with Obama but I still think he’s a certain kind of crazy in that, if he didn’t have an outsized ego, he wouldn’t have grabbed for that brass ring. He is the unruffled king (Leo) far more than the teflon Bill Clinton (Leo) was. Obama, it seems, plans to pride himself on having lasted all eight years with out going ballistic over anything. Trump can’t last eight seconds without doing so. Surely there is something in between. Obama’s stealthy and above-censure moves, after all, have seen him quietly launch over 500 drone strikes. I’m not arguing the validity of having done so; but it is very much in keeping with his persona, characterized as it is, by having a cool remove.

Drone strikes, as opposed to conventional military strikes involving people in pilot seats or behind tanks or on the ground, are arguablly less humane because the human conscience isn’t that directly involved. Nowadays we train thousands more remote drone pilots than actual ones. If we’re not seeing the collateral damage and the thousands of innocent people, women and children included, being killed, it doesn’t emotionally register, we don’t feel it. And if we are emotionally responsible for the killings than we are that much more densitized not only to war but to human life in general. Surely that will seap further into mass consciousness. Drone pilots, in effect, are not very different from children playing video games, only what they see on the screen isn’t the be all end all, it is an abstract of a grim reality. We detach, we detach and yet, what? We want more attention. We want the greatest number of hits and clicks and followers in an on-screen world that is a representation of our lives, not the one we’re actually living. This two-dimensional reality is more than just concept fodder for science fiction novels, we are becoming less dimensional, not more so, as human beings.

We act differently in the two-dimensional world. We are more black or white. We make blanket statements that inspire pointed reactions. We get into online battles with people over politics or social concerns. We say more than we should, perhaps, behind the safety of our black and white screens. If we later were to bump into the individual we met earlier on the laptop battlefield, we might hem and haw, retract and reposition, because there is more nuance to human interaction in the flesh. There is chemical reaction that might inspire more empathy or other forms of kindred spiritedness that might prevent you from attacking or blocking as you do electronically. Even though, a generation ago, the notion was floated that”we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden,” we have done the opposite. We are creating a wilderness of wires and fibers and satellites and other muscle and sinew of isolation. And yet, what do we most want from this virtual non-dimensional world—every possible shred of fandom we can amass; and why is that? Money. We want more money. We want all the money. It isn’t enough to have the accolades alone unless they monetize. And that is all fear. Fear, fear, fear.

Not to say I blame you for being afraid. It’s what is expected of you. It’s what makes you malleable. It’s what militarizes you. But you should be most afraid of what you’re putting in place to protect you. And get off the fucking computer.

————

The sign of Taurus rules the ages 7-14 when we can be at our most vulnerable. I would venture to guess that most molestations occur to people during this span of their life. My “experience” surely did, pretty much right smack dab in the middle. As relates to my personal experience, I don’t embrace the word molestation. Although the other individual was older than me it wasn’t by all that much. It’s similar but different, I think, from having been abused by someone undeniably adult. Though any kind of sexual experience that is imposed upon a person who is as yet not of sexual age, therefore lacking the mental ability, never mind the physical equipment, to cope with it is not to be excused; I have always considered myself relatively lucky in the scheme of premature seduction in that the so-called perp was still, relatively, a peer; such that “our little secret” still managed to smack of something between friends that we are simply not choosing to tell our parents who were off somewhere doing something fueled by alcohol no doubt—at the beach with a cooler, at the track, out to a fancy boozy lunch, on the golf course—leaving, as you unfortunately did, kids home alone to fend form themselves. Besides, and I’ll get flack for admitting this, I actually found it fun at the time; blissfully unaware of how this might be sending me down a path of self-loathing, fear and making me prone to any number of floaters up and out from Pandora’s box.

The fixed sign of Taurus, as I’ve said, is associated with the garden and the dichotomy of innocence and temptation. We know the biblical line; but the Greek mythological landscape in which these archetypes live is that of Arcadia, wherein the nubile nymphs and flower gods provide temptation to even the highest ranking of gods—divine noblesse is no match for a lecherous mind and constitution. My own Arcadia happened to be the Jersey Shore where I was forever left to my own newly deviant devices at the very same moment that I was becoming obsessed with mythology and magic. I had more crushes on divine beings than I did on any real people my or any age. I fancied myself emerging from silken pools filled with immortalizing liquids and expending my natural energy running nearly naked along untrodden paths; when in fact I was simply awaking before anyone else in my jam-packed beach town to swim in the calmer waters, close to the jetty, the ocean pink from the gumdrop Sun emerging from it on the horizon, running along the water’s edge wiped clean of footprints, fueling my fantasy of total privacy and blissful isolation. I would recite incantations in my head to Apollo and Dionysus, to whom I would also make invocations dressed in robes I made out of old curtains. Not sure if I learned this trick either from The Sound of Music or Gone With The Window. Either way, I was watching way too much TV. But not in the summer!

In the summer, I entered into a fantasy bubble, much the way I would have done at two years old, entering into fairy worlds by crawling inside empty duvet covers or other wrinkles in quotidian reality. But at the age of ten or eleven, I would be ripped away, in June, from summers spent with the kids I went to school with, never having the kind of summer-bonding experiences others did when they returned in September with matching tans and inside jokes. I went to the beach each June where I didn’t really know anyone but a casual acquaintance or two I’d meet on the beach. Mostly I lived inside my own head with no parental guidance at all. One day I walked to a movie theater and sat and watched the same film four times in a row. It was hot. The theater was air conditioned. They had soda and popcorn and nobody missed me. There was a certain beauty to those anonymous days; nothing really costing more than a quarter or maybe a dollar or two for the movie, easily affordable entertainment on a weekly allowance of two to five dollars; and of course there was always change looking within the tobacco flakes at the bottom of my mothers’ myriad handbags.

So with summer arriving I feel nauseous. It might be the fact that the whole of my childhood existence was ripped away, not a single shred of it remaining. Relations all dead or estranged, the towns and houses of my youth left in the dissipating fog of memory dating back some thirty, forty years, now. I don’t have Proustian remembrances, I have waves of nausea. Is it the same nausea I felt in the first moments of being urged to do things beyond my ken? Is it trauma of these having been terrible times resurfacing in my viscera. Or is it a result of being flung so far out, as if on the tilt-a-whirl or spidey rides of my summer youth on rides in Asbury Park to which I would ride my bike, increasingly, ten or twelve or fifteen miles from where I lived or worked in Belmar, Spring Lake or Sea Girt as a young teen, still alone, nobody knowing if I return directly home from my evening restaurant shift or if I drive further toward Asbury to enter a seedy landscape of bars and clubs where nobody checked your age upon entering to drink endless Cape Codders, mostly for free, because the feather-haired bartender with the turquoise rings would give them to you and any child brave enough to enter into such a place at the age of fourteen or fifteen. I had such an education. Most folks I encounter have no idea. The lives I lived before I even had a drivers’ license. Thankfully, that life was led mainly if not primarily as an observer. And the bubble in which I kept myself was pretty secure. Trying to see myself through the eyes of….what was turquoise bartender’s name?…he went on to open the Raspberry Cafe in Ocean Grove? Oh, well, it will come to me…trying to see myself, say, through his eyes, I must have seemed like some kind of sexually confused autistic Holden Caulfield. Better known as, well, Holden Caulfield, only small and without the patch of grey hair.

—————-

Two Taurus keywords are Value and Belonging. It’s funny how seemingly disparate things find a connection in the astrological houses associated with any given sign. I was just sitting here meditating on how these go together and I’m not certain I’ve come up with anything earth-shattering but I do have random thoughts I could share.

I was never a joiner. There might have been a time that I wanted to be one. Back where I grew up I was a pariah for much of grade school and surely the lowest level of hell aka junior high where I was only popular for a week at school-year’s end when I would be cast in a starring role in the school musical. Otherwise, I was severely mocked—as a matter of fact, in Wyckoff, New Jersey, the local insult was “a mock”; one would say, “Oh, Billy, you’re such a mock.” Seriously I’m not making this shite up. All this to say that I didn’t even try, though I longed, to fit in, until well after going to high school at the age of 13. If anything, I defied the whole concept of fitting in—careful not to join any band of underground newspaper editors or the a/v club or anything even mildly subversive.

If you’ve read this Blague before and no anything about me I led a sort of adult life from a very early age, specifically in summers where I drank at bars and smoked pot and even had (a form of) sex on the beach from the time my age reached double digits. So that when I returned back to “normal” suburban life I felt that I was in cognito, a sort of Clark Kent, without the bone structure or muscle tone, pretending to live as a child going through rights of passage that I had already been speeded through arguably prematurely. So I hung out with people two or three years older than myself. Not like pot-heads did. Remember pot-heads. They were their own counter culture. And a girl or boy would enter high school as a freshman but he or she might have been one of those kids that lived a pot-head lifestyle with absentee parents and older siblings whose houses always seemed a bordel with sticky floors and broken screened backdoors and mutliple siblings all taking care of themselves like they do on Shameless; such that said “child” would enter high school and already be hanging with pot-head seniors in a designated location—in our high school it was “the wall”—although there were two walls: one wall where the popular mainly senior population plopped themselves like gods of a pantheon on a concrete dais; and the other wall which separated our outdoor courtyard from our playing fields which were a good six feet below the courtyard such that crouching and smoking bowls somehow went unnoticed? Well, in the late 1970s early 1980s they did. I’m off track. I’ll get back…oh right…Value and Belonging.

So, I never cared about belonging. I had no natural belonging in my family, my one sibling being a hostile nightmare that tried to make me feel that I didn’t belong and then again I didn’t want to belong to my family, really, because my father struck me as a Neanderthaal for the most part, despite his good qualities, and my mother, though genius, was too weak to leave and take me with her which would have been my fantasy. To me: belonging would have been she and I playing out some Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore fantasy which would have made for a much better reality than liviing with my mostly horrible father and my only ever horrible sister. But you know, my mother never had to work. She had summers alone. She had house cleaners and frozen food you popped in the oven and a new Buick every other year so she wasn’t going anywhere. Again with the digression.

Okay I had no self esteem as a child. And nobody really telling me how great I was on the homefront. My mother would tell me I was smart but she eyed me with a desire to perform plastic surgery. I think she was happy my junior year of high school when my neighbor friend drove me to school in his open topped Jeep with the “roll bar” the concept of which was put to the test when, Jeff yelled “I think we can make it” gunning the Jeep from the side street leading to the entrance/exit of the school with school busses, full and empty, coming either way only to find he didn’t (make it) and we got hit by a school bus and the Jeep did indeed roll over and when we were upside down for that split moment I (thankfully?) banged my head and face into the roll bar—people said the roll bar saved me that if i hadn’t hit it i would have been crushed underneath the rolling car because, remember the dates, nobody is wearing seat belts—such that I emerged with a gashed head, amnesia and a broken nose that needed immediate repair…once I remembered who I was.

I imagine the glee my mother would have secretly felt. She had the excuse to bring me to a plastic surgeon (an at least locally famous one with twelve children a half dozen of whom I knew by sight and a few I was friendly with) and “repair” the damage. But she had other things up her sleeve. That will have to wait for another Blague, perhaps the next one, because I’m talking about Value and Belonging. Am I talking about it here? Am I saying that my mother would have a stronger sense of belonging toward me her son if she could alter my face a bit surgically. I might be saying that. But it isn’t what’s driving me. Must keep on theme

Value and Belonging. So imagine you’re me. You’ve already been through something of a ringer by the time you enter high school. You have secrets. A sort of secret life maybe. You’ve been mocked by the preppies in pink and green, LL Bean duck boots and you could give a shit. You have two art classes back to back first and second period. Typically you wake and bake so you’re super chill and detached. Yes, you’ve continued to at least be “featured” in every musical and experienced waves of recognition. And still the “middle management” of your school is married to you’re being not only “a mock” or or worse sling you’re already bullet proofed against, knowing full well, if push came to shove, and somebody called you out to physically fight, you’d be more afraid you’d kill said person with the strength of your pent up secret than if they gave you a fat lip or bloody nose. Meanwhile you’re just the weirdo trying to keep his head down, not a pot-head, but smoking a lot of pot, hanging out with adults in your spare time, going into New York, to clubs, getting drunk on champagne poured into bathtubs, having Chinese food in the village, seeing Broadway plays in matinee, and not giving a shit. Until one day…somewhere during the last few weeks of your junior year in high school…you’re like..

Fuck this. I’m missing out. I’m in high school. I’m not only my outside cached world. I’m here. I’m here now. And here and now totally sucks. I am not Valued. I don’t Belong. Something needs to be done. And so I did it. I was online in the crap cafeteria chosing some semblance of something I could call food—I was already “this person” when it comes to diet—and exiting the line, instead of finding some remote corner of a table where I could sit alone and read without having anything thrown at me or anything stolen off my tray (yes i was that lowly guy), I beelined for the elite table filled with the uber pantheon residents of the wall. There were no football players. Here, there were soccer stars, all swarthy, and not all cheerleaders but only the select upper echelon of cheerleaders who were raised by hippie single mothers and, though they ran the squad, they weren’t “of” the squad. These were the untouchables. In New Jersey, at this time, when everyone was prepped out and listening to Bruce Springsteen, this bunch, like me, was not. We drove our cars up Skyline Drive to find rare records by Buffalo Springfield and the Doors. Stuff I later found out after: I walked over and plopped my red tray down and wiggled my bony ass into a space between this supposed god and goddess and I just started eating my lunch. And they scarcely noticed. That was the best part, learning about Value and Belonging. It was as if they didn’t notice I hadn’t been there alll along. And I listened to them talk, admittedly self-conscious, and then suddenly one girl, making a point about something that happened in class earlier, punctuated by saying, “Billy knows, Billy was there”. As if somehow I had entered into this scene, yes, seemingly unnoticed, but right on cue.

So I made myself belong? I didn’t know I didn’t belong. Others assumed I did already. When you come from a family of shifting sands it’s very hard to know where you stand in a landscape of people who maybe have been on teams all their lives or they don’t come from dysfunctional families but from familes where twelve siblings all love and respect each other or they don’t feel downtrodden so they have no understanding of those who do and perhaps they don’t even view themselves as some sort of pantheon but that’s something others put on them and they are as easy, as a group, to infiltrate as any, provided you have the confidence. Because it was confidence that plopped me down at that cafeteria table and yet that was the last time that plopping was interesting. I’m still friends with many of those high school characters. Turns out the most loving people live at the top. It’s mister/mistress in between you have to look at for. I write on this subject all day. Must shut myself down.

———————–

Originally posted June 6, 2016:

I think I wanted to go somewhere different on the theme of belonging but found myself stuck in the same sort of head I’ve been in lately regarding my past which is in so many ways unresolved. I think I wanted to talk about a different angle.

It is no secret that, besides my career as an author, advisor, astrologist and sometime alchemist (alliteration not intended but welcomed), I producer theater and performance and run a festival I founded on Cape Cod. I put on a lot of group shows and I often invite artists to participate. People tend to rely on me for that perhaps, but sometimes it would be nice to be asked to participate in other people’s doings. But I’m never asked. Which is fine for the most part—I’m used to it; I suppose people don’t assume I’d like to be the participant and not the producer from time to time.

Still, given the choice of being a leader or a follower slash joiner, I would always pick the former as I’ve always done. It’s part and parcel of being a cardinal sign, perhaps I’m always initiating. I’m always on the front lines. I’m always spearheading, but it often feels like an uphill battle. But I’m not hear to complain. I suppose I make things look easy and that I don’t read as someone who would seek assistance. Mostly true, but I would like to sit back and go along for a ride at some point.

For now I just need a little rest before cranking up the machinery again. Failure or falling short are never an option. I might be just writing anything. Perhaps I don’t always have something to say. I think maybe I should stop here.

———–

After a recent discourse on belonging, I attended an annual party I enjoy so much. Not only are the hosts super gracious but the guests, many of whom I haven’t see but at this party once a year, make for a wonderful mix; and there was an unspoken sense that this group does enjoy some cohesion at this point, based on the serial coming-together year on year.

Many moons ago, in New York City, we could throw a party and it would be pretty packed. Our NYC life, that was something quite throbbing twenty years ago, surely dissolved as so many friends have left the city, either to have kids or to strike out on their own in parts unknown. I still have friends who can send out a tweet for a party and hundreds would show—that’s not me—but it is nice to be able to be a guest in these cases.

It does add up to one’s sense of Value to be included and to made to feel you do Belong. At this point it’s probably that London is the singular location where most close friends reside. But I don’t get there as often as I’d like. I guess it comes down to the fact that we used to do the majority of hosting, something we haven’t done in probably a decade. I miss playing the host but the places where we live are necessarily where we know people.

This time of year does serve a reminder that it’s important not to isolate and to cultivate your garden of friends and relations. It’s partcularly challenging for me.

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

Gemini 24° (June 13)

It is a beautiful morning. I am once again laid up due to my reactivated injury, but my spirit is soaring and circling from above. This feeling of tranquility is usually fleeting so I will drink it in as deeply as I may and savor the eternity within. My goal is to keep every simple today. No drama, no self-sabotage. Just the June air and my breath. I am now officially in the process of creating a new larger work. I think that is the best way to describe it. The Possible’s slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.And I am out to find the beauty, today, in doing right things for myself. It is all a treasure, if not a scavenger, hunt. I don’t know why it is some of we humans have to blow up our success—it makes no good sense. Someone I know with a great deal of sway seems to want to rid themselves, to use an ironic pronoun, of some of the mantle of their ubiquitous worship. Maybe it is too much to live up to. I know that sometimes in my own personal life, if things are going too swimmingly, I will fuck it up, I’m guessing from some psychological need or disorder. I have already flirted today with procrastination but I am nipping that firmly in the bud. Enjoy your read…

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 406-410 . 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. 

This was originally posted May 30, 2016:

Life is hard. Make no mistake. But it is often easier than we make it. When you start to spin: stop, drop and roll with the punches. Do not think ahead. Do not think back. You know the drill about the future and the past. It’s not just woo-woo to stay in the present it’s the absolute answer to everything. It’s what keeps you still, fixed, which is one of the messages of the sign of Taurus whose metaphorical and metaphysical landscape is that of the eternal garden, Eden, which translates to delight, the verb tense of which can be very helpful to employ.

So much of our stress comes from that which isn’t working in our lives. Stop, drop and roll. Don’t try to make things happen, let them. It might not be the them you had in mind but so what. Often, that which we try to make happen involves the attention or participation of others, which, trust me, is never satisfying. It’s a labyrinth all its own, like that of the Minotaur, the embodiment of desire for others. If you love what you do you will do it with or without an audience. The shadow-id side of Taurus is front-loading how you’re seen by others, as opposed to naturally attracting others as a byproduct of cultivating yourself.

We live, in modern times with a sort of amplified soul-sickness, because through the manic manifestation of all media, we are party to everyone seeking, succeeding or failing, to attract attention from others. And it inspires this sort of weird world of comparison and competition. I look up on it as a universal trick being played on us by the mischievous god Mercury, namesake of that tiny planet with whom we’re all familiar due to its retrogrades to which we chalk up all our problems and snafus. Mercury is the god of our mentality, via the sign of Gemini and the third astrological house. And, indeed, he might be running amok in this epoc having his manipulative way with us.

But perhaps it’s all to teach us a lesson. Maybe we need to know how sick our minds and our culture can be in its desperate superficial longing for some semblance of spotlight. Playing tricks, as this trickster god is wont to do, upon our pure Taurean birthright to tend our own gardens of talents and abilities and values and qualities and assets and beauty as it is synonymous with our dignity. Taurus energy is centrifugal, focused inward toward ourselves, most healthfully, from our outer selves of consciousness toward our inner self of private needs, desire to increase intrinsic value, and fulfillment of our latent abilities. But when we extend the outer range of centrifugal force to make the starting point the perception of others, directed toward ourselves, it is a pollution of this Taurus power

So stop. Shut it down. Give others’ thoughts of you no heed and seek not to manipulate them. Yes, market yourself. But only when you feel you’ve something cultivated to put out there. Otherwise keep the focus on yourself. And when you do (Gemini) market whatever content you’ve created as a result of your cultivated talents (Taurus) to sit around waiting for, or judging, the results of your efforts. You have no control over outcomes; and they are never personal. You should scarcely notice, because you will have moved on to another area of your garden needing weeding and screaming for cultivation. That’s all I have to say about that.

This was originally posted May 31, 2016:

T is for Time. It is a commodity that falls under the rule of that sign’s native second astrological house. We think of that house as consisting of that which we possess. Taurus, fixed-earth (a garden) pointing to our need to tend what we have—”I Have” being the Taurus motto. In the Garden of Eden, pre biting into that Gemini apple of duality, we weren’t aware of this or that, good or evil, clothed or naked, innocent or shame or now or then. We lived in an eternal dreamstate. (When I say we, you know what I mean.) Time, like Innocence, was a precious commodity, apparently, which we didn’t Value until it was lost. I try very hard to slow down Time. Meditation is the surest way to do so—to live inside moments instead of rushing ahead. We want to tick, tick, tick things off our list. Right now, it is not even 4 AM and I am writing this because, I think since I decided yesterday I had to write two Blagues a day through July 4 “to catch up” that I didn’t sleep well in anticipation of the fact that I have other major looming projects. But that’s not how Time works.

In a garden we can’t rush. We can only do what the garden asks of us on any given day. There is a weed that’s cropped up, let us remove it. The soil looks dry, let us water it. It might be depleted, let us feterlize it. This is growing to large, let us prune. This is going to seed, let us cultivate before it does. The garden tells us when it is Time to do what. Now, if we can look at all the stuff—this is a shadow-term for the Taurean materials and attributes we possess, and an apt one, as it blocks the energy of our “unfolding” like the flowers we all are—on our agenda, today, or this week, or this month or year, the projects we are cultivating: It is best to stand back and look at them all as separate beds in our garden; and to only do what is necessary on this day or that to bring them to full fostering.

We don’t rush in the garden. We survey and savor. We Appreciate above all. Ironically, I find that Taurus people are the most challenged when it comes to the appreciation factor. It is their particular plot of metaphorical land to tend. Especially since they naturally possess great talent as a rule, making it all the more ironic. But the Bull can be myopic. They might see, in their minds I, what it is they want to the exclusive, even of what they already possess. In Sextrology we call the Taurus man The Idol and the Taurus woman The Ideal as both share a tendency to be held up in high esteem. But it begs the question: If the Taurus flower isn’t being prized and worshipped for all the beauty it brings, does it nonetheless appreciate itself?

Originally posted May 31, 2016:

Sometimes you just have to do everything. That is to say, in a world where we pick and choose our priorities, there are moments in life when doing it all is the most relaxing choice. Yesterday (five minutes ago) we talked about standing back and assessing all the plans and projects in your life as beds in that fixed-earth Taurus garden; and yes that is exactly how it is that we must view not only what’s on our plate but the full scope of all we possess. We will be told what needs doing by meditating on this bed or that. It isn’t linear, you see. We don’t power completely through one project, always, creating perfection and then move onto the next bit of business—yes, there are exceptions if we have a deadline imposed by an outside source, entity or authority but, let’s face it, the expectations of others are far easier to fulfill than our own, especially, if we are perfectionists living in an otherwise second-rate state. But when it comes to our own self-started and -made projects and plans, what’s the rush? Why not prepare the soil, plant the seeds and then sit back and see what takes and what needs redirection, cultivating, editing, etc.

We must let time be on our side in this—it is, after all, one half of the unfolding. It facilitates our ability to bloom without struggle or slightest hesitation. Fear. That is the factor. Fear. Of not having enough. That is the consequence, if we heed the allegory of the garden, of giving into temptation. Temptation to eat of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. The tree that makes us second guess—are we good enough. Self-consciousness sets in near the end of the span of human life ruled by the sign of Taurus, 7-14. It is then we are suddenly aware of our nakedness. Adam and Eve in their blissed-out, insouciant Garden are undeniable metaphors for our human existence at that time in our life when we are budding toward sexual maturity, unaware, perhaps ourselves, but typically not unnoticed by certain snakes in the grace that might be egging us on to take a bite out of sexually mature life. In the Greek mythos, Taurus is represented by the nymphs and nubile flower gods who are likewise unawares of the attraction they invite until its thrust upon them. And typically it’s not a pretty ending to the story.

We said that the Taurus chapters are called The Idol (Man) and The Ideal (Woman) both terms being dependent on the attention, attraction and opinion of others. Taurus people will tend to give others what Taurus thinks they want from them. And they tend to be very good at that. Typically, they are imitators, not to take anything away from them on that score. Not that they live the adage that imitation is the highest form of flattery—they scarcely know they are imitating at all. Or if they are, they will convince themselves of the viability of doing so. For, woe it is to the cardinal signs of the Zodiac, the Initiators, who aren’t often widely credited for their accomplishments in pioneering until that precious commodity of Time rediscovers them in hindsight; while the Imitators, typically the fixed-signs of the Zodiac, take the seeds that are sown by cardinal signs and fertilize the fuck out of them, perfecting their efforts down to the last detail, through rigid repetition, though they would have you think they haven’t put in all that much effort at all.

This was originally posted June 1, 2016:

And anyway, I will admit it: I am something of a magical thinker. And it has mainly put me in good stead. There have been downsides to it. But for the most part it has allowed me to live a pretty enchanted life. And for that I am grateful. I suppose I’m grateful to myself for not having to work for anybody else since….hmmmm….when was the last time I worked for anybody? I can’t even remember the last job I had where I had to punch a clock. Even when editing magazines, like we did at Wallpaper in London, it was in an exalted position and as an independent contractor of sorts. I had a work visa for a very short amount of time. I love London. It might be my favorite city all told because it has everything New York has and then some. It depends on what you want from a city I suppose. It changes for me year to year But I’m such an empath I can imagine myself everywhere. Except when I totally can’t.

I like the idea of having a number of little places around the world to hop to at will. So far I live quite in keeping with that ideal even though I really don’t own anything at this juncture in my life. I’m taking a break from ownership you might say. It’s nice not to have the responsibility and it will make owning homes and more possessions more fun when it does cycle back around. But I’ve prided myself on never being a materialist, but perhaps that’s been to a fault. People tell me I should pay myself, even, in working on the non-profit festival and producing but a) there hasn’t been enough money to do that; and b) it seems beside the point. I’m afraid that if I were to want a salary from the non-profit it might change how I do things. Also, I’m pretty unabashed in my approach to fundraising and I think I can be that ballsy because all the money goes to the cause and to the artists.

This was originally posted June 2, 2016:

The beauty about this Blague is that I can say anything I want on any given day at any given time. So why do I put it in the category of daily obligations ticking it off my to-do list? Because I’m a Libra? I have a Virgo rising?With Saturn in the 6th House? Probably. But there’s likely more to it than that. It all comes down to feeling propelled or dragged. And the entire object of this Cosmic Blague was to give my self an outlet for what I felt was universally, and yes cosmically, funny about human experience. Blague, in French, means joke. It just so happens to also make a punny sound for this forum. But in order to encounter the cosmic blagues, in life, you have to be living it. And, though I wouldn’t call myself a shut in, spending most of ones day writing is a recipe for isolation. Even my exercise keeps me in a bubble. At 8:40 this a.m. I will walk 7 minutes to Bikram Yoga and have monosyllabic interaction with people I don’t know. Following that, today, I do happen to have a client. But as soon as she has left I will be back here typing away.

I spoke yesterday about affective forecasting which is, in some ways, an energetic Taurus notion, activating the law of attraction in a sense. Expectation is still something that draws things to us, but it isn’t in any way passive. I think it will prove to be an important exercise, if not in the bringing of desired things to me, but in the clearing out of the human mechanism (we all have in us) that either expects or anticipates, longs for or worries about, and does other related type things. It’s a quasi emotional mechanism. It is more accurately, sensual.

I might operate under the notion that I’m a good person. Even when I’ve done bad things it’s either been unintentional or as a result of overemotional retaliation to people who’ve done me wrong—this is an area I’m working on. I’d like to say no-regret, coyote; but the truth is that it will always have been better to walk away and say nothing when others have wronged you (rather than, what I’ve often done, ripped those who done me wrong massive new ones). As a child of Mercury—that Virgo rising with Mercury, in Virgo, on the ascendent—I supposedly have a way with words. Well, that way with words has been known to be used as a weapon of mass destruction. I’m not proud of the fact. But it seems I store all information, good or bad, into the attic known as my brain and, though I am more tolerant than most people, if you super cross me, those toys come flying out of the attic directly at your face. I can always justify (or, let’s be honest, rationalize) doing this; but it would be so much better if I knew I had the ability to reduce people to rubble and then didn’t. In this latter part of my life, this is one of my main goals: To not have to resort to that old retaliatory behavior.

So, akin to the affective forecasting, is the notion of leaving more space between thougths and emotions and emotions and actions. If we are doing the best we can, forgiving those who trespass against us, instead of taking that eye for an eye; and otherwise keeping our side of the street clean, then even if we fail to reach a goal we can shrug it off, can’t we, knowing we’ve done the best we can. But if we think, if only I had tried harder. If only I hadn’t wasted time, worrying, especially. You may have heard me say it before but: If you’re worrying, you’re not working.

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

Gemini 23° (June 12)

I reconnected with an old grammar school friend who just read The Outermost House, so I decided to order it, never having read it myself, ironically. I got a page into the introduction while getting one of the cars inspected before they breezed me through that process—we then went to another garden center to get all the herbs and soil we needed for the new outdoor garden—and I had a feeling I sometimes have, though quite rarely, when cracking a new book: I immediately got this panic that I haven’t done enough, specifically, written something real or personal; it is not an unfamiliar feeling for most creative people. However, because I am so prolific in so many ways, the panicked, choking feeling a felt really took me by surprise. Happy was I that I had a car inspection and garden shopping to immediately distract me. As I’ve said since hitting year two of six, reading these Blagues back, five at a time each day, I have a great deal of material to re-post here each day. I have undertaken this task to, first, reaquaint myself with what I’ve said since beginning this Blague in 2015, and also as a way to “play re-runs” while I work on a new book which I only have a year to start and finish. That said I will write important things as they pop up. It has been a strange week wherein people are taking stances on the subject of sex and gender and battle lines are being drawn while larger ones rage outside combining police brutality, systemic racism, would-be fascism with the pandemic and faulty health-care and general government systems. Happy days. Yesterday ended with my completely wrenching my back and now I cannot walk. Like not at all. It is a familiar affliction and it will take at least a week, probably, to even begin to heal. Ah joy. Well, here you go…there is much to read below:

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 401-405 . 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. 

This was originally posted May 5, 2016:

Revelation tends to be funny. Our ah-ha moments are typically also ha-ha ones. What makes up our lives? Actions, sensation, situation, perception, feeling, intuition, wisdom, evolution, synchronicity, enlightenment, possible ascension? Have we missed anything?

Like you, we have been many things. This has resulted in clumps of accumulated story. Think of your funniest stories. Do they not also carry some revelation? Typically, so.

Then there’s new experience. Oy. That stuff keeps happening. You can’t get ahead of it. Being blessed (from the French blesser: to wound) with a sense of humor, we employ it in our experience, even our self-realization, such that our own enlightenment is, at the very least, amusing.

Our notion of Entertaining Enlightenment, a phrase from which you can infer more than double meaning has always extended to the perception of life as one big, long blague cosmique (cosmic joke). The All isn’t a jester but an expert comedic artist. Existence isn’t metaphysical mayhem, it’s a carefully crafted monologue, what we call life.

The trick is writing yourself into the story, riding it like a wave, surfing being a skill not unlike finding the humor in it All. And seeing that, it’s the funniest thing, what is is a seemingly ordered plan. We laugh even through tears.

So, above as below, all any of us can do is interpret that cosmic link. Starsky + Cox can’t help but; whether conducting clients to increase their own personal connection or through our witty-wise books or columns or lectures, or in live performance as cosmic comics, we see the humor in there being no real separation between you and the divine.

That we all tend to find the same things funny, universality being central to any joke—we share laughs, we relate to, or are let in on, them—this speaks to there also being no true separation between (the divinity within) you and (the divinity within) others. Thus, we glean cosmic truths, even, deconstructing the role and effect of humor itself in our lives.

——————-

The was originally posted May 9, 2016:

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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Oh wait, my intention in the previous Blague was to talk a bit about Kiki & Herb, whom we saw perform at Joe’s Pub on Friday. Now, there is a sort of embargo on talking about the show in social media and so forth but since three people are reading this I think it’s safe to say: we’re fine. Meanwhile I don’t plan on giving much, if anything away; other than the fact that I was so happy this show was what it was. I was a bit concerned about nostalgia—not so much the performers as my own—for a time when Kiki & Herb first hit the scene in New York, in the 90s, Justin Bond and Kenny Mellman arriving from San Francisco nearly a decade after we hit New York, and their being so very much older than we are.

That was a joke. Kenny is younger than we are and Justin Vivian and we are born the same year (v is still older though). Point is there was no nostalgia but for little lacings, enough to inspire knowing glances regarding bygone times; but mainly the act moved forward despite their eight year hiatus, the instigation of which I remember clear as day. In this new incarnation of K&H we have performers who, Time being what it is, look closer to the age of the characters, so while the visual joke of drawn lines on faces and depression-era antics still read, the marching on of that T-word does make a poignant play across the mind of a die-hard K&H fan.

So much has happened in Justin Vivian’s life in the past eight years—I don’t know much about Kenny’s trajectory (mainly because there was a time when being friendly with the H would have, and did, inspire the casual threat of wrath from the K. And to be fair, Justin Vivian is one of my dearest friends on the planet whilst I never really knew Kenny all that well. I do think that is mainly my fault and, well, it’s not really a point I want to hit that hard. I love them both. And Justin Vivian is unparalleled as an artist as well as a person of character; the very human moments we’ve shared as friends, though often smacking of the relationship between Margo and Karen in all about Eve, nonetheless only endears me to JV all the more.

But I was talking about v’s life experience and wanted to point out how she has litereally characterizes changes in v’s only life into fictional personages you don’t see, of course, but hear tell of. Such that, through the lens of Kiki, the octagenarian showgirl, we see various aspects of self, personified, as historical figures, friends and lovers and even grandchildren. It’s pretty brilliant. And the satire has become even more loosely warped over the years. The entire first bit of the show is a kitchen sink account of where K&H have been over the last near-decade. That bit of the show is all over the map in the truest and most brilliant sense of the word.

Anyway, I would suggest your’e going to see it but you can’t it’s sold out.

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I have to start work on our Gemini themed show for this coming Sunday, which is actually a bit early—shows are typically the third Sunday of the month but as May started on a Sunday the third one is the fifteenth, when we are still in Taurus for another five or so days. That said, these shows really are hinged on the transition from one sign to another.

Aries was the premier masculine, objective, active sign, ruled by Mars, the planet named for the uber macho war god whose sigil, the spear and shield, also recalls the male genatalia, arrow emerging from circle. It’s motto is the self evident I am. Then we had Taurus, the premier feminine, subjective, passive sign ruled by Venus, the planet named for the uber femme goddess of love whose sigil, which can be red as a flower with petals or a hand mirror, also recalls the circular womb led to by a canal crossed with a hymen. The Taurus motto is the possessive “I have”. Aries, cardinal fire, is creation, the big bang the spark of life, Taurus is, fixed earth, the garden, Eden, which led to certain temptation.

Gemini, the third and a mutable sign, is a combination of these opposite signs that come before, the magical child, the literal offspring of male and female, the fertilized egg. Picking up from the Taurus flower, Gemini is the winged birds and bees, mutable air, buzzing about, picking up bits and pieces, cross-pollenating the planet with information. A combination of masculine and feminine forces, ruled by planet Mercury, named for the aptly winged god of communication, Greek Hermes from whom we derive the word Hermaphrodite, in that god’s coupling with the goddess of love. Mercury’s sigil, depicts winged capped head of Mercury on a cross, thoughts having wings, while it also recalls a an insect with antennaes attuned to both sending and receiving messages—active and passive; objective and subjective—at once. Gemini’s motto is I Think. Mercury is the mentally manipulative messenger god of communication and all such related words as community and committees, specifically the immediate sort. Immediacy being a commodity of both time and space—Mercury is, well, mercurial and can be nearly everywhere at once, in an instant—he is also the god of immediate surroundings, of brotherhoods, guilds, bands, the market place, the word merchant deriving from his name.

Robin Hood, named for a bird, flitting from tree to tree, and his merry men, is a legendary incarnation of Mercury; as is Robin Goodfellow, Shakespeare’s Puck, the messenger of King Oberon, as Mercury/Hermes is the messenger of Zeus/Jupiter. Peter Pan and his island of lost boys—boon companions. Jack Sparrow, Batman’s Robin, on and on we see this boyish character echoed through our consciousness.

In biblical terms, where as Aries is Genesis and Taurus is the garden of Eden, Gemini is the gift-curse of consciousness as resulted from biting into that forbidden fruit of the knowledge of good and evil—duality!—the twins of Gemini. Good bad, clothed naked, mortal immortal. In biting into that apple we at once were elevated to god consciousness and yet fell from grace being doomed to live a mortal existence. I say why put a tree of forbidden fruit in the first place unless you want we mere humans to trip, stumble and fall from this grace. I’m just saying. It’s like the most obvious foreshadowing.

The Gemini of which we speak of course are the classic Greek Twins Castor and Pollux, one mortal the other divine, of course, same themology as the Judeo-Christian story. And more bird imagery, flight being symbolic of the immortal aspect of our nature, our soul forever taking flight. For you see these so-called twins, who weren’t actually twins with each other at all, were born, hatched from two separate fertilized eggs their mother Leda laid, after she was laid by Zeus in the guise of a swan. They each had twin sisters that hatched along with them however, Clytemnestra and Helen, ultimately, of Troy fame.

Castor and Clytemnestra were mortal and Pollux and Helen were immortal, one egg being fertilized by Leda’s mortal husband, the other by divine Zeus. Okay pin in that.

Myth. Greek myth. Bible myth. It’s all allegory. It’s all archetype. The stories being told are being told right here within us. And the Zodiac brings those stories down to us. The Zodiac, with its myriad mythic associations per sign, point to realities that live within all of us.

It’s not foremost about what Sun sign you are—you’re a Pisces, I’m a Libra—that’s the nitty gritty that we can get into with you on a personal level, but first, there is something, more sweeping, but most essential, about which the Zodiac teaches us about everybody—the underlying truths of all human existence, collective and individual.

Aries and the first house teaches us all, and this is each of us speaking, that: I am a spiritual warrior (for what is up to you); Taurus teaches us that: I have a garden of delights—talents, abilities, innate qualities (which we all have to cultivate); and Gemini teaches us that: I think a full range of thoughts, from the divine to the earthly to, potentially, something lower still, and that my ability to think is my divine power and/or potentially my diabolical undoing. Mercury’s winged cap shows that my thoughts, as an expression of my soul, have wings; but that these can also be devilish horns that can lead to our downfall, if not our damnation.

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Mothers, mothers, mothers. They seem to either be the best in the world or warrant breaking up with them, if you read the gospel truths of Facebook. Mine was a Pisces, which means she was the best and the worst. I grew up in a time when you’d send your 9 year old son to get your packs or cartons of cigarettes, especially if you were borderline agoraphobic, which also meant you had to hide if the doorbell rang at the wrong time even if it was the paperboy just trying to collect some money…again. You might also be alcoholic and pass out at friends’ houses, and when I say friends I mean mine since agoraphobic mothers seem to like to only make friends with the drinky parents of their kid’s friends, even if said actually stopped being friends with them. You might still have to skateboard over and pour your poor mother into her big black Buick and teach yourself how to drive (her) home by simply trying to remember how you’ve seen adults drive in the past—thank goodness for all those 1970s car chases on TV. And then you put her to bed. That was even more terrifying than the driving. Then again you might appreciate the fact that she was sensitive, smart, highly tuned, psychic, spiritual, deeply empathetic and powerful and fancied herself a silver screen starlet, morphing before your eyes in Bette Davis, Anne Baxter, Polly Bergen and Gena Rowlands in the course of a single sentence. Or that when asked “whom do you love most in the world?” she would reply “me” unironically. Or that she mainly watched PBS, but for Donahue and 60 Minutes or the occasional mini-series of the Thornbirds derivative. Or that, when I first went to France at nineteen, her bon voyage present to me was a hardcopy of James Joyce’s Ullysses which she inscribed, “From One Irishman to Another In France”. That she knew things. That her PIsces eyes pointed inward toward a soul and even when she was staring right at you, you got the feeling she was staring right at her. The true her. The one that didn’t smoke or drink or even go to AA meetings for twenty-five years or pretend to care about the banalties of life beyond her books and the ubiquitous Snickers bars on which she chewed, on one side of her mouth, the same side from whence she spoke, as Pisces often do, or laughed that huh-huh-huh laugh as if she were simultaneouly still exhaling one of her Salem 100s. The one that loved her familiar—her twenty-five lb. Persian Blue mix, Kerry, who followed her everywhere and mimicked her every move as it lay with her in bed, in the air-conditioning, summers, as she polished off yet another Maeve Binchy, her teeth Snicker sticking together. I would suspect that after herself and Kerry, I might have been a close third. (With father and barkeep: Peggy Leone née Margaret Anna Mary McDonough.

Copyright 2016 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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.
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Gemini 22° (June 11)

Made various attempts yesterday to find some herbs to plant but didn’t have much luck I’m afraid. Still I did trug a bit and prepare area for some nice plantings, so we will hopefully experience some good results. More deliveries, more weird sensations. Dinner was a lovely roasted pepper soup, halibut and snap peas and then we watched the James Baldwin doc. Thankfully, in the course of the Blague writing leading up to this time next year, I don’t have to provide more of an intro than I just now have.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 396-400 I am reading through all my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, but the time I get to my seventh, I will have through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize:

The was originally posted April 16, 2016:

Some days you wake up and feel like getting back to basics. It’s a feeling that befits the sign of Aries I believe. Yes the world has changed, and not only for the better; and when you’re 21 and it’s the 1980s and having $2K in the bank feels like more than enough to live on, buy clothes, eat out and party like 1999 feels a long way away, ones being, starting with ones physical body feels very much at ease. I carried a hard agnès b. briefcase, bought a straw hat in Bologna, wrote in a travel diary, social smoked Stuveysant Bleus and didn’t expect, nor want, the world to change much from the F. Scott Fitzgerald vision I had for it. Computers were ugly, beige, with blippy green lighted letters on a darker green screen. And then came the permutations. The epidemic. The oversized neon t-shirts. The pleas to Be Happy. Some pretense of be New York Fashion. The windows on 42nd Street turned into galleries for a brief moment before Disneyfication. The closings. The cupcakes. The gaggles of SATC foursomes. Hotels. Smartphones. Worship culture. Comparison equaling spiritual death for all but those who had spent a lifetime already amassing worship for copying and pasting and grafting and cloning. Thinking ahead to the next wave to ride: Transportation. Hypocrisy—bemoaning mainstream culture and its refusal to accept you at the same time. Wanting everything you blame others for having. The pooh-poohing of people who don’t dress like Sean Young in Blade Runner. The sinister need for clicks. The inability to sit and talk anymore over dinner. The sobering up; the slipping into alcoholism. The throwing under the bus. The pleading for more. Knowing when enough is enough. Waking up, grateful, you don’t have too much. That all eyes aren’t on you. That authenticity, autonomy, anonymity is still possible. Choosing to go back to live under the radar. To reread the Upanishads, Vedas, Bible, Gita, Yogananda, Shakti Gawain. Needing nobody to know—anything—about what you’re doing. Taking a permanent break. Forgiving those who trespassed as you eat GF only most of the time. The cooking, the cleaning, the carrying, the chopping. The shopping for the t-shirts and underwear you really need. The bicycle, no watch, phones off, riding into the sunrise.

This was originally posted April 17, 2016

I woke up to this very vivid dream that I couldn’t much figure out. Stella and I were outside some fancy club late night. It felt like being in Portland Square in London and also uptown around Studio 54. It was like we were waiting to hail a cab but were in no rush. It was a warm night with a perfect breeze. We kept hearing voices of people behind us exiting the club. Stella asked, “is that Tony’s voice?” And I said “no”, dreamembering that “Tony Randall’s dead.” To which she replied “he is?” “Yes.”

Then suddenly near the curb where we were standing poured a couple, post club, arranging their clothes, he was refitting his white sports jacket to his frame. They were both very tanned; and I realized it was Sean Penn with a small round faced “date” who had thin blond hair piled on top and minimal make up and very down to earth looking like Kaley Cuoco. Stella sort of stage whispered to me who she was and how she came to be with Sean Penn, but apparently too loudly; because the date confronted us. “Yeah that’s right….that’s who I am and that’s how we met” confirming anything that Stella would have heard in the gossip columns or what not was true.

We apologized profusely and assured the twosome that we weren’t in for that sort of thing; that we weren’t mongers and didn’t care and we apologized for commenting on them too loudly. They immediately disarmed and the date connected with Stella, now apologizing to her for overreacting; at the same time Sean was now shaking my hand, which he would do periodically through out the dream, each time trying to get the grip more precise and make it more heart-felt it seemed. Anyway we were soon the best of friends and decided to go back into the club which was super snazzy and of the supper variety I now realized and we were ushered through to an outside space with tables and metal patio furniture and we sat at a table meant for about eight people, which was fine, because folks, other famous or at least fame-ish people kept popping by and plopping themselves down. Sean and I were locked in conversation as was Stella and the date who said she didn’t much feel like drinking but she wanted to smoke dope. Cue dream reality: Suddenly I’m like I have this bag of the best green and she grabs it and fills herself a bowl and smokes it as Sean grabs some weed to and is rolling a joint in what seems like nori, you know, for making sushi.

He explains that he lives up north with a nod. And I’m like where? The Hudson Valley. “Nah,” he replies. So I’m like…Woodstock? And he’s like “Nah.” And he makes a more precise movement of his head in what would be a diagonal across the Hudson River and I guess, “Where? Pompton Lakes?” and he says yes near there. So he passes me the nori joing which is as thick as a Cuban cigar and suddenly a waiter, a very professional crisply uniformed Asian waiter—all the staff are wearing dark green trousers with white shirts and sort of striped dark green, black and white vests and black bowties—and I’m thinking I have to hide the joint under the table while the waiter puts a huge bucket filled with two or three bottles of champagne on the table but sure he smells it but he doesn’t much seem to care; at least he doesn’t care on behalf of the establishment but I get the distinct sense he doesn’t much like the smell himself or the practice of smoking weed in general.

I explain to Sean that I come from that part of New Jersey and he says how much he likes it. And his date politely asks if I mind if she takes more weed because she really loves it and wants to fill another huge bowl which she does with the weed pouring over the top of her pipe and Stella, of course (even in dreams) isn’t smoking the pot but I suspect I should open the champagne, not just for her, but for those of us who are surely on the brink of having very dry mouths. And I want to say to Sean that I know Robin Wright (I don’t really, I’ve only sort of met her) which I do in the dreamreality, but I decide I better not drop her name just in case it triggers some emotional reaction because I am on tinderhooks knowing he’s got quite the temper. But right now he seems to be my best buddy and he’s kicking back with his black shirt open exposing his very bronzed smooth chest and I think he either blends the bronzer really well because there is no glitch between his face and his neck and he’s a bit glistening with sweat but still has on his white sportscoat. While across the table the date looks very comfortable and happy and as if the temperature is just perfect for her though she’s wearing a sort of think silk jumpsuit with some kind of jungle pattern, batik or bamboo or zebra printed but in a pale giraffe color scheme, and I don’t realize (until now) that this might be significant.

I’m awash with the feeling that I’m enjoying one of those rare moments in life where relating with a fellow, a decidedly straight, guy doesn’t feel like a lot of posturing and posing and heterosexual-male performance art of clipped speech and sideways relating out into space with zero eye contact. It instead feels—and I am aware how rare a feeling in the dream—like the easy kinds of male-to-male bonds guys enjoy nearly totally more readily as a boy or young man before the trappings of the world set in and separate us only to reunite us in approved settings such as golf courses and at dinner parties where we slip away to some billiards room. I feel at home with this guy. At home with him as I did with my dearest, and some dearly departed, friends I knew from childhood into my twenties, the ones who knew me like brothers or cousins would, and who would laugh at my comments or actions with a loving eye roll that would say “Oh man, that is so you,” preempting the end of a story with an expression that says “Oh man, I know where this is going.

And I’m happily aware that the date and Stella are likewise bonding and laughing and exchanging knowing expressions of soul-sisterhood and the dream goes on and on like that and i can feel the metal chair against my back and ass and have to keep shifting because it’s hurting my lower spine and I can hear the scrapes the chairs are making on the slate patio from all the tables and it’s a dark night with no moon, a new-moon night so we are relying on what are outdoor chandeliers—are they hanging from trees—and I’m so blissed out and so comfortable and so relaxed and so at ease and so pampered and still young and I’m not stoned or drunk but I’m a little bit of both, so everything is heightened, Sean’s orange tan against black shirt and white jacket, the black wrought orion mesh table with the dark green padded leather ice bucket with bottle green bottles and the waiters in their dark green and black and white. Green, black and white and crystal light from dull gold chandeliers and it’s London, New York and I have a beautiful wife and I’m looking and feeling my best and I have a new best cousin friend who is famous but I’m unaffected by that as the standout quality of the burgeoning bond is our seamless like-mindedness and I feel for the first time in a long time or ever that I’m not floating or waiting or hoping or expecting or biding or negotiating or debating or hedging or trying or watching myself in any way shape or form. I am. I have. And the night is going to last forever. It already has.

I awoke from this dream, for the day. And was happy. My whole body self was suffused with a blissful feeling of elan and acceptance. I was still (and still am) wrapped in the dark emerald green of the world which, I neglected to say, was appointed with lush greenery—trees and shrubs and ferns and bushes shaping and dotting the private patio—and also perfumed with various notes of wisteria and bearded iris and eucalyptus and other fragrant flowers, not to mention the primo weed; and it dawned on me, increasingly throughout the day, that this private gardened emerald city-club, lush and heady, luxe and overflowing with finest champagne, was a Taurus landscape wherein no self-consciousness could reside. That I had entered into my own version or vision of Eden which apparently includes a negligent chic form of formal seating and service. I scratched my head. So my ideal best friend is Sean Penn? And now I realize that Sean Penn reminds me of my first cousin Gary, some six years my senior, whom I never knew very well; but he has/had that same blotching irish, orange, bronze, loose leathering neck and upper chest as Sean Penn and, moreover, a surpassingly tough-guy persona—both my Irish mother and her sister married Italians and my uncle Gus (Cosmo) was not only my godfather he was, by all accounts, a godfather. He spoke, as his kids tended to, and certainly Gary did, with what we used to call a “dees, does and dem-y” accent. If you don’t know what that is too bad, I don’t feel like working that hard.

I could mine this dream forever; and I probabably will in my own time, but I’ll stop wasting yours here with my realizations. The only one you need really take in is the Taurus landscape of ease and acceptance with no second-guessing of any sort. I did ask Stella what she thought of the dream as we made coffee this morning; before she could answer I said, “you know, isn’t it ironic: because back in the eighties and nineties Madonna would factor into my dreams a lot in a similar manner where we were fast friends, no questions asked, seamlessly connected; and I always too those dreams a signal of ensuing or desired or some form of success, fame and acceptance on some world stage.” To which Stella replied, in a gossipy, on the q-t tone that, well, didn’t I know that supposedly Sean and Madonna are back together, that they’ve been seen together, and are probably dating. And I thought how weird. I mean, maybe the blond in the dream was some sort of reborn and decidedly rejuvenated Madonna who has finally “got it” and no longer needs all the flash to feel good about herself because she got what she wanted, what all the desperate need for attention was actually a subsitute for, the love of Sean Penn. That might be true. And despite the fact that, in life, the two of them are probably totally bonkers and are perfect for slash will end up killing each other, the Sean of my dream and his confident and friendly and unapologetic date were just the kind of good-time Sal and Sally that suited that Taurus environment. But then again, she was wearing something jungle print and Madonna, like Sean, with his big bad tawny-orange skin, is a Leo. And real-life Sean and Madge, should they be reunited, would spend a good decade being the King and Queen of this crazy global jungle in which we live; and like dream Sean, real Sean would surely prefer to hang out and buddy with me in the private garden patio of our favorite exclusive London, New York supper club than be barraged by paparazzi a string of whose lights, like those draped through the trees of my emerald dream, he would spend that decade, undoubtedly, punching out.

This was originally posted April 19 2016:

Stella and I are, for the most part humanistic astrologers, and there are about 80 documentable forms of astrology. We practice, we have a private practice whereby clients come to see us. That is our day job. And, as humanistic astrologers we treat the whole person, pointing out their patterns, their pitfalls and their superpowers as outlined by their natal charts. And we look at other charts to. Each individual’s chart is unique, and the way the planets in the various signs and houses operate and interact with each other is unique. Even identical twins with nearly the same chart will express vast difference based on the nuances and the polarizations they embody with each signature in their charts. The Sun is just one planet, we just all know in what sign the Sun lies in our charts, because it’s our Sun sign, determined by time of year. But we all have all the planets somewhere in our charts which are made up of the entire wheel of the Zodiac. We all have all the signs and astrological signs and houses in us. We are all made up of these twelve slices like a pie. People are pies.

But let’s get back to just our Sun signs for a second. When we write our books on astrology, Sextrology being our major work to date, we are dealing with Sun sign astrology which, though general, allowed for far more specificity than had ever been explored or recorded on the subject. For starters, Stella and I had always maintained that men and women of the same sign were actually different signs or sub signs—that they draw on different archetypes. This was something we bonded over when we first met. We both had astrologers and metaphysicians in our families, so when we met at nineteen, yes we met at nineteen, astrology was something we shared and it became first an ongoing conversation than a shared profession. And so we set about looking deeper into these gender signs, male and female, twenty-four instead of twelve, and that became the main thrust of Sextrology, sex as in gender, first and foremost, sexuality being a close and important second. And of course the archetypes further break down according to gay and straight and bi and trans, and the Zodiac, that pictograph of images inextricably linked to the profound richness and multiplicity of myth, led the way. The more we meditated on that mandala, the more it revealed and it continues to do so, and shall, we imagine, long after we’re gone, by others who would take up that baton.

Carl Jung of course was big into archetype and astrology and we are of course fascinated by the esoteric, not so much the occult, per se, that’s probably more the domain of other colleagues of ours. There is a school of astrology called Esoteric Astrology, one of those 80 brands, and it makes its way into our work. Whereas humanistic astrology treats the person here and now, in time and space; esoteric astrology treats the soul, on its journey, through many lifetimes; reincarnation being more accepted a phenomena than not on this planet. Even Joseph Campbell, the great scholar of myth and comparative religion who always reminded me of Snagglepuss, he had plans to tackle the subject of astrology, next, and then unfortunately, he died. Surely he would have legitimized the subject in a way others haven’t been able to do. We try of course. Okay so back to Sun sign astrology: The Sun placement in our charts really is of prime importance. So, although Sun sign astrology is general in the sense that a twelfth of the population, or thereabouts is born under your sign, it doesn’t take away from the fact that the Sun placement in your chart is most concerned with identity and, we say, the hero you’re becoming. Campbell’s famous book was called Hero With A Thousand Faces; well we know from astrology that there are at least twenty four main ones; and actually as man faces as there are or ever have been people alive in the history of life. But that’s a bit heady. The point our own Sun sign determines our primary archetype, the main cosmic energy that we embody. What is an archetype? It is most often an personification of an energy. That’s what the classic gods and goddesses, of which there are thousands, and all the saints and devis and angels and devils in all the world’s religions and spiritual systems really are. Personifications of energy. And guess what so are we. So are we. We are living-breathing representations of the universal cosmic energy, channeled through the Kaleidoscope lens of our own solar system, from our geo-centric, that is to say Earth-centric perspective right down to the country, the city, the town, the hospital, the bed, or back of the taxi, in which we were born. We are the end result of the stars projects down onto the planet in a spark of life. Not to mention the fact that we are physically made up of the exact same stuff as are those infinite stars. We literally are made of star-stuff. We are star dust. And we are golden. And, today, especially, we are going to get back to the garden—that Edenic metaphorical landscape which the sign of Taurus expresses.

This was originally posted April 21, 2016:

Beyond our individual work as humanistic astrologers and even the more generally specific Sun sign astrology, we are gathered here together understand and benefit from what we call Natural Cosmic astrology, that is to say what the Sun in each sign means for us during the 12 months of the year, each cycle of the Moon, which is where the word month—moonth—comes from, one moonth, corresponding to the Suns journey through each of the 12 signs and their natural houses of the zodiac. Funny and beautifully cosmic that our two luminaries, the Sun and Moon, seem to illustrate the same cosmic reality based on that most divine of numbers 12. It’s so much a no-brainer that we don’t even think about the fact that our own journey around the Sun takes twelve cycles of our moon; perhaps 12 is the key, the formula for life itself. Maybe other planets orbiting other stars have life too if that simple mathematically equation is in place. It just might be that simple. The zodiac is lousy with simple realizations like that which we take for granted. And, like the golden mean, the Zodiac with it’s 12 iterations, seems applicable to all aspects of existence. Not just the twelve months in a year, but the twelve hours on a clock, an individual hour made up of sixty minutes, a derivative of twelve, sixty seconds in a minute, not a mathematical system of 10, but a cosmic system of 12. The zodiac’s twelve signs and houses can apply to the individual span of a life, each house ruling a spate of 7 years, suggesting we should all live to an approximate age of 94, give or take; whilst it also expresses the span of all of existence, expressed in myth and biblical legend and through comparative religion, the world over. Let’s look at it through a biblical lens: Aries, cardinal-fire is the big bang, Genesis, creation; Taurus fixed-earth is the garden, Eden; Gemini mutable-air, is conscious, duality as characterizes the Fall, Cancer, cardinal-water is the Flood to wash it all away; Leo, fixed-fire, is the book of Kings and the Age of Miracles; Virgo, mutable-earth, is the human conscience, humility, Chronicles and Job; Libra, cardinal-air, the poetic Psalms; Scorpio, the meaningful Proverbs; Sagittarius, the philosophical Ecclesiastes, Capricorn, Prophets, Aquarius, the New Testament leading to Revelation of eternal life of damnation, the opposite-facing fish of Pisces with its new golden age of Peace, thirteen being the number of new order. There are only 12 thrones in Olympus just as there were 12 Titan thrones before that; and when Dionysus, the new-order god shows up at Olympus, one of the gods, Hestia, relinquishes her seat, and go sits and tends the hearth fire in the center, like the Sun through the twelve houses. Likewise, in the book of Revelation, the “Woman”, clothed by the Sun, with the Moon at her feet, has twelve stars circling her head. Also in the book of Revelation, the wall of the City has twelve foundations (one for each apostle).

There are twelve apostles; and even the original roundtable of Arthurian legend, that of his father Uther Pendragon, had twelve seats, with an additional left blank for Judas. There had to be twelve apostles, too, as Matthias replaced Judas, one of the original twelve..There are twelve tribes of Israel. Twelve sons of Jacob. Twelve stations of the cross. Twelve days of Christmas, ending with the feast of Epiphany, the new-order adoration by the Magi, the first to “recognize” Jesus as the new messiah. Twelve is a higher vibration of three, the trinity, taken to the four corners of the earth; and it numerologically reduces to 3 (1+2).

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!
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