My birthday’s coming on the 29th and that means my Solar Return; when I moved to New York nine years ago from San Francisco as a platter of plasma with ID, one of the first things I did was to find an astrology teacher so that I could not only figure out what the hell happened to me out in California but master the art of measuring the skies inside my soul so that senseless tragedies like what I endured need never occur again.
I studied two years intensely and over the years intermittently; I’m a triple Capricorn (sun moon and rising) with a gum wad of Scorpio planets; between the two I’m picked dry (or wet). Every year I feel a little less Saturn (Capricorn’s ruling planet – the planet of anxiety, wisdom and late bloomers) and a little more Mars (Scorpio’s ruling planet –the planet of energy, war, competition, SEX, massive intensity): every year I can hear louder and louder pacing of symphonies waiting to be written; large engulfing projects that boil and then explode in spontaneous exotic and sexual floral arrangements; but you don’t fuck with these flowers; I have a saying with Scorpios that you don’t cross one; if you do, carry a basket around so you have somewhere to put your head when it gets lopped off;
We all have the same planets and same houses; it’s soul DNA, is astrology; it reminds me we all share the same ingredients; and my chart is run by Saturn and Mars like two mob bosses fighting with each other and stalking other planets; Mars is starting to win the turf war; that’s why when I go to bed at times it’s just sort of a gesture, not really something that leads to sleep; in short, I am a fanatic (in the words of my teacher);
So every year I look at my Solar Return, an annual forecast we all have base don our Sun’s position; and this year is going to be one to burn holes in The Secret, at least that’s the intent. Tonight where i take singing class (@BQCM) I saw a pianist and violist play several selections of modern composers, a couple I knew and a couple I didn’t. the violist, during one, snapped a string in an intense moment which I loved; he was in fervor and during all of their pieces my mind turns on and I asked myself what I felt the greatest piece of American music ever written was and immediately I came back with George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. Nothing else dropped by to claim the stake and I stick with that. Of course Katy Perry’s Extraterrestrial is a close second; something about being love addicted to an emotionally unresponsive alien makes me wonder if the feeder tube from American Soul to American Psyche needs a good cleaning; I would not know the song if I wasn’t fond of conspiracy theories and watched the video for signs of Illuminati symbolism which one can turn into a drinking game or for me a chocolate game; and every time I go into a thrift shop the song played; I don’t know what’s going on with popular music; I just think if I ever have a daughter and she came home singing lyrics about a love addicted girl who wants to be turned into a liquid drug so she could be shot into the veins of her boyfriend so he could shoot himself and bleed her all over his penis and then get orally pleasured by rabid sex starved aline monkeys or cause him to rectally bleed so she would know what it’s like to be eliminated while he’s having sex with her best friend whatever shit I see hints of in some of these lyrics; I know I exaggerate but addiction is not something you want to peddle on teenage girls; that’s the sad flavor I get with some of these tunes when I energy scan; black is black;
I’m rambling with intent, on creating an exotic garden that reminds me what home smells like; walls made of crushed petals, clay and shattered mirrors attached to certain reflections;
‘Marry the emotional movement, Horatio, into the madness with the silliness and all the other spokes of the magic pinwheel; spokes of the magic pinwheel, dicing and slicing pieces of life into something such a mess it’s like sitting in a big pile of confusing confetti; a party that is life and every little piece matters and nothing is random; to the naked eye it looks like a piece of confetti; to the naked soul it’s Picasso.’