MERCURY OUT OF RETROGRADE TOMORROW

I looked it up. Tomorrow, Mercury goes out of retrograde, and moves from Scorpio to Libra. That translates from astrology talk to: Good Times are on the way, Good Vibrations have begun, and the Sun will come out Tomorrow. 

I could feel it in the night. I fell asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness with the TV on to Netflix's new take on Unsolved Mysteries, so my head was full of alien abductions and an unsolved family murder, so my head was full of misery and woe. On top of that, I was, like most of the world, wrapped in anxiety about what might happen tomorrow. Not that I am worried Biden/Harris won't win. I know they will. I am worried about violence in the street. More Trump caravans stirring up more trouble like less sexy versions of Brando's gang in The Wild One, minus the pathos. I'm worried about the Orange One trying to get the military involved. I'm worried people are going to get hurt. I still am. I am certain there will be some blood shed on our streets tomorrow. 

But I am also certain we are going to know we have a new President by sometime late tomorrow night or early Wednesday morning.

I can't explain it, but I feel it in my bones. In my soul. In my stars. 

Yeah. I know. It's magical thinking. And that can get one into trouble. And maybe I'm wrong, and there will be an attempted coup, and we will have to rise up and take democracy back from those who would end our country, and our world, with their wanton ignorance and blatant aggression.

But again, I don't think so. 

We, as a species, are in flux. We are at a crossroads. All of us. And those who sold their soul to the devil for four years in office, or some spiritual equivalent for where they are in their lives, have to pay up. I think, like all deals with the devil, it doesn't work out for them. 

And that is sad. 

I shall weep for those who gnash their teeth, hugging their Trump/Pence flags tightly as they bemoan the loss of what they think is their land but nobody else's. We must be kind to them, yes. But we must not let them slander us, attack us, or steal from us. 

Love is not love if you let those you love act like assholes.

It is time for a new age. For dealing with climate change, and lingering systemic racism, and the virus. For addressing our vast economic inequality problem. To boldly go where no one has gone before. 

So, get out and vote. And cheer. And love.

If you wonder how I got to be the way I am, here are some of those to blame, in no particular order: Jana McCoy, who was the drama teacher at Blackford High; Free Will Astrology and it's creator, Rob Brezny; Duncan Trussell and the Midnight Gospel; Shakespeare; JoAnna Beckson, my Meisner teacher in NYC; The Western Stage and both the 1992 & 1994 productions of East of Eden; Jon Selover; Taft Miller; Pod Save America;  and my very liberal, always encouraging mother.

More influences to follow.

Here is a song. It's Good Vibrations by The Beach Boys. 

THE OWLS WILL STILL BE SINGING

Been listening to this crazy podcast of late. It's called The Duncan Trussell Family Hour, and it's by one of the people who create The Midnight Gospel, my current favorite animated series on Netflix. What I love about the podcast is that it is basically this guy Duncan having intensely interesting, funny, spiritual, bizarre, free flowing conversations that go wherever they want to go. It's perfect for listening to late at night, or when gardening, or taking a long drive. Today's episode was with Mitch Horowitz, this author on all things occult. The dude sounded pretty cool, actually. When I hear "occult author", I immediately thing of Boris Karloff in the classic horror flick The Black Cat, which is really weird and amazing and I highly recommend. But turns out this guy was nothing like Karloff's character in that movie. He is more like a spiritualist, or thinker, or just interesting person who has some thoughts on life he shares. And they were talking about how we all can have bad days, times when we act like morons, treat others poorly, cut people off in traffic. You know, act like Human beings. And how that's okay. Not that we should strive to be assholes or anything like that. More that we should accept that everyone plays the fool sometimes. The jerk. The creep. Choose your word. And I got to thinking. Do I come off as someone who thinks they're perfect? Do I come off like I think we should all grow up and get over it and stop whining so much? Maybe I do. I do think we can get through this. I do think there have been worse times to be alive in our history. But I do realize that this is a hard time. That people are depressed. And lonely. And worried. So, if I have made anyone feel crappy about how they are dealing with this virus, I'm sorry.

I think, sometimes, in a very twisted way, that growing up in an alcoholic, co-dependent house with lots of psychological abuse and the occasional slamming against the wall - while horrific and a drag- did give me something to gauge other bad times against. It also messed with my head, and I am fairly certain if I didn't go on a spiritual quest that began with a stint as a full blown Born Again Christian in high school that I would most likely have ended up in jail. Still, I know what it is to feel lost and scared and like I am living on a different planet from everyone else. And that has come in handy of late. But I think it might make me a little less tolerant of other people's pain. So, thanks Mr. Trussell and Mr. Horowitz, for helping me figure that out.

It's Memorial Day week end. Doesn't feel like it. Feels like... I don't know. Feels like a time I've never lived before. It's kind of unique. I guess labels have gone bye bye. And that's cool. Each moment is ephemeral and not to be seen again. But in the old, pre-Covid days, somehow I was able to pretend that was not the case. There would be days and feelings and times I would just think "oh, it's the Monday blues", or "it's Friday Night out with the gang", or "it's clean up the house day". Now, every day is different and new and while that can be tiring, it's also invigorating. Maybe the sheer boredom of routine confined to a limited space has forced me to open my third eye just the tiniest bit and look around and see things more clearly.

Maybe.

One more thing. I saw a young owl today in a tree. I've always felt like when I see an animal in the wild, it's the world trying to tell me something. Owls, in particular, have always felt like harbingers of mysticism and romance. Some people think when you dream of an owl that means you were abducted by aliens. Or that a ghost walked your house while you slept. I think it was bringing some spirit guides to help me finish the first draft of my screenplay. I also think it is yet another sign of how happy the planet is to have been given a slight, very brief break from all the horrible treatment she has received at the hands of the human race. We really need to be better about how we treat our home. I like owls, and clear skies, and sea turtles, and life in general.

Here's a song. It's Night Has Turned to Day by Fantastic Negrito. Feels good.

TRUMP'S INFINITE PLAYLIST AND THE SECRETARY OF THE WHACKNESS

I dreamed I somehow created a Wombat with human level intelligence. I was part of this group of madcap adventurers, very Doctor Who, and we were in NYC to save the world, which was apparently something we did often, saving the world. We were in Union Station, and I declared that the solution was for us all to go into the world of the Lottery. Not the novel by Shirley Jackson, but the cheesy games that each state has. There were four of us adventurers. One of them was Prue Leith from the Great British Baking Show. We lined up on this catwalk above the throbbing masses, and leapt into these portals. I was transported to a world I could not comprehend. It was all lights and shapes that made no sense. How long I was there I have no idea. Somehow, I came back to Union Station, and had saved the world. But I had also, through some feat when I was in Lottery World, brought about the creation, and transport to our dimension, of a huge talking Wombat. His name was George. And he informed me that he very much liked being alive and had no desire to not exist or to be forced back to Lottery World. He made a good argument, and we all decided he could stay.

Then I woke up. I think it was the milk man that woke me. Or maybe the thought of being able to create talking wombats. I thought "must put this in the blog", and went back to sleep. I was tired. Stayed up far too late, watching Good Omens, a documentary about myths and heroes called Myths and Heroes, and then The Midnight Gospel, an Adult Swim type of cartoon about this boy in the distant future who takes trips through time and space to interview people for his podcast, which has one follower. It's trippy and hilarious, full of dialogue that made me think of Richard Linklater's Slacker, a sort of stoner existentialism.

That's a lot of fantasy. I guess I needed it. High minded fantasy with large ideas, exciting characters, non-sensical plots, and compassionate humor. Maybe I should figure out a way to hang out with our POTUS during this crisis, and talk some sense into him just by hanging out with him and discussing the unbearable lightness of being, the strangeness of life itself, how improbable it all is and how we still strive to find meaning. Maybe, instead of watching Fox or whatever it is he watches, Trump should become a Doctor Who fan. It couldn't make it worse, could it? The guy has no humor other than sarcasm, no sense of irony, and doesn't seem to have much sense of wonder at this glorious and bizarre universe. He's limited. And that is sad. Maybe we should all make him a playlist of songs that lead you on paths of discovery and joy. Maybe, if we sent enough, he would break down and listen to one. Maybe he would then show up at one of his strange briefings, still in his PJs, with a large cup of coffee, and announce that he needs to let the love in, that he was going through some things, and that  he was appointing Sufjan Stevens Secretary of the Whackness, and that he was going to let the scientists in the room run things in regards to the virus while he took some "me time". Usually, I would not want the leader of the free world to take some me time, but I would be cool with this.

Here is a song. It's the English Beat's cover of Tears of a Clown.