I’m writing so well today that I almost don’t mind what a total nightmare of unhappy blankness the weekend was. Almost. We use social media to connect and to trumpet our pretty times and political views. But what about when the turmoil lands so hard it’s impossible to leave the house or say even a word? These are heavy times—mercury retrograde eclipse season heavens raining vengeance upon us times (literally) and it doesn’t help at all that I’m channeling harder and deeper than I ever have but for my own work. Sometimes writing this book is like taking dictation from an Old Testament-style Cassandra. Other times it’s like listening to a noseybody neighbor run amok. Either way, it’s heavy pizza, man.
Yesterday was awfully nice in New York, or so I hear. I got dressed to go out and then found I simply couldn’t. Couldn’t cook, couldn’t talk, really couldn’t face all the brunchers and flaneuzies still writing the story they’re dying to tell their someday grandkids. In a sane society–and what a utopian concept that is just about now-there’d not only be a fully blown National Endowment for the Arts but a sort of coast guard for those of us drowning in the heaviness of our creative projects.
Dear dear dear Sirenaders, I just wanted to say that I’m moved to tears over the cuteness of people’s eclipse stories and photographs tonight. There’s something so heartening about all of us collectively geeking out over a scientific phenomenon that is also astrologically significant, especially since people so sweetly shared their glasses with friends and strangers alike. A marriage of science and spirituality; a unification borne of something besides outrage; the idea that, in the middle of all this ugly madness, so many Americans stopped to ogle the heavens at the very same moment. It all suggests there’s hope for this country yet. And who knows? Maybe DT’s corneas really are burned. (Hey, I couldn’t get too Pollyanna on you.)
Pictured here: Naamia at the Rockaways