Redneck Mother – Mercury
I was looking at a two sets of documents that I’ve got earmarked for editing during the upcoming Mercury Retrograde period. Made me think of something I’m pretty sure I heard on the radio, Friday afternoon, it was Ray Wylie Hubbard, the original Zen-cowboy-poet, his advice to singer-songwriters, “Make sure you can sing that song for the next 31 years.”
He was, of course, talking about “Up against the wall, redneck mother.”
I was thinking about that because a Virgo volunteer was quizzing me about my astrology lecture, “What is that the Aquarius does?”
But with my astrology, the columns that I write, I have a “no repeat” clause in that contract with myself. I remember being accused of repeating myself, but I liked the columns and questioned the repetition, I mean, I couldn’t find it. Neither could several rather careful readers.
Long standing rules seem to work. No repeats. Fresh material. It’s been a little more difficult as of late to come up new stuff, but I keep plugging away. The challenge is certainly there.
Because I do chart my own course by the planets, I retired the production work on horoscopes for the duration of the fast-approaching Mercury retrograde. Not to worry, there’s enough material in the can to see us through. And, I’ve already started on paper journal that has lists of ideas, observations and material for the future. I might get a series of scopes out bereft of typos. That would be endearing.
Pen and paper see me through times when Mercury is backwards. It’s time to start anticipating that now, as well.
Worried about Mercury? Me? Hardly. But I do have my back-up systems in place. I’ll just write by hand for spell. Never can tell when some of this stuff will come back to haunt us, like that singer still singing the same song for 31 years.
This journal is personal, it’s not part of the hiatus in scopes.
Seeing Jimmy Buffett the other evening emphasized that point that Ray Wylie made. Imagine trying to find a way that is artistically pleasing, to sing a certain love song, for thirty years?
Which is worse? Redneck Mother or Why don’t We get Drunk and Screw?
Hippie stench
I was figuring on getting ready for the Reggae Festival, just around the corner. Shirt? Grab a “sort of clean” one that I’ve only worn for a couple of days. Other preparations? Like shower and shave, like I usually do?
Maybe not, I mean, I was thinking about the situation, and what would fit in best is just splash on a little patchouli oil, and call me good to go.
The promoter’s right hand person [Aquarius> called and left a message. My Pisces called and left instructions. I got the hint and slammed a straw cowboy hat on, then motored up – on foot – to the festival.
It never rained, but it wasn’t clear, it was like having a cloud come down and sit on the ground.
I’m hanging up my “man wrap,” though. Saw way too many guys in skirts. Plus, one in a kilt. Nope, don’t want to look like everyone else.
The volunteer schwag included a “bongo naked” shirt and hat. That was cool.
Hearing a reggae version of Shakedown Street. That missed some of the audience, I’m sure, but judging from what I saw, most of the crowd was cooking on eleven herbs and spices.
Late in the afternoon, a fire truck responded to an emergency call. I was sitting near the front gate, and another worker stopped by, “Yeah, some girl flipped out….”
I suppose, given the times and places, it’s supposed to be sad. I’m sure waking up in a psych ward with a garden variety of uncontrolled substances still running through your system isn’t pleasant. But I got a giggle out of the situation, listening to the radio, “She’s what you call around here, chemically challenged.”
At the end of the night, to my right, was the coordinator [Aquarius>, another volunteer [Aquarius>, and yet another volunteer [Aquarius>.
In the final analysis, though, I figure reggae music is the perfect pitch for us Caucasians. Think about it: the style? What style? Ever try to dance to the syncopated beat? It’s a meandering shuffle. No style and no rhythm? Perfect for me.
On the way home, passing through the festival ground, the air was heavy with moisture and incense. But once I got under the canopy of trees, closer to home, real lavender filled the air.
