SYL.Astrology
Added: 11/23/2006 |
Reading Ficino's astrologyMarsilio Ficino is one of the greatest practitioners of astrology of all time. He was a priest who was actually a patron of the Medici family in the 1400's, and a great renaissance figure who dangerously merged religion, astrology, and magic during a time when religion ruled the earth with the iron grip of a gauntlet. I studied him at a turbulent period of my life, and his work was helpful.
The old house sits empty upstairs, waiting for me with its loneliness. She'd left me high and dry like she always did, a huff, a temper tantrum, the slam of a door. She left me with my work mad because I didn't drop everything I was doing to attend to her constant needs. "Go to hell, you selfish bastard!" SLAM, trembling glass... God that was old. She left me to attend to my thesis. It wasn't like I was out screwing around or flirting with some girl. I was doing schoolwork, wrapping up four years of college. This was my whole life, my whole life that was in front of me that she wanted me to throw away so I could make her feel better about herself. Maybe that was the problem, that I had a life in front of me other than her and it bugged her, who could tell, but fact was, I needed to stop thinking about her and her many bloated overweight issues and focus on the task at hand. She left me to Ficino's astrology and research and tomes upon tomes about ancient times, and I needed to make the most of it, even though I'd be alone tonight in that dank, old, cavernous, flawed, fresh coat of paint covered house all by myself.
Writing and working with ideas was generally pleasing but I did my best work at night, at night I could vomit out the words and drink. They came endlessly from nowhere and affected nothing, as if my spirit could crawl out through my calloused fingertips and exit this meager existence through my laptop, run away from me and her and this sweat drenched 24 hour daily boredom. I know I drove her crazy because I drank a lot, a whole lot, but I never get drunk anymore.
I write and write and write and write and I drink and I drink and I drink and what does it all really matter in the end? She had a point in her overly dramatic way, I'm a slave to words and typewriter and manic computer and evil bottle but I needed the words to make some money to by the bottles to support her and her nail polish and her high heels and her dresses so she could get mad and slam doors and go off and try and impress some other guy, me still sitting at home trapped in this old beautiful proud house, this three story asbestos and brick mausoleum which has waited patiently for eons to devour my madness within. I had to focus on Ficino before it got dark and the bottle started calling me. There wasn't much time left. I studied my subjects during the day and wrote through the night, my pattern for success, or failure depending upon your viewpoint. I wished Ficino or Gryphon or Jesus or Buddha was there then to tell me what to do but they weren't. They were never there except in books. That was why I needed to write, because the books kept your legacy, and someone needed to write them. I cracked open a pint of whiskey and poured a shot, it was time to get to work
It was time for me and this cramped lonely deserted house and me to get to work, me writing, the house consuming my misery.
I hope it enjoys my stench and I stick to its lumber ribs, at least then something good would come from my madness.
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