You just can’t jump off Washington avenue bridge any old time you feel like, pal, no matter how much whiskey you drink. Serious side effects arise. And I’ll tell you this too, You’ll have many years more to live. Without the horrible dreams. And if I could instill some more seriousness in the prose I would. Even a donkey who might bray in your ear the voice of God. Or at least of an ambulance. Or of someone who knows better. Because wasn’t it all along a better more bad-ass less boring knowledge that you wanted? No? Knowledge damns, I know. Perhaps the donkey’ll merely kick you in the heart? I am wary of writing these horoscopes. Why can’t I invoke a more consistent clairvoyance? And why won’t they all just get along? I too, have clutched my whiskey, late at night watching 30 Rock. And I confess, that time, it worked. That the dream whiskey pours sirening, I know, but please, John Berryman, don’t die
about Your questions concerning divination, answered
Your Art Museum suffers from trying too hard to be an Art Museum. The curious glazed surfaces of its canted foyer walls, the austere galleries as square as a 1950s salesman, the funny art a little too auspicious, chosen no doubt by some rich hidden necromancer in the business casual vestments of the dark arts, and of course the silhouette of the grand container entire seen from down the hill where you cower like one of the philistines before the Demon God Baal, all coalesce towards something that seems awfully like an art museum… but something isn’t right. “Is this some kind of trick? A ruse?” you ask as you look at a piece of art that glows strangely with dark signs. So too the other art objects, some smug and grinning at how inane you are, others angry that you should look at them at all, and still others that seem to be shuddering in fear. But each of them put together begin to present the outline of a vast hole. It swirls around like an abysmal poltergeist at your feet and you look down into it and are shocked to witness a horrific vision of doom. What is it? What do you see in there?
This week in a candle lit shack you’ll be frantically printing with an antiquated printing press the manifesto of your art shanty out-post far out on the barren wind-scoured ice. What’s that mournful sound in the distance? Only wolves howling. But here there’s a whole conclave of strange looking artists each in their very own strange looking shack, just trying to survive the ridiculous winter of creative discontent. What must be printed for them? Little brilliant tricksy things: the artists will read them and then know how to live. But the indelible type has to look just the right way. Artists won’t read comic sans. How about Univers? It’s simple and clean and wants you to believe just what it’s saying. The artists will love that it’s so neo-grotesque. Your eyesight is going as you write with tweezers the lead type backwards, but it doesn’t matter: the artist’s need to read as soon as they can the wicked truths that you’re printing up one sheet at a time. Quickly, quickly, print the magic. In the distance? The wolves are howling nearer.
You will find Jorge Luis Borges on the banks of the minnehaha in minneapolis
(Source: vortexanomaly, via littlebrumble)
This week you’ll read an inane satirical horoscope concerning you yourself, the one and only Josh Hartnett. You’ll be some what saddened by its depiction of you as one who cuts in line at Sebastian Joe’s ice cream parlor. Sure you like to go there but you’ve never even so much as thought of using your star power to get what you want, right? Or have you…? Self doubt seems to be more prevalent in your thought life these days than any time before. Are you doing the right thing? Are you starring in the right movies? I mean, heaven forbid you become Chris O’Donnell. Then some dick writes a horoscope misconstruing your character and what for? Do the common people have some kind of grudge, an animosity towards you? It is my part as horoscope writer to tell you that all that’s bullocks: the previous horoscope only meant to underscore the strange mystical stuff of celebrity, how a star can be more real than the reality he/she walks in. You can find this evident in Walker Percy’s novel The Moviegoer, Also, and somewhat more speculatively in the philosophy of Jean Baudrillard, particularly Simulacra and Simulacrum. What you as a celebrity are dealing with is very specific kind of American White Noise, (Delillo) a kind of Despair. You’re finding it harder and harder to tell where you end and pop culture’s idea of who you are begins. That’s a difficult problem. But you’ll take a walk around the lakes and that will be nice. And then you’ll make someone a Christmas present, a handmade object that doesn’t have to do at all with stardom, or buying power: how about a bird house?
one for every year he’s away, she said. Such a crumbling beauty, ah there’s nothing wrong with her that a hundred dollars won’t fix. She has that razor sadness that only gets worse with the clang and the thunder of the Southern Pacific going by and the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet til you’re full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin and you spill out over the side to anyone who will listen… And I’ve seen it all, I’ve seen it all. Through the yellow windows of the evening train…"
— Tom Waits
