Last night I heard out of the blue from Sam Craig's mum after posting his picture, and it was his six-month birthday. It's nice to know my unconscious can remember people's birthdays, even if my brain can't. Also nice to know Sam Craig is on the opposite end of the astrological spectrum from the Swiss - can't help but be good news.
Lady was writing some about how people who think she's silly for her affinity for astrology should stick thier arms up their bums. I stare at the night sky and am awed and enchanted by the vast indifference of it all, so I guess I should take a cue from that guy in Pink Flamingos and start practicing opening my asshole before I FINALLY see her Thursday. Although I do pay attention to astrology, less in terms of what I should do and more in terms of who people are. I once thought that the time of year you're born would impact your personality from the amount of time your mum spent dressing you and walking you and shit, but then I realized Figaro, the classiest of Aries, had opposite seasons in the moon-man country he comes from. So now I say we all have obvious personality elements of all the sun signs, and paying attention to astrology helps me notice them and divergences from them, and anything that can help me figure out the people around me is a Very Good Thing.
Anyways, felt a damn pronounced sort of mood indigo last night, missed my baby so bad, and it was getting to the point of that awful tinny fatigue of real depression, so I decided to fight back with getting rid of the refined sugar. It hurts, because I love refined sugar. But there’s one thing I love more than refined sugar besides reefer and sex and the people I love and truth and justice and fried food. And that, sweethearts, is maple syrup. So I did my laundry and invented a new flapjack recipe.
1.5 cup rolled oats
3 tablespoons milled flaxseeds
3 tablespoons poppyseeds
2 pears – the funny crispy juicy ones the Korean sells - neutered, peeled, and chopped up
1 cup chopped dried apricots
2 tablespoons runny honey
6 tablespoons maple syrup
2 tablespoons strong reefer butter
Mixed all the ingredients over low heat on the stove, patted them into a 7 X 7 inch baking tray, and baked them at 320F for 20 minutes. Cut them into bars, smoked a bowl, ate, and started a book called The Singing Neanderthals. Felt better. In fact, felt bathed in the warm and loving light of existence. Those are some happy fucking flapjacks, though I should have chopped the fruit finer and I reckon some nice chopped almonds would be good for those who aren’t allergic. And the Singing Neanderthals is interesting enough to warrant its own entry some day. I am going to start speaking to people again today.
Ohhhhh, Rodelinda is coming to the office for lunch, that'll be nice - goodness knows when I'll get back to Oxford to see her. Rodelinda is sweet in many ways, but one of the sweetest is the way she laughs at me when I talk about boys. Most people laugh at my cynicism, but she laughs at me when I get all soft, and, as a classic Sagittarius, I respond well to being laughed at.