Photo depicts front page of tabloid newspaper, headline reads: “Nancy Reagan’s astrologer: How i Ran the White House”
Walking in the snow this morning I was shivered not by the ordinary cold but by the realization everyone in America is walking around believing in his or her own Socratic Sign—that each creepy citizen has a daemonic harmonic gassing his or her cerebellum. I recalled Nancy Reagan and her astrologer.
It was cold alright. I wondered what became of Nancy’s astrologer, Joan Quigley. I came in from the snow and did a quick internet search. Quigley is 86 and apparently still living in San Francisco. There the trail ends. I picture Ms. Quigley in a room filled with star charts. Perhaps she has a butler named Max. Maybe when the charts are right, she tells Max to get the car.
Perhaps she and Nancy Reagan still talk. This is the season. Man its cold. Maybe they’re talking right now.
Amazing what happens when you take the dogs out. I love the wild, post-diluvian world. Wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I suppose that’s my Socratic Sign. A little voice says, “keep on walkin’ and talkin’!”
Back to Joan Quigley: I do think it would be marvelous to have a phone pal who lives alone among Gnostic scrolls; who I could call anytime; who would say things like: “Go back to bed until 4 pm, then get up and have a taco.” Or: “go out today but for only 45 minutes. Then go home and read Charles Dickens.”