34. Frank Sinatra Was a Sagittarius
a southern solstice, blackened catfish, & a fully funded anthology!
It seemed like a small act of poetry on the part of the universe that I happened to be in the strip club bathroom when I learned we’d met (and exceeded!) our Kickstarter goal for The Holy Hour. I went to go pee and saw that I had missed calls from my co-editor Molly, along with a string of texts proclaiming the news. Our crowdfund—which, one hour prior, had been about $1500 away from its goal, with under 40 hours to go in this all-or-nothing gambit—had been funded.
I got full body chills and called her back. We shrieked to each other on the phone as I heard my stage name crackle over the loudspeaker, letting me know I was on in one.
Elated, I had a great night at work. But it wasn’t a great night.
A client promised the world and then disappeared. A 20-year-old tipped me 20 dollars to ask me questions like, “is this your main source of income?” and wasted my time by saying “I don’t want to waste your time” 10 times. I changed my outfit three times.
My timing was off, but, because of the good news, I felt a near-manic benevolence that bled into the next day. Bless you, all of you! Even the time wasters! The frat boys in town for their formal! The bachelor parties! The man in a puffer vest who ran away! The young men so inept at tipping they nearly gave me paper cuts with their dollars!
Halfway through my shift, I realized that I was missing my book. I’m reading A Ghost in the Throat by Doireann Ní Ghríofa, and I remembered bringing it with me that night. Mentally retracing my steps, I was almost positive I’d left it at Hustlers when I bought an ill-fitting box outfit, but had no way to confirm, as my phone does not make actual phone calls in the U.S.-- my telecommunications are relinquished to things available to me on WiFi as my iPhone 8 is not advanced enough for e-sim cards (yes, I sometimes use Google voice and other such apps, but periodically delete them to make more storage space).
I spent the rest of the evening changing my outfits between bouts of taking them off, and thinking mournfully about Schrödinger's book, perhaps in the Hustlers store, and perhaps gone forever. I accepted the fact that it might be gone, along with my painstaking underlines.
The next day, I went back to Hustlers. My book was on the counter, to the side. “That’s my book!” I exclaimed to the clerk. I thought she might make me verify that it was mine, but she just handed it over.
I took Ní Ghríofa with me to a corner spot across from the Vampire Cafe in the French Quarter, a spot that has nice blackened catfish. Every time I come to New Orleans I eat blackened catfish once. It’s a dish that originated in this city in the 19th century; the fish is blackened by searing it in a hot cast iron skillet.
“I’m glad to see that paperbacks are making a comeback!” My waiter said to me as I pulled the book from my bag.
I read about Ní Ghríofa’s encounter with her first cadaver as a pre-medical student, her shaking hands, slicing herself by accident in the room she’d dreamt of before being in it. My dish arrived in front of me as I read lines about her group member flaying the skin above “the old woman’s ribcage in two drab flaps, like the wings of a moth.” Reading is an act of companionship. Layers of thought and feeling flutter invisibly in space. It’s one of the most private things we can do in public.
Later, in a witch shop, a woman asked me if I cook in this city. Confused, I said no, I’m just visiting. She pointed to my houndstooth pants and I realized that I was inadvertently dressed like a chef.
I mean I guess I do cook—I’m always scheming.
Returning to the anthology, (really, I’m still beaming… thank you all so much!!) I’m so grateful for such a beautiful beginning to the story of our small press. I’ve dreamed of doing something like this for a long time. I am so excited for what’s ahead and continuously so humbled and amazed by the support this project has received. And I’m looking forward to more co-conspiring with my fellow working girls.
~
The solstice marks the year’s darkest moment in the northern hemisphere. The longest night.
When I am in a dark night, spiritually speaking, I tend to turn to the wisdom of Saint Frank. His words feel edifying, lyrical confirmations of my chosen path. They have been the soundtrack to my past few months, months that have been tumultuous. Bold and undeniably Sagittarius, you can’t convince me Ol’ Blue Eyes wasn’t also a witch. Here are three of my favorite spells.
A spell for romance:
A spell for grit and confidence:
A spell for emotional catharsis and self-acceptance:
In this crucible of the solstice, when things are going absolutely fucking sideways, don’t be afraid to put on a little Sinatra and slip out the back door into the night.
~
As always, I am so grateful to you for spending a slice of your day with me and my heart. It really does mean the world. As a creative person who has done a lot of things “my way”… I feel such a lovely reverb from all of you, and it makes the path a little less lonely. This monthly missive will always be a free offering, as long as I’ve still got air in my lungs! If you would like to support further, you can subscribe to my paid tier for access to a larger archive or work. <3 xx see you in 2024!
Welcome back to New Orleans! I hope she treats you well this trip <3 If you're doing any readings while here, I'd love to know xo
Well done!