My horoscope came in an email that begins,
"Dear Starry One,
This week is easier than the last two... keep up the good work. Much better times are coming at the end of September. I am rooting for you!"
I think of my astrologer, V, and imagine her warmly smiling at the codes she had deciphered from my natal chart, how she had said I was born under Sirius, "the greatest star in the sky." I imagine her gazing up into the night and thinking of me: "Oh Cancer, your stars will all align soon. I am rooting for you!"
I bought the supermarket's entire stock of honeycrisp apple seltzer and John Denver's Greatest Hits CD. I am getting the impression I am trying to craft comfort from what I can possess and taste and memorize the words to now that I have memorized The Essential Simon & Garfunkel as my definitive comfort. I have a brisket in the oven smothered in cinnamon that will keep me awake until midnight, but before I go to bed I will enhance my sense of the calendar by lighting small Autumn edition candles in tiny dollar Mason jars: Farmhouse Pumpkin, Rhubarb Crumble, Warm Spice. It is said that sweeping your home with a cinnamon broom will expel any negative spirits dwelling in your corners. In that case I have cleansed my oven of drippings and dispelled the Caloric energy of 9 times every gram of fat, 4 times every gram of protein, 0 times every gram of air consumed in consummation of the animal sacrificed.