Last night over dinner, Geoff required that I assess my happiness level—on a scale of one to ten—over the Saints’ victory against the Cardinals on Saturday, the NFC championship game. We agreed that giving it a ten was too much, as a rating of ten signifies absolute Nirvana, merging with the Universe in a state of such pure ecstasy that I leave my body. We’re not there yet. Working backwards from that, we’d have to say that assessing my happiness level at a nine has to be saved for when (if?) they make it to the Superbowl. So we settled on scoring my happiness at level eight. That seemed reasonable. Then I wondered: Why do men always have to quantify things? Scores, yardage, happiness levels? They’re obsessed with math. It’s unwholesome.
My contribution to the mathematics of the current season of miracles was to point out that Drew Brees’ birthday was January 15th, right smack on that solar eclipse. As a Capricorn native, he also has Pluto transiting his sun, so this is a period of sublime transformation and self-mastery for him.
When I first saw Brees I dismissed him as a Dudley-Do-Right. Too sweet, too clean, too good to be true. Not interesting. Since then, I have seen a real animalistic quality erupting out of him. He is exciting when he gets his back up. (Always dissed for being short, Brees more than makes up for the lack of height with an abundance of grit.) Often when he runs, he looks like an Angry Dad. This is not the self-indulgent, Prima Donna Quarterback hissy fits. No, Drew Brees is the Angry Dad, coming on the field to say: “None of us is going to do well if you keep screwing up like that.” It’s the non-egoistic, all-Capricorn sense of duty and responsibility and enforcing the law within the family for the good of all concerned. A leader you can trust.
Add to that Jupiter, the planet of expansion, abundance, great achievements—just moved into Pisces. This is very nice for Piscean Reggie Bush, speaking of which . . . Reggie Bush! Goodness gracious! Talk about the Drama of the Gifted Child! Finally, the most expensive, narcissistically wounded and over-anticipated player is emerging from the weight of too-high expectations and running forward instead of backward. We were very pleased with Reggie on Saturday.
So I believe the signs favor the Bless You Boys. I’m not looking into Brett Favre’s chart because I don’t want to know. I’ll only confuse myself with too much information. Focus, focus, focus! We just need to get past this Sunday . . . and then maybe a nine on the scale? Don’t think . . . focus.
Emily sends a poem today, but I’ll be damned if I can see how it connects with anything else on my mind.
#547, c. 1862
I’ve seen a Dying Eye
Run round and round a Room —
In search of Something — as it seemed —
Then Cloudier become —
And then — obscure with Fog —
And then — be soldered down
Without disclosing what it be
‘Twer blessed to have seen —
Em is still working with the matters of sight and darkness. She will be for a while. Psyche’s journey is not yet complete. Here Emily tells us the dead don’t give up what they know. Or what they seek. They possess a vision sharpened by urgency as life slips away. So they can “see” things no one else can. Emily has seen them seeing. The only problem is the dead and the living may only glimpse each other over this line. At first the poem suggests a vain search, clouded, fruitless. But then the one who searches ends with a blessing. The dying one found what he or she was looking for but can’t tell Emily. One approaches that doorway alone. Peering through may reveal some insight but nothing that anyone else may know or see.
Only the dead know what they know. Their journey is solitary. Emily can see that much, but even the poet with her enhanced vision can’t cross over that line with someone else. It’s a vision that benefits only the seer and can never be translated.
Emily Every Day 