- Galactic Rabbit | Horoscopes & Love Magic
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The first set of planets scream go, go GO! While the latter planets scream STOP! We also have Neptune, the planet of boundlessness and unconditional love in positive aspect to the configuration. Finally, Mercury in Pisces may make communication less direct this month, although more heartfelt. Knowing that our thinking and speaking abilities will be less precise and more emotional will make all the difference in determining whether we use this to our benefit or our demise.
You are very motivated by creative ideas this month. Your dreams and aspirations that you may not have evaluated for quite some time suddenly occupy a great deal of your thoughts. You may find yourself feeling impatient about achieving these goals, or surprise yourself by dreaming up something new altogether. The idea of going back to school may sound strangely appealing.
On the 14th, communication takes on an otherworldly quality. Use the opportunity to express how you feel to your nearest and dearest. Your current philosophies about life may have you feeling stagnant or stuck. Your long term goals and aspirations seem to be at odds with your overall worldview, which gives you the feeling of pressing the gas pedal and the brake pedal simultaneously. Fortunately, this month transiting Venus will offer up some sweetness to guide you. February also offers you courage to scour the depths.
Use your ability to dive below the surface of things to get to the bottom of this internal conflict. What outmoded beliefs are you ready to let go of? What is no longer serving you? On the 14th, giving voice to your dreams and aspirations, either shared with a loved one or even in a journal, may prove to be particularly helpful. Luck and good fortune bestow your relationships, romantic or otherwise, during the month of love. That same luck also shines a light on your creative genius this month, and can help you harness energy to apply to your long-term goals.
Be wary of emotions clouding your communications at work. When it comes to feelings of limitation regarding any shared assets or finances however, be sure to utilize compassionate communication to get to the bottom of the issue.
Galactic Rabbit | Horoscopes & Love Magic
If you find yourself having these conversations on or around the 14th, you may be pleasantly surprised by a new level of understanding between you and your partner. Compassionate communication will help bolster loving feelings in relationships that have otherwise felt stifling and stagnant as of late. Around the 14th, you may have extra motivation to accomplish some career goals.
Or vice versa. Balance and integration are key here. Also notice around this time whether you are getting lazy about any daily habits or routines that you may have implemented at the new year. The Moon is in late Cancer today, moving toward Leo by later today. Meanwhile the Sun has entered Pisces. Let's reflect again today on the sign of Pisces, but today more specifically on the symbolism of the Sun within the sign of the two fish. This morning during my meditation and quiet time I was led to revisit a passage from the 1st book of Samuel. Samuel is a prophet, as well as one of the last Hebrew judges like a chieftain or leader before the implementation of the Kings takes place.
The people are asking for a King because Samuel's sons, who he appointed as the next Judges, are corrupt. Samuel is distraught and in prayer God tells him that the reason they want a King is because they've forsaken God as King. Nonetheless, God tells Samuel to give them what they want but to also tell them what will happen when they have a King a lot of War, and a lot of taking from the people. Still the people insist upon a King. Samuel then tells the people to go back to their respective towns. The next day, Saul, the soon to be first King of Israel, is out looking for some missing donkeys.
His servant suggests that they go to Samuel, who is a seer, and pay him for the location of the donkeys. I will fight for your right to rest and I will find honor in the fight itself, never the recognition. And, since our country has never wanted us, it is to your joy that I pledge my allegiance. How many Cassandras have we birthed and discounted? And how often have you, Aquarius, aimed to prove yourself through acquiry? In a world like this one, you are taught to doubt what is innate in you, your own readiness to be yourself. It is your job from now on to unlearn whatever has diminished your sense of inner knowing, to traverse the universe of your mind with great anticipation.
People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own souls. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious. We were talking about darkness but not our own, because it is easier to talk about the darkness of others.
These kinds of people are a shadow side the way the moon is a shadow side, always present and especially visible in times of darkness. In talking of the shadow side I remembered a woman I had known. She was very tall, her body a thermometer with mercury levels indicating a nervous, melancholic disposition.
In remembering her I know I remember all the ways I saw myself in her. The Piscean journey, I know, is that of a healer who must face their wound always. Who must, against all forms of outer and especially inner resistance, recognize the shadow side of their nature and reckon with its intentions. There are no self-less healers among us and cannot be. When you act, what part of you acts from the wound? When you listen, what wounds within you obscure your ability to witness the wounds of others? Tanks of the blown-off world. He is my beautiful offshore a caw caw of major spills and elsewhere no, no.
Cut the dialect the binary the dear word so precious and forbidden. They use the machines to take the streets of the world. And hear you, people of the word. Because last night I was in a small room where Anne Waldman the woman, the legend, the triple Aries cast a circle. She cast that circle not in salt but in poetic bellows charged with grief for the optimistic delusions we have allowed ourselves to live inside and the consequences of our enduring commitment to an economy of brutality.
And, I wondered what an Aries would need to learn in order to be a good teacher. Because we know that we cannot hope to be given power, and must instead learn how to claim it, the onus is on us to understand the many ways that grasping for power corrupts our perception and empathic capabilities. And, if you are to understand power, you must understand your relationship to control—how much you want to have and how much you fear to lose.
Be especially mindful of your intimate circle, Aries, since it is the first circle you cast and the one that fortifies you against the cruelties of the outer world. Dear friend, I mean to you write you tonight but instead I write here and feel you very close. I know you have been out in the streets for days, chanting among the dissidents in all kinds of weather.
In my heart, I walk beside you and witness your keen sense of injustice. It is something I have always known and admired in you: the power of your convictions. Strong but not inflexible, you are both open to learning and yet entirely devoted to what your heart knows to be true. I choose these words because I can feel a space opening within you.
It is as painful as it is clear, this reconstruction, but I know you are strong enough to bear it. Not only bear it but also embrace it. And as I stand before you now, I am hopeful in my rage You know love has finally called for me, I will not wilt upon its stage But still smaller than my nightmare now do I print upon the page Do we have to live inside its walls to identify the cage?
They are like Amazons readying for war, I think. They are Amazons readying for war. And, the poetry of the night is a kind of mental kickboxing by which I am made limber and supple with tears in the opening act before my Gemini friend invites the audience into the ring to roundhouse with language. Garish erasures of Playboy, the magazine all women are slipped in the prison of their minds, vector from her sharp frame of lace and opaque gemstone.
Intimacy and hardness, interior and exterior war, when she is done we go outside and repeat her words back to her like they are roses in our hands. So instead I touch her hand and look into her face, lit in burgundy light like a pomegranate seed. O Gemini, what will you do with everything you know? Remember the boxing gym aptly named Overthrow where the Amazons box. How, in boxing, one protects their hands—the very thing ones uses to inflict hurt and compel submission. Practicing a knowing toward love… I think I understand.
That is also a weapon. I read at the same time: This will be and this has been; I observe with horror an anterior future of which death is the stake. By giving me the absolute past of the pose aorist , the photograph tells me death in the future. What pricks me is the discovery of this equivalence. Whether or not the subject is already dead, every photograph is this catastrophe.
It is true that in mourning our hearts open wider, a wound like an aperture that absorbs all light, all suffering, the foreground and background distinguishable only by lines where a figure might cut through. Why do we open the aperture? To bear witness, to catalogue what will be destroyed so that in looking back we know what needs rebuilding and must be overhauled. We open the aperture anticipating the larger possibilities of the future believing that there will be one despite all evidence to the contrary. We are the government now, you say. In writing this, I take a picture of our power and protect it.
The vows we make to each other will outlast this world we live in now and see us through to the next. What is an opening is also a light. Your wide-open heart: a signal. We see it, we move toward you, stand behind you, ready to claim and rebuild our broken world.
In a basement over boxes I packed so long ago I can barely remember what each one holds, I am parsing through my past and S is reading aloud the different kinds of love language we are capable of.
Is gift giving one of your primary love languages? I exacto a flimsy strip of tape and pull out a blanket Maya bought me years ago simply because she adored how taken I was with it. Not really, I venture. It is true there is a Leo in my life whose offerings soften my heart. It is also true that I would love her just the same without those gifts, that I recognize the gifts as her love language and regard them as such.
When S reads these aloud to me and attempts to pinpoint what feels like love to her, I getting a sinking feeling that I must be one those greedy bitches that just needs it all. My Leo friend has this unrelenting will to illuminate the best qualities of everyone she loves while simultaneously forcing them to face their weaknesses and overcome them. It is the love language of witness and pride, the love language of her very being, and what draws me to her.
Feeling affirmed. Leo, the world is need of generous leaders and no matter what you do for money, your energy is precious now. So, you must spend it wisely with compassion for yourself as well as others.
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Can this approach to the language of love translate, for you, to a kind of creative force? It is within your power to invoke the love you want. And all this nation. Not nation. What was once expanse. You, I, they, us surrounded. Unable to ask forgiveness of itself, to inscribe particular in its own body that got left begins. As we separated to say. The woman climbs onto his lap and weeps. The man wraps his arms around the woman and then his arms fall limp. He leaves and in ten minutes they return to together.
She crawls into his lap. They laugh and then they fall apart. A simple sentence! He yells and only she knows what that means. He calls her Girl and she says Please and strokes his face. People know that I am good at my work. My work is good. Our surroundings determine our experience of the world and it is we who choose when to look and when to look away. In listening I remembered a few weeks ago when a friend of mine and I took turns counseling a Libra who had recently lost a loved one to a shocking homicide.
The three of us sat in triangle formation for a while. Grief takes a long time, my friend suggested. Your depression is perfectly expected at this time. Her permission seemed to relieve him; she knew his loss in a way I did not. Still, it might be good for you to take up some kind of social contract, I proposed , an activity that provides you with the opportunity to generate connections and beauty. Libras are social creatures, after all, and sweet interactions can be a kind of salve over the difficult wounds one must face when alone. I suggested soccer, a sport that seemed to offer rituals of value to him.
Instead, he described writing workshops he led wherein he felt integral to opening the imaginations of other participants. Is when the reins are in the hand of the young who dare to run against the storm Not needing to clutch for power, not needing the light just to shine on me I need to be just one in the number as we stand against tyranny. The Libra approach is an approach that thrives on community support and collaboration, a group of like-hearted souls working like hell to honor a loved one or, if a Libra feels capable of acting globally, tear down a regime.
But, Libra, although you can survive in solitude, you thrive in company. Just make sure the company you keep is the company you want, people who reflect the person you want to be in the world. There must be a reason that November stretched so long. Each morning the leaves get brighter and redder and it feels ok to wake up alone or, if not physically alone then, alone in the mind wandering into the morning as if it were an echo of every morning you have ever lived. The work is there, it keeps coming, but there is something about the quality of time that does not allow the work.
So many beginnings without end, have you found yourself attracting strays? Have you found yourself looking too long in the mirror wondering what beauty is and what it can never be? Someone taught you there is only so much of you someone can take. Someone taught you to measure your love out bit by bit. When you make coffee, you take a small spoonful of sugar and drop it in, then add more.
You carry the mug with you from room to room and each room inside you feels absolutely necessary. The love inside you fills the house of you like music. You can open the windows, you know. There are certain kinds of nights that make me think of you and last night was one of them. A blonde woman unknown to both us threw her arms around the two of us as we entered, proclaiming the party officially on because we had just arrived.
S moved through the crowd greeting people she knew while I made a nest on the leather couch, the fireplace to my left and the singers to my right. The blonde woman was up there with them too, sort of swaying, her long thin limbs extended toward every person in the room—especially but not exclusively the men.
I leaned over to S and asked her if she thought the Blonde was practicing an unrestrained and playful kind of power or whether she was falling into a deep drunken well of weakness. Watching her fed a whirring thing inside me, a thing I know you understand. It whispers bad ideas in your ear and makes them sound real good. Sagittarius, you and I both know that chaos is cathartic but it is not a cure.
And I know the world is crumbling around us. I know how that crumbing can make you feel like life is too precious to waste and must be lived apologetically now now now. But, Sagittarius, living unapologetically means losing a lot more than you might be ready to lose so you better figure out what you need right now versus what you want. Because whenever I hear the word angel I think of you, who has a name for every angel, and because I missed you, I went to listen to your poems in a dark and shadowy corner of Bryant Park. And, I felt the crowd immersed in your all-seeing genius, your hard hoofed exploration of the world.
What parts of me shake loose dirt. What parts wait until you are bare. My jejune bluegrass, why do I eat your light. There are grasses growing up the shabby fence. All of them fluid blade. We sway. What parts of me are wild. What parts storing up for the choke. How do I tell the difference. It was on us to create the space we wanted and so we did, my IPhone propped against the glass window of the deli we danced outside of. It was after am and men walked in and out of that deli, young men and homeless men, most of them brown. And there were those who came to interpret us and there were those who yelled out just what our bodies could do for them out their passenger windows.
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And then, there were those who stood watching, whose eyes for the first time in a long time felt sentinel and without threat. It could have been that we were on every street corner in America and we were the only sirens that mattered. What we manifested in that moment, with our wiggling girl bodies, was a moment of freedom in a country where freedom felt and feels like the deadliest illusion. But, illusions can be tools too if illusions are ambitions. It is time for you to be ambitious now.
And, if you are dancing tonight, Capricorn, I hope your dancing is an ode to your own power. I hope you know that no matter how impossible the word safety is, no matter how often it falls short, you can bend it to your will and make of it what you must. Today I share these letters with you after a month of long nights typing and erasing, wondering whether any words will do when the world seems heavy with unbearable cruelty and violence.
And, it did help to remember that the world has been violent for a very long time and it has also been beautiful just as long.
Solar Season-Lunar Rhythm creates the environment: Early Summer
That despite the atomic bomb, Bikini Atoll now boasts an oceanic paradise. Sometimes I wonder, when it gets to be this late in the month, if these letters will do you good, if they would mean much. It is then that I stop wondering and become grateful. I love you, I see you, I think of you often, Galactic Rabbit. If you feel moved to donate toward the writing of the horoscopes, you can leave an offering in turn here. A Scorpio.
I like it, being inside the song with them, how it feels free and easy which has not been the case this month for anything else. In a karaoke bar somewhere in my recent past, an Aquarius I knew would always choose this song. On stage, she transformed into a lanky glamor of light riding the song like a perfect wave. Something about this advice stuck with me, widened and stretched its meaning. I wanted to sing the song that was right for me, yeah, but more than that I wanted to know how to get up in front of a spotlight and give a performance that was entirely free of inhibition and modesty.
You learn how to be by being, relentlessly. And how do you choose the song of your life? Imagine your child-heart and your wizened future-self, joining hands down the long path. Me, green sea turtles, coral reefs blown to bits by atomic bombs. This is an article about believing in your ability to heal, even thrive, in the aftermath of great trauma dressed up as an article about environmental journalism. It maintains that reporting on the dire status of the ocean does not seem to better the ocean one bit.
People, it turns out, are motivated by an optimistic tone and a hopeful outcome. When we believe our actions are too small to make a difference, we tend to behave in ways that create the conditions in which those expectations are realized. Perhaps, something you are learning slowly is that your ability to swim through emotional intensity has granted you the ability to hold emotional space for those around you.
Besides, how many thunderstorms can a firebird take before she lies down in the wet ground wincing? Even the act of reaching out, of combatting isolation, is another task on a long list that never seems to get shorter. Obligations and responsibilities make demands but, Firebird, you were born the fly and make beautiful things.
What do you love, in the world, in yourself? Make a commitment to your spirit above all earthly contracts. The gravity of your affection is just tempting enough to ignore your unreasonable demands. As I surface above the music and search for you, I wonder if you know how loved you are, how celebrated. I wonder if you understand that the moments in life when you have felt ignored or unappreciated, the moments when your heart ran way past the roaming fields and it took days to bring it home, were moments when a community of lovers stood behind you.
Lovers and friends and lots of wild animals, all of them guard you, all of them lucky to know you. And did you really have that argument if no one says sorry and no one says I forgive you? And of course those unsaid things that sit so tight against the chest you can barely breathe through them make me think about family and where our negotiations get us.
A Gemini is a double and when there is a double there is a split. Where there is a split there is a wound. When a split self guards both sides of a wound, the wound is both unbothered and untended. When a Gemini is a creature of habit, he makes new wounds and keeps them in a familiar place.
The well of wounds grows deeper and widens the space between two guards, who would rather not be so far from each other. When a Gemini turns inward and tends to the wound, his split selves touch and support one another. You dreamt a house into being. You dreamt light streaming through a window and falling on the pages of a book, the curled back of an animal that was your animal, a room where everything you cherished was protected from rain and time.
You dreamt a life into being and grew into that life, the doorways framing your frame, the kitchen with its endless ritual of making and unmaking. You married an idea and made a vow. You thought you were the house; you forgot how dreams are made. What happened when the house you built no longer fit you? You let the boards sigh while you paced the floor and packed your life. You were neat and then you were messy. You lay on the ground until the difference between you and the ground was very clear. Then you got up and did what you had to do.
You are powerful enough to have many dreams, many lives. The foundation is in you and you build each dream on top of it. You construct a nest of pillows and shift the duvet to make a smooth plane for your limbs. You cover your eyes and are in total darkness. The hypnosis tape assures you that all hypnosis is self-hypnosis. Rediscover our ability to forgive those old hurts says the man on tape who speaks deliberate and slow.
Your mind is a span of clouds teased out into skinny threads. Your mind is a mood opening. Listen to your own voice, whispers the hand in the clouds, be guided by your own heart. And even though it is hard to hear the whispers, you listen. Some of us spend all our emotional energy figuring out the intricacies of giving ourselves up.
We know trust comes in waves: I trust you in confidence, I trust you intimately, I trust you to witness my weakness and still see me as strong. I care. Tell me again, simpler. And it is good to believe we can be honest with one another. What is seen, acknowledged and what is left to sink heavy to the bottom? If you are not getting what you want from those closest to you, consider this: people learn how to treat you by example, how you treat them and how you let yourself be treated.
And this a tenet of trust as well, asking the ones you love to do better, giving them the chance to live up to your image of them—which is an image held together with rare sweetness and good faith. And, because I trust you to understand me, I offer you these words in hopes that you hear them in your own heart: I trust that you mean to be kind to me, I will be generous when you fail to do so, I will support you by maintaining my boundaries, I will tend to my fire with patience so that it warms us both and burns no one.
Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights. Or I succeed in flashes only too damned well. Jean Rhys wrote about the weight of intellectual loneliness but it did not dispel her loneliness, her enduring bewilderment.
In the wilds of mental production, nothing we make for the approval of others will ever be good enough to nurture us. And what is a heart? A muscle that grows weak with age and heavy with time or something unknown to us—scientists and speculators—the way spirit is unknown and felt especially in absence. Tea tree oil cleanses and cedar invites sweet spirits to the table.
A few weeks ago, for your birthday, I entered into a many-gendered coven of creators. Over honey cake and gluten-free fried chicken, I watched you weave between each person at the table, touching them lightly with your eyes, praising them with big laughs. I realized that it had been a very long time since I had been amongst close strangers who, collectively, were open and welcoming to an outsider and I knew it was you who drew this circle with its shifting circumference. I know what I meant and I meant what I said You can think what you want but the truth is, at the end, you read me wrong.
With such a gift for friendship, it can be hard to reckon with misunderstanding. The power you have to communicate with love and acceptance is not to be taken lightly or taken for granted. You are perceptive, discerning, and generous all in good measure. When communication breaks down, it is important to step to the side of the words themselves lest they distract you.
Words, after all, often get in the way of meanings. Ask yourself, instead, what you hope to achieve in the exchange you are in and what actions will communicate that most clearly. Focus on the word exchange. And even though we could have been in conversation this whole time, had the means to be anyway, we act as if in seeing each other we experience a lost pleasure.
I am a lamp in the night too, and flickering. What I like is how neither of us has the answers. All of a sudden I want to tell you how love is just like clouds, how it takes shape over us and changes and changes and darkens and releases and recedes. In my shady bedroom, everything that should be on the walls is resting on the floor, waiting. I lugged the can of light for miles from Home Depot, the handle digging into my grip and the hot sun beating down. Exhausted from what some might call a small physical task and glad to be home, I had to admit it felt good to choose something and make it happen.
After my arduous afternoon, I left for a movie with some of closest friends. It was a movie about women who, in different ways, were invested in their own depletion. We watched a lawyer endure a male client who imposed himself into her car and wept. Things only got worse. And why would we want to give up the little things we know, when we know so little? Sometimes, the most daunting aspect of change is thinking about it. The one book I kept coming back to, on the chance that I might have read too quickly and missed something, was Brownies by ZZ Packer.
I read Brownies for a week, sitting with each story, changing locations and times of day. What stuck with me to this day was the striking final paragraphs where the narrator, a young black girl, began to reckon with systemic racism: the trauma she was to inherit and her relationship to that trauma, her role in it. When I think about the books that have taught me what identity is and how it shapes us, how it splinters us into painful irreconcilable bits, I realize that the writers have often been Capricorns Woman Hollering Creek and Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros come to mind here.
But, know this, somewhere along the path toward reconciliation and dare I say it justice, there are women who are waiting for you to walk with them and clear the way for others. Today I bring you these letters, a small harvest I collected under the light of your stars. How your Lisa Frank folders and trapper keeper, particular mechanical pencils and three-colored pens, would raise your cool factor and make new friends a breeze. My friend reminded me that in addition to the excitement, there was terror and isolation, fear of being found out for whoever we were then, and inevitably who we wound up being now.
If you would like to contribute to the writing of these horoscopes, you can donate at my PayPal. I remember the state of your guitar particularly. Like, Karen Carpenter wholesome. And I loved her bright clear voice like I loved your guitar, earnestly swinging behind you. When I saw you last, you were living in a house that might as well have had a white picket fence. You were in love, teaching music, you took me to a small town gay bar and I saw the best drag show of my life.
The kind of letter you write to keep a memory intact then tuck into the corner of a musty cabinet. But, if you are reading this, I want you to know that I remember you powerful. In my mind you are never lost, never unclear of the path you must choose toward feeling strong and free. It was something that embarrassed me but I had excuses: my father was disabled and unable to teach me in that running-behind hands-on way, my brother never offered to, my friends would always stop being my friends etc etc.
It took me a long time to commit to learning, to decide I deserved that particular kind of freedom. The first person who helped me help myself was a dear Pisces friend. For a couple of hours on a cool summer day she ran beside me as I tentatively pedaled her bike back and forth along Flatbush Ave. Later that year, I found a Kelly green Schwinn abandoned in an old shed behind a college house I was living in. I cleared it of cobwebs and claimed it. This is a letter about the moment when, riding around town with a girl I had been seeing on and off, I glanced behind me and in her face saw a happiness I dared to hold between my two open hands.
About trusting yourself to brake when you need to, to take turns well and with grace. The freedom this new venture offers you, you deserve it and you know what to do with it. Wear a helmet, get on and ride. When a small animal is put in our hands, we are given delicate instructions. We accommodate its wriggling squirm and scramble, shifting our arms this way and that. Fragility is the obvious thing, the small bones and thin skin mewling. We know a woman can love a suckling pig and bring that pig to slaughter. That is a tenderness too, no matter its conclusion.
Where does such tenderness come from? Asks Marina Tsvetsaeva of Mandelstam and his eyelashes although his love for her was hardly tender, often cruel and dismissive. Sometimes, I have encountered women who moved me toward tenderness as if by compulsion—a dull ache in my hand to tuck her loose hair back behind her ear, to smooth the tension from her neck with a light stroke.
More rare were the times I felt tender toward myself, stroked myself from collarbone to pelvis like a long worry stone. Each day you abandon yourself is a day you become less soft and less able to love others. We were there the moment Miriam opened for breakfast, a young woman propping the door with one hand and gesturing us in with the other. What is life and how do we think our way through it? You scanned the menu and I knew what both of us wanted.
Well, how does it feel to have returned? So many of your responsibilities, roles you anticipated and waited years for. We are not that kind. We were made to re-imagine to world, the clear a path through it as a hoofed land animal might—moving persistent through tall obscuring grass. We were bathing in the dim light of morning and warmth of endless coffee re-fills. I said I feel too aware of the world—too aware of the intentions of others—what they mean versus what they say.
You said I have always been this way, all my life. And, I knew that was where your strength came from, your ability to push through and onward toward a wide and more ample landscape. I have a funny feeling about moons. And, there I was, naked in a Hampton Bay waiting for bioluminescent transcendence, thwarted by the greedy light of the big full moon. I thought about how lucky I was to be swimming with my love, my friends and strangers, queers of various ages and races—free under the hooded eye of night.
Maybe life is all about chance, a double-sided coin that falls how it may—despite everything we learned about odds and probability. Yes or no, go or stay, this way or that. Whichever power governs our lives, we stand square in the midst of these forces and we are culpable in their outcomes. We are the ones tossing the coin, looking toward the sky for answers and choosing whether or not to listen. If you are walking through a dark path, let your eyes adjust to the dark.
Be patient with yourself and the moon, it will light your way softly for a long time. CANCER A while ago I read an article that encouraged those of us going through heartbreak to lie down on the ground and feel it all, submit to Kali, Hindu goddess of chaos. Write it down, Cancer, a page of what you mean to surrender.
How the man with the gold flag welcomed us into a ramshackle alley and two foreigners looked us over as if we were the experiment? We could have never known, hours before, that we would be perched on stacked pallets getting the veins in our feet traced by their paintbrushes. How quietly we folded into the demands of that universe, how easily we played along—teaching the foreigners a hand clapping game we both knew from childhood.
The folds in our lives are sometimes slight and sometimes so sharp they change the shape of the page entirely. You might be surprised to find that you never needed it the way it was. Your book. You laugh and seem to understand perfectly, tufts of my hair fall on your chest and make you wooly. Hair is an intimacy, I think, my mother saved my long Russian braid from when I was a child. I would open up her chest looking for costume jewelry or handkerchiefs and come upon my own hair, a golden color it will never be again.
When I think about what the stars say I think compromise, suppression, a lasting wound that shapes you. How does one parse themselves from themselves, a bruise on the heart from all other bruises? Yes, we talked about the falsity of tender things and, yes, we know some bruises fade. But what do the living owe the dead? What do you owe the ghosts of relationships past, the girl you thought you were and the women you discovered you are?
On the news all morning the North Dakota Pipeline protestors representing tribes near and far, on horseback and on foot, children and elders chanting go away go away pushing attack dogs back with their big voices. What comes to mind is the summer we drove through the Dakotas. The fields now flat now undulating, the sky true blue and so wide I felt like we could drive right off the earth.
Wheels of golden hay punctuated the landscape and we saw a horse faint from heat. You told me how you dreamed of coming back here, to help kids who might or might not be your relations—teaching them animation skills so they might tell their stories. Today the protestors are out there again.
People on horses and one man is wearing a Russian scarf around his neck for protection against mace. I imagine I am that scarf, glittering, sentinel. I imagine you there too, your strong legs braced, your shoulders squared against menacing oncomers. Then, I imagine you wherever you are in this world, watching this same video, wondering what you can do from where you are.
Just make sure the help you give is an offering in response to a need, a need wider than your own.