Hankering for Horoscope Wednesday (back on track!)
April 20-May 20
The holidays can be such a bummer, but here’s a magic ticket that can help you pass through this season with minimal scarring: create new relationships out of the old. Be bold enough to get closer to others. (SFBG - Note: WHAAA?)
"We cannot have any unmixed emotions," said poet William Butler Yeats. "There is always something in our enemy that we like, and something in our sweetheart that we dislike." I hope that’s OK with you, Taurus. In fact I hope you regard that as a peculiar blessing — as one of the half-maddening, half-inspiring perks of life on earth. The fact is, as I see it, that you are in the thick of the Season of Mixed Emotions. The more graciously you accept that — the more you invite it to hone your soul’s intelligence — the better able you’ll be to capitalize on the rich and fertile contradictions that are headed your way. (Free Will Astrology)
You’re in the midst of a deep transformational process. Rather than resist, surrender, and allow that letting go to catalyze a new perspective on how to share your gifts and talents. (Aquarium Age)
And all of these comes from my crazy habit of reading the free weeklies in San Francisco. And once upon a time, Michelle Tea TOTALLY wrote the Psychic Dream horoscopes. And I hope they help you as much as they irrationally help me. PS I’m sort of intimidated by thinking about being your fb friend. xo.
Every morning when I get ready for work I turn on Chicago Public Radio, and have some strange Pavlovian response to Marketplace at the end of the hour. Either sad piano (market’s down), or piano “In the Money” and the Dow up one fifty (Yesterday). It soothes me.
What is even better this morning is the segment before hand was Coolio teaching us how to make cranberry relish, followed by the hook from “Gangsta’s Paradise.” Horseradish rhyming with fetish? Genius.
Sad vibes can easily turn to bad vibes when escapism is your go-to strategy. Make sure you don’t create anxiety when you should shower yourself with TLC. Don’t overthink — nurture, and you won’t be making mountains out of molehills. (SFBG)
What is the “soul,” anyway? Is it a ghostly blob of magic stuff within us that keeps us connected to the world of dreams and the divine realms? Is it an amorphous metaphor for the secret source of our spiritual power? Is it a myth that people entertain because they desperately want to believe there’s more to them than just their physical bodies? Here’s what I think: The soul is a perspective that pushes us to go deeper and see further and live wilder. It’s what drives our imagination to flesh out our raw experience, transforming that chaotic stuff into rich storylines that animate our love of life. With the gently propulsive force of the soul, we probe beyond the surface level of things, working to find the hidden meaning and truer feeling. I’m bringing this up, Taurus, because it is Celebrate the Soul Week for you. (Free Will Astrology)
The key to your success is authenticity. No mask, no pretense, no settling. Know what you want, and articulate those desires directly and clearly. (Aquarium Age)
“Glenn used to say the reason you can’t really imagine yourself being dead was that as soon as you say, “I’ll be dead,” you’ve said the word I and so you’re still alive inside the sentence. And that’s how people got the idea of the immortality of the soul—it was a consequence of grammar. And so was God, because as soon as there’s a past tense, there has to be a past before the past, and you keep going back in time until you get to I don’t know, and that’s what God is. It’s what you don’t know- the dark, the hidden, the underside of the visible, and all because we have grammar, and grammar would be impossible without the Fox P2 gene. So God is a brain mutation, and that gene is the same one birds need for singing. So music is built in, Glenn said: it’s knitted into us. It would be very hard to amputate it because it’s an essential part of us, like water. I said, in that case is God knitted in as well? and he said maybe so, but it hadn’t done us any good.”—Margaret Atwood, “The Year of the Flood”
Currently curvy fetal, listening to the Walkmen, reading comics reccomended by ancient Livejournal pulse, moaning about nominal pain. It’s like freshman year of high school but my hair’s better. Also, I can’t ditch work like I ditched school to read bad slash fiction and play records. OR CAN I?
(No, you can’t, you have to go to the dentist, silly slag. Sigh.)
Today I’m going to really do this bender right. What I mean is. I’m balancing it out, of course. Cleaned house. Woke up reasonably early for staying up until three screaming about politics that I don’t really care about. Drank coffee. Cleaned the bits of makeup away from the folds of my eyelids. Brushed my teeth. My molar still hurts from my stress/sex dreams of the past week.
All of this is so masturbatory, right? I mean, I guess that’s the point of Tumblr. Not like I haven’t done all of these things before, in LiveJournal, Xanga, Blogger iterations. Most of them were invisible or connected to people with empathy but far away. And how does empathy work, virtually, anyway? But for some reason this one seemed different, and I scrapped and wrote things to friends and reblogged as a way to keep me inspired, to keep me tuned into things, etc.
But really, this is called self-disclosure Saturday. Writing about writing, and about impulse, and self-destructive tendencies. What else is new, really, since age thirteen? All week this anger seeps up on me. Nothing new. Something I carry about myself as some weird badge, or cape, or mask. Something that people quite recognize about me. It’s a mild simmer, if anything, and most of the time amusing and funny and it never lashes. A tip of an iceberg, or magma, or pick your metaphor. When something is up, the hackles cackling, is when it manifests, becomes something bitter, but dark, with a tang or a sweetness. A sting. Cruel jokes or self-deprecation. Blank stares. Aggressive biking. Far too much beer.
Yesterday it all comes to a hot head. Culminating with words, of course, with writing, that strange creature on my back or in my ribs. Who can say? Because I set a goal months ago and filled my part of the bargain. Revision, cover letter, table of contents. And told myself, month after month going by, that nothing was going to happen and it would be the same funny rejection disappointment that always happens. Yesterday, though, yesterday I can’t keep all the delusion and reality straight and so when I get an email with my name nowhere near it (all Iowas and Santa Cruzs and thirtysomethings, Christ) they come crashing in. And my job that is far too stressful for its own good sometimes, and my financial anorexia, and my drunken antics, and the tradeoffs I believe I always make for some larger reason. Some weird grief of the dizzy and (ludicrous, come now) fantasy of what I’d do with the money, what it’d be like to have a spine on the shelf with my name on it, that somehow this would be a bone or a Major arcana card thrown down saying, You’re doing the right thing. Keep going.
My blood goes up, my face goes slack, I growl at all Friday night undergrad pedestrians and snarl at motorists. On my way home I grab a tallboy and imagine sitting on my steps, letting something steam off of me. Instead I walk inside and sort of admit things to my roommate/brother, and start smoking what is seriously a repulsive amount of cigarettes, then vow to be better all night. Which I do. Sort of. We throw what can only count as a party in our tiny house, and drink quite a bit of beer, and I give all my cigarettes away to everyone who always promise to buy me more and never do. I live up to whatever expectation I put on the table: funny, snarky, cartoon advocate, beer fetcher, giggler, DJ. But I can’t get drunk enough (hello, beer!) and every time I fall away from conversations or parts of the room and stare outside, at this weird Orange Chicago Sky, the steeples and streetpunks, I freeze up just slightly. That all the words are there. How the world falls into them, and I can see the syntax spin, and lately I just can’t grab it fast enough, and how could it matter as nobody really wants it.
Back. I come back and look and think about how the light falls on cinnamon skin that seems to flush like an ember, and the way bad beer looks celebratory in flapper girl bottles, and how most of my friends seem to stop when we’re like this, their eyes going lambent as nocturnal animals, refocus, come back. Try to be charming. Talk sex, gender, bodies, food. Fall into another part of me, so fucking excited for some attention that moves smoothly. Fall back out to cut things off and self-protect. Think: tomorrow you can go on your bender. Tomorrow you can be alone and your tongue and toes will settle. Screaming fit with another brother where the subject is hardly important but for some reason, my voice gets shaky and I’m gripping the table like I’ll turn it over otherwise. I need to call him and apologize.
So today it rains and I sit in my windowsill and write this, without even putting it to paper first. And I think how stupid it is to get so upset about a rejection letter (one-size fits all!), or how I don’t know how to talk about writing, or how no one can tell. There are real heartbreaks out there, and atrocities I spent the first half-hour of 2 AM spitting about, and groceries to be bought, and newspapers to be read. But instead I’m going to pretend to agonize about finances and bite the bullet and be okay with buying some cider with which to down bourbon. I’m going to not open my mouth all day if I can help it. Blurt bad free verse into a new notebook. Lip-synch in my boxers to all sorts of rock and roll. I’m going to get on my bike and head up north in the rain and buy snacks and wine, maybe a pack of Bensons because I’m feeling classy like that. Genderbend or paw at drag, forget my breasts, wear suspenders to just feel like a badass. I’ll start pouring before the sun gets down, trying to get drunk on writing, but mostly just getting drunk, to fortify and soothe all my wounds. Listen to murmuring guitars, read long poems aloud. I’m not an adolescent anymore and pain that comes out in burns, scars, scratches is of no use to me anymore. I’ll drink to try and stay heady on words, then just remember that being heady and swollen is enough sometimes to not let the world destroy you.
For writing is narcissism and I’ll drink to that. Cop to creating the narrative where I’m heroine and thief, with everything to hide, creator of chaos and champion of indulgence, holding furious to some myth that I do what I do for reasons tarnished, of course. Tarnished, but if I grin through beatings and trials for them, well, they must be right.
Can you be patient with out dissolving into tragic what-ifery? The secret key to this is to remember your freedom. You are free to do anything you want. Stay present with your choices in the now. (SFBG)
Why did feathered dinosaurs evolve wings? Paleontologists in Britain have a new theory: It added to their sexual allure. The head researcher at the University of Manchester speculated that “maybe they ran around with their arms outstretched to show off how pretty their feathers were.” Eventually those forearms became wings that came in handy for flying. In other words, the power of flight did not originate from the urge to fly but rather from the urge to be attractive. Oddly enough, Taurus, this approach to understanding evolution would be useful for you to meditate on in the coming weeks. According to my reading of the astrological omens, you could develop some interesting new capacities as you work to enhance your appeal to people who matter. (Free Will Astrology)
Don’t deny your financial concerns, but also be prepared for sudden developments that could shift your current situation. In other words, accentuate the positive and be prepared to embrace the results. (Aquarium Age)
But not such a winters day. Just hit me I get to see my big bear/sister in FORTY FIVE minutes. See Tuesday? We can all end on better notes (post-knuckle dusting).
Though we’d hope that we don’t repeat all of last visit. No Oki Dog nausea, less bruises. Oh, Moonshadow. See: May 2010 for follow up photos. Especially the wonderful shot of me inhaling a double double animal style.
"It’s true that at high concentrations, like the nearly 100-percent pure alcohol used in sterilizing solutions, alcohol can indeed kill cells and neurons (and nearly anything else). But given that the blood reaching your brain is only at 0.08 percent alcohol if you’re legally intoxicated, or, say, 0.25 percent if you’ve just closed a major deal in Tokyo."
“It was almost a masterpiece in good form. It’s the hardest thing in the world to act spontaneously on one’s impulses—and it’s the only really gentlemanly thing to do—provided you’re fit to do it.”—D.H. Lawrence, Women in Love