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The inquiry personal question prices are favorable, adequate and satisfactory. I would highly recommend this app! And, yes, there will be desire, collected and unspent, bellowing in the bull pen of your body. Let it be known that to be adored is something you deserve in this world. To give yourself away and be claimed, proudly, soft and powerful at once. All the beautiful things you want to make in the world? Keep on. All the ways in which you are trying to better yourself? All the doors in you that you closed a long time ago, afraid of what would come?
Open them. The process is always full of pain, but I like that. Not long ago, we walked circles around a hotel bar, which was ringed with white walls and artificial rivers. Your hands wound and unwound around themselves. We wanted to dance or I wanted to be dancing with you or we were engaged in a very measured dance where we kept our bodies near to each other and looked outward. Your shape-shifting form of care made it impossible to guess who was tending to whom and whose needs. Instead, it seemed that by the very fact of nearness, we re-assured each other that it was safe to gather all the information the world was offering us and report back.
What have you found? What do you think it means? What are you willing to risk to know more? It would be impossible not to notice that underneath all the gathering, all the parsing of visual stimuli, signified and signifier, there was pain. Yours and mine. A quiet thing. As if what was found and righted out there will serve as instruction manual. We know people are not their living situations, their jobs, their books, and certainly not their significant others.
But, these are the parts of our lives we use as scaffolding. We start from the outside and look for whatever gives us structure and encloses us in its meaning. If the structure is maintained and built intentionally it will do well to shelter the building. The building in the center, which is us, remains. The building is inherently a site of beauty and ruin.
It wants to be rebuilt, supported, and modeled in its best interest. The scaffolding of your life will not do any of those things for you. When you are a creature who lives in water and traverses land, you know the difference between a life lived subject to turbulent waves and a life exposed to birds of prey. Seagulls, too, become birds of prey, as do fishermen and careless wanderers. Comparatively, the sea is familiar, you feel the currents shift through you and move with them, you dig deep inside the sand and wait. But, in this life nothing is as familiar as you want it to be and even our most intimate landscapes will shift right from under us.
Everything you feel and have felt is not everything you know. One is always subject to what some of us call fate and what the rest of us call circumstance. This is the year of accountability, of pushing yourself to take note of where you are and what has gotten you here and at what cost. This is the moment when I tell you, Cancer, that although there is much unwritten in our lives—our circumstances are subject to our will.
Just as our nation must look unflinchingly at who represents us now and how we, as citizens, are culpable, so too must you look head on at the god of your life. What is the driving force of your decisions? Is it love? Is it fear? If this country insists on stealing the truth from us, we must do our damnedest to live in our truth. On the surface of the sea, the waves argue and the sun beats down. Let go the past and your past self in it, then you are ready to serve the higher good. Are people up? Otherwise, how did such heavy souls find each other and in finding each other generate so much lightness?
The Astrology of Your Wedding Day
I post a small grief relating to my mother and dozens of women answer, pulling from their own well of loss. I am reminded, again and again, that loneliness can be a mood, an invoked state. When we walk through darkening streets alone, I am calling you and you are calling me, soon one of us will answer—something we both know and are better for it. Love brought you here and it keeps you here—but love is a child you raise in the house of yourself.
Behold pleasure, behold betrayal, behold the beauty of expectation—the hopefulness of it in such a hopeless world. On the patchy green gay magnet that is Dolores Park, we were in the summer of our discontent. We loved those idle clouds and furrowed our brows at love, its magnitude of destruction, its lure. I wrote the poems walking to you and read them reclining in the grass, you said they were good when they were not good. Remember Pride?
How my ex sat down with the girl she was leaving me for on the scarf I had spread on the grass? I stared, amazed at how much pain a gesture so small could evoke. You were livid for me, shooting off sparks. We walked around the block punching the air and swigging Jameson. I think about that time as a time of truth.
We were in a city that was not ours but would later become yours , risking more than we had to risk. We had come because of relationships but something else too. A deep need to fight for the world we want to have or could have if we just believed hard enough. Then the moon left you but all those feelings resonate, stay. It has taken you so many years to get exactly where you are and, in many ways, those years have served to clear the debris so you can begin the most important journey of your life.
Sometimes, I would wake up with it already gripping my heart. Today I left my apartment and started walking north.
I knew I would eventually come to the most Southern point of Prospect Park. At the archway, I was struck with the memory of my first girlfriend who had lived just across the street from that very entrance. Like a time-traveler, I felt my body become soft and the years pull away. Suddenly it was 6am on a summer morning twelve years ago, I had stayed up all night watching her sleep and slipped out with the first sliver of light.
There she was, wearing pajama pants running out after me, asking me to come back, calling me her pretty faggot and fingering my velvet blazer from the night before. She was asking me to believe that she could love me. So many times, I said goodbye to her at that archway, a visceral memory of her boy-body swaying toward and away from mine.
Today, I walked past the arch and toward the pond. Now, a swan moved across the muddy surface, a handful of geese spraying each other at the bank. I sat on a bench nearby, very aware of how cold the air felt. A gesture of what? A circle. You have loved before; you have felt greater sorrow and greater joy. I want to admit to you that I spent the morning listening to women singing folk songs. And, of course, most of those songs I listened to were about love. Well, not love exactly.
Sort of around love or love as a kind of path we walk around ourselves. To listen for the call of lightness is not easy, but you can try. The trying is a beautiful work. In a field by a farm or wooded area, the sound of lightness might come. I have heard it in the tongue of a donkey named Romeo, licking a brick of salt over and over.
The rasp of it. And, the horse that Romeo protected, there was lightness when the horse stood still and breathed out softly as I ran my hands over its flank. They will run their hands through their hair and glance up at you and make you feel wise and fragile all at once—like yeah, maybe you should fuck someone but, also, the flowers are breaking through the earth right now. Some because of the rain, some in spite of it.
The tears well in her eyes without brimming over. When I look at her, I see her present self and her past self. I see the young queer who moved to NYC in search of truth. Who was raised Mennonite, that is, who was home-schooled and sheltered and imagined her own queerness out of the secret of her heart and ran toward it. Bleached her hair, made lattes, earned a leather jacket from an on-and-off-again lover. At the bar, I hold her for a while because she lets me. The shape of our future selves change all the time because we want them to.
And, of course there are days when our future selves seem impossibly difficult to fathom. You are never not on your path. Time works on you, cities affect you, childhoods instill difficult mechanisms of avoidance, but who you are—oh, that is a knowing that never leaves you, that always drives you. It is also a gift to have a friend who, no matter how much you disagree with her, will never allow that disagreement to breed hostility between us.
Sometimes the terrible thing is the thing that remains. What makes someone irredeemable? Even if you can only love certain people from a distance. Capricorn, maybe there are some betrayals you could learn to forgive, some fights that are no longer worth fighting. We open and close a chapter of our lives based on a number imagined in the mind. But, there are so many markers we can set our years to. For those of us who are teachers, the year begins every September and the end is summer, an unclaimed time measured in how many weeks before the water is warm enough to walk all the way in.
For those of us who dip our apples into honey, Jewish New Year came in October and the lunar year is now which, by the way, adds up to the number 8—a number that indicates beginnings and endings. Whatever has meant to you, whenever it beings and whenever it ends, whatever happened or will happen, a year is only a river made of days—the girl in the boat rowing along that river, she is the mystery.
Where did she come from and how long has she been coming? Was the boat given to her or did she build it herself? And, how did she make it so far down the river? And when, if ever, does she raise her oar so that the current captains her? And we can still make something beautiful together. We can defy separation. Even through the thickest, darkest, clouds of fascism, we can look up to each other, we can fall in love and rise in resistance.
IF you want to support the writing of these astro-love letters, you can donate here. And since our country is not that place, since most countries are not, we must create sacred worlds together. We are charged with making the voyage and the destination. An architect must know a strong foundation when they see one, Aquarius, and you are the architect of our resistance.
And, that means that there will be days when you will have to learn how to feel when the ground is crumbling under you before it crumbles. And, what that means is ,there will be days ahead when fortifying the support systems you already have in place will be your best-laid plan. The very word erotic comes from the Greek word eros, the personification of love in all its aspects—born of Chaos, and personifying creative power and harmony.
When I speak of the erotic, then, I speak of it as an assertion of the life-force of women; of that creative energy empowered, the knowledge and use of which we are now reclaiming in our language, our history, our dancing, our loving, our work, our lives. A wound calls for care so the wounded tends to it, or learns to. The puncture grows smaller over time, barely visible, but the memory of the puncture—its impact and its consequence—the memory can grow large without regard to time.
Did you seek relief in the arms of others? Did the past year teach you that relief comes only when you are ready and readiness will look nothing like what you imagined? And what is the erotic if not a working toward opening? Here, the lover enters through the wound and their entrance is both a salve and a reminder. A salve is not salvation. What can it teach you about your purpose here?
You will learn how to gather your life in your hands, you will learn how to answer the call. You will be the one who tends the wound always, but how you tend to it will change. Pisces, you grow strange and you grow stronger. Once, when the heart was young, the heart did not wonder if love was enough. It loved. It pumped so fast, you were running across wild grass, toward someone who loved you or you were the field and the heart of all things pumping.
Once, the heart was young and love was enough, the world was so many tight buds opening and you were a part of all that, fragrant and damp with opening. Each to each, bodies cleaving in the open yard and under dark heaven, a panting gesture we have waited to make all our lives. You begin in the garden of love and it is a garden of possibility. Each seed is a promise, an ambition, an idea that could go either way. The garden has its own ideas. The roses shoot vines that trouble the house, wisteria threatens the pear tree which—if you are not vigilant—drops overripe fruit to the ground and invokes swells of bees.
Aries, I promised you a love letter, can you show me what love is? Who will climb the ladder and gather the fruit before it is wasted? Who will cut the roses back, carefully, trading wildness for sustainability? A girl on her hands and knees in the garden, you buried your heart in the rich earth of your devotion.
Whatever grows thrives or dies there, is your charge. Well, the new year started well enough. We were under the open sky, surrounded by pines, in a hot tub that, after many hours of prodding and tinkering, had gotten sufficiently hot. Midnight was ten minutes away and you insisted we go inside, so we went inside. Of course, there was an argument. And, here is the place where I love you most, the force of your certitude up against your will to change.
But, Taurus, no matter who you think you are or how you think others see you, the world builds itself around you in a gradient of offerings. The more you open to others, the more they understand you. The more you let the world in, the more pain you feel, the more beauty. Dostoevsky thought that humanity knows much, much more about itself than it has recorded in literature. So what is it that I do?
I collect the everyday life of feelings, thoughts, and words. I collect the life of my time. The everyday life of the soul, the things that the big picture of history usually omits, or disdains. I work with missing history. What is literature today? Who can answer that question? We live faster than ever before. Content ruptures form. Breaks and changes it. Everything overflows its banks: music, painting — even words in documents escape the boundaries of the document. There are no borders between fact and fabrication, one flows into the other.
Witnesses are not impartial. In telling a story, humans create, they wrestle time like a sculptor does marble. They are actors and creators. She was speaking of being a war writer, of writing humanity back into the brutality of war. I am thinking about your ability to collect fragments of a scattered life and make something remarkable out of something ordinary. Once, everyday opened into a new idea. I thought, this is the kind of person I am meant to wake up beside. We were artists without labels, we made what we wanted to see, we learned how to do it on the fly—or we taught each other.
Now something like a snow cloud. You rise, you meet the day, move forward, but who are you—what are your hands for? Content ruptures form yes, but internally and externally. Do you feel a kind of inside outside dance, your inner tumult crashing up against the world, chaos? On the days when my heart gets too soft to bear the world, I remember my Cancerian father. I remember his soft watchful presence, how he aimed to take care of me. I remember our long walks along the beach together full of open-hearted talks and, also, his powerful rage, which never erupted. From him, I learned the impact of being quiet and showing pointed restraint.
I learned how to hold my most vulnerable self back when it was threatened, even subtly, how to punish without words. It was only after he died, after my girlfriend left, after a long time of trying to open myself to love again, that I learned how much impact all that distancing had had on me. Most of the time when I grieve my father, I grieve a man with a secret heart.
I know he loved me more than life itself, but he never knew me—because I never let him. Cancer, when you refuse access to your heart, no amount of crying or processing will ever soothe you. And, the strength you feel inside your armor will be a temporary strength, or a strength borne by isolation. When you open the door and let your loved ones in, you will find that you let yourself in, you get closer to yourself. When one animal lives in a dark forest, her heart is a jam jar filled with ruby jewels. For a long time, the animal did not know herself from the forest and so she could not imagine her own shape.
She tried to draw the outline of herself, her boundary, but the line kept running out and into shadows. A forest is made for many animals and her jam jar, a beacon. She offered him some jam and he ate all the jam. A boundary breached in the emotional body: an alarm sounds in your spirit, a powerless anger. Our animal grew hungry and resentful, still the next day she offered up her jar again. A boundary broken felt through the body, an ache, a sense of shame, a resentment in the gut.
A boundary is a protection spell that only works if you honor it. There is no power in a name that is written in sand. But when the last tear dripped into his mouth, the outline of our animal softened and disappeared until animal2 was the only animal left. Leo, to offer oneself, one must have a defined self, otherwise what you offer is what you might not be ready to lose. What I offered her was an answer I would have offered my own mother. It had to do with the secret life of children, a life we take for granted, which is invested in perception and accumulation—change.
I know all immigrant children have a different story but here is something I found shared, we did not choose to begin a new life—a new language, a new culture—it was chosen for us and it was something we were sent to do alone. We were given a mission but the closer we got to accomplishing it, the further we fell from our origins and consequently our families. There were days when love was enough to tether us, and struggle too was a kind of adhesive, but there was also disjuncture in love language, something lost in the translation between individual difference and culture imitation.
What was lost comes back around, Virgo, and you will find that the child you were—the one who moved through this world despite your family and in step with them—is the adult you grapple with. When the conversation becomes heated, when you feel the untenable tension of who you were born to be and who you have become, running will seem like a good option.
But, Virgo, you should stay, you should put the bottle down. That child you grapple with is the one who needs you most. But what is a scale? A means of measurement. An object attempting at balance. A sculpture made of chains, cups and lever, dancing. An implement of comparison and exchange. And you?
Are you the scales or the keeper of? Do you walk through world seeking inner balance, shifting weights from one side to the other, or do you stand still before warring sides and weigh each opinion, mediating their actions and declaring their worth? The scale is an altar where justice is observed but not where it lives. This, the eternal question: what is balance in an unjust world and how do you, Libra, determine the worth of an exchange which is never equal?
There was always the expectation that since the war had been controversial, the memorial must be also. The choice to make an apolitical memorial was in itself political to those who felt only a positive statement about the war would make up for the earlier antiwar days, a past swing to the left now to be balanced. You are always taking a side, Libra, even when you perform the dance of hesitancy.
The life you want to live, a life that thrives on beautiful risk and Amazon idealism, it needs you to choose it and keep choosing it even when it feels impossible. Outside, for the third time today running errands for someone you love, you wonder what drives you toward service and what is it about you anyway that makes your kind of caretaking pass invisible under the radar of those you do it for? Is it to your credit that the work blends in with daily life?
Not bold or showy but, rather, small adjustments attending to the foreseen needs of others. And are you really so kind, so generous with your time, so attentive to the lives of others, or are you simply wandering through the world trying to prove to yourself that you can be of use? Nevermind, the coffee shop you set out towards to get the espresso you want is not serving espresso, do you want hot chocolate? You find the next coffee shop. The line is long. Do you take things too personally? So, take care of yourself. At one of the last surviving diners in Manhattan, in the very back behind scattered tourist families, upper west side morning joggers, and wayward teenagers clearly cutting class, I wait for you.
Still, through our individual pain, I can feel the soft relief of company. What is it about communal suffering? Is it the act of witnessing? You recognize my pain and allow me the opportunity to move beyond claiming it. Alright, so to suffer best we must suffer communally. Red tent, Shiva, or two girls eating unnameable cheese at noon on a Thursday. But what about the general malaise we have no rituals for?
In lieu of Dayquil for the Soul, which will—you know—not be made in this lifetime, it is up to you to come up with rituals for obtuse suffering. What I mean is, build a community around you that recognizes your sadness and your joy both, allow people to see your full spectrum of emotions, allow yourself to feel them. And who knows? Maybe in the blue tent where we just listen to sad songs for a few hours every week, a voice a song? The recording was not a poem. It was a drawling, crying, voicemail for what felt like a sweetheart but could have been a love letter to their most broken self.
Love me Love me, say you do , my best friend and I sang it to each other—it was our crush language, our lost lover language. Like a leaf clings to a tree something delicate and undeniable. When this year ended, I was with all my friends in a house in the woods. And then something happened to me, it happened to the room. Because it was aching, it made me ache. The words from his mouth were not words but whole ghosts springing from his face like cast off masks. And it was tense, one string in his throat about to break. I looked at Bowie face and thought to myself—this—this is what a Capricorn is—a soft sweet howling through ancient trees, a determination to enter the room of love and divine worship no matter how steep the cost or how difficult the journey.
There was something patient in the ghosts that flew from him, something vulnerable and unable to forgive itself. But you, Capricorn, you who are still here, still wind howling through trees, still a leaf clinging to this life—forgiveness is something you can learn. How to give it, yes, but mostly how to receive it. Because we live in in the new world order, which is also the old world order taking off its veil, I am writing toward the moon, my love, this evening and well into the night. Under that wide-open eye we are all illuminated.
The ocean of brutality is unknowable, intimate and dangerous, but we are powerful together—a glimmering school of healers and survivors. I see the fire doused in you now. I know you will find a way to stay warm and warm others. I know that you are here because you want to be of use to the world, to serve the greater good.
And there is so much good, I promise. In the streets, there are those of us who have always felt so invisible, so valueless to those who are in power, that fascism comes as no surprise. I see the well of your knowledge overflowing, and it is unbearable. You have no illusions to shed. You admit you are tired, you admit that this country broke your heart from the very start. You have never had time to lie down and rest. If the winds of fate have brought us here, a wheel turned and we are at the bottom. And the earth was dry on our journey, and there was blood soaking the soil we walked on, however reverently.
Beloved, you drank from the sorrow in the well, forged weapons in the fire. What do we know of our limits now?
For years we have counted the bodies they said were not worth counting. Now, who will drag the dead to the feet of our autocrat and make demands? If we have failed, we must fail harder. What we risk for those who are most vulnerable in our communities must equal what we risk to love one another and to love ourselves. For many of us, these factors are not distinguishable and for this reason we must protect each other when we walk together and we must be vigilant in our witnessing, since seeing is wrapped in knowing and knowing is historical. To respect your history, I will love you and not expect love in return.
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. Because of their ability to see every angle of a many-sided question, they are unhappy with abstract theorizing.
Appreciating the many different points of view as they do, they find philosophical concepts difficult, and they vacillate and have no confidence in any conclusions at which they arrive. With these qualities, they are better as subordinates than leaders. Responsibility irks them and they often lack the breadth of strategic vision that a leader needs Virgoans are essentially tacticians, admirable in the attainment of limited objectives.
Their self distrust is something they project on to other people and tends to make them exacting employers, though in the demands they make on those under them they temper this attitude with justice. They have potential abilities in the arts, sciences and languages. Language especially they use correctly, clearly, consciously and formally, as grammarians and etymologists rather than for literary interests, yet they are likely to have a good memory for apt quotations.
Although they are well suited for careers in machine drawing, surveying and similar occupations, they are better fitted for a job in a library or office than a workshop. Their minds are such that they need the stimulus of practical problems to be solved rather than the mere routine or working to set specifications that need no thought.
They are careful with money and their interest in statistics makes them excellent bookkeepers and accountants. They also make good editors, physicists and analytical chemists. They may also find success as welfare workers, ministering to those less fortunate than themselves. They can be doctors, nurses, psychologists, teachers, confidential secretaries, technologists, inspectors, musicians, critics, public speakers and writers especially of reference works such as dictionaries and encyclopedias.
Both sexes have a deep interest in history, a feature recognized by astrological authorities for at least two hundred years. If they go in for a business career their shrewdness and analytical ingenuity could tempt them into dishonesty, though they usually have enough moral sense to resist temptation.
Female Virgoans may find a career in fashion, for they have a flair for dress, in which they can be trend setters.
24 August Horoscope In Urdu - The Galactic Republic
In any profession they choose the natives of this sign readily assimilate new ideas, but always with caution, conserving what they consider worth keeping from the past. They love country life but are unlikely to make good farmers, unless they can contrive to carry out their work without outraging their sense of hygiene and cleanliness. Their faults, as is usual with all zodiacal types, are the extremes of their virtues. Fastidious reticence and modesty become old-maidishness and persnicketiness; balanced criticism becomes carping and nagging; and concern for detail becomes overspecialization.
Virgoans are liable to indecision in wider issues and this can become chronic, turning molehills of minor difficulties into Himalayas of crisis. Their prudence can become guile and their carefulness, turned in on themselves, can produce worriers and hypochondriacs. Virgo is said to govern the hands, abdomen, intestines, spleen and central nervous system.
Illnesses to which its natives are prone include catarrh, cold, coughs, pleurisies, pneumonia and nervous instabilities. Their natures make them inclined to worry and this makes them vulnerable to stomach and bowel troubles, including colic and ulcers. Male Virgoans may have trouble with their sexual organs.