MERCURY Rx + WRITER'S DISGUST
I can tell that the new season is here because the doors in my apartment close differently— rougher, a tighter fit, requiring more push. I know, I know, I keep talking about the New Season as if it's any newer than a different time with the Sun in Libra. It probably isn't. Time as layer cake or a circle, and all that.
What I likely mean (because lately I am obscured even to myself) is that the shifts from before to now and leading into the future fantasy have been tectonic in my mind and forcing a pause in my body, but as if the pause were against a salmon current. Fish, as always, are on my mind.
These plates on the move (full of food or words) are directed by the hand of the Giant— (he continues to make his presence more and more known in my life—) and with Mercury retrograde in Libra the air feels like my softest yarn tangled and haloing itself. Precious, soft, requiring hours of work, tinged with sweat and madness.
To filler or no filler, to make the sentence make sense? What if the sentence and the word wasn't pressured to be linear? Who would remain on the line?
[Language is both sacred and threatening; irredeemable, crass, shaping my heart, shaping the Giant. I have a brief thought for a longer fishing line on all the ways in which learning, for me, is salvation. But the beast bites and lets go at the last minute, see you next time Jupiter... ]
I often wonder how much disgust other writers find themselves bedding in the early evening, in naps, in dreams.. from root to crown filling the body from the inside out with pressure, never the satisfaction of POPping like a balloon,
if only my words were helium filled!
To pierce the fabric of our dome and to finally reach the celestial!
I often feel this pressure in astrology + spiritual circles online to write solely with the aim of Healing, of enchantment, or that directional focus of an infographic. I find myself faltering under the helpful but too helpful, too many tips, tricks, trauma resource recs, prescriptive, where is the inquisitive? what time precisely do I look up at the moon again?
So sometimes my vision doubles, one image of charts and the celestial and the other of wok flames and kitchen work. In the sizzle of pork pressed, heating the pasta tank after the sound of water changes, eating a quart of mise’d peaches by the spoonful the day after in bed; isn't that really where I/you/we hear the planets ticking along, in kitchens, cars, bed? The Giant's breath? Your sweet ascendant rising to greet you even before you knew you would be born?
Lets face it, the poetry is always simmering in the poet. Either coagulate jelly or lazy liquid pools, making all the the difference. Sometimes I fight it. Do you?
xox,
sarah