THE SUN IN THE HOUSE OF MARS
Today the rain pours forth, riding for the 2nd day some wave of cloud as if her wheels will never bald (which is to say, with reckless abandon). The drip drip from my ornate but bondo'd ceiling says, quite clearly— I may be one ton but I sip fuel. Steady cloud machine going long ball until it gives up the ghost one milky drop at a time. Imagine, the rain as vehicle, hard water as tectonic plates of minerals. I try to think long and hard how to undo the mental duress that comes from arriving in someone else's future. Future, it turns out, is also interchangeable with fantasy. Give up the machine, the ghosts say. On this topic, the clouds are silent.
As of this moment, November 27, 2021 at 1:24 PM EST, the moon in cancer finds herself out of bounds. Foundationally strong and noble within herself, the wild wet of cancer protects the center with a high pitch that penetrates even her own sticky flux. Similarly, venus in sagittarius finds herself out of bounds and in the face of the moon. Together their relationship seems thrown on the rocks, this quincunx; they look away from each other, and declare that there is no relationship there at all. How to describe this? The best I can do for you is to revisit a beautiful pastry I have never seen in person, but it took my breath away nevertheless; a cardamom bun made of croissant dough, with satsuma glaze draped over a pool of frangipane. Now picture this beauty as the one that gets accidentally tossed to the floor by an errant sheet tray, and, too busy to make the move the baker shoves it under the floor for later. Tell-tale bun, you’re irrevocably wasted now, anyway.
The celestial chatter for November centers largely around mars; he will entrench himself in two lunations, square saturn and oppose uranus, and finally emerge from under the beams of the sun. Mars will enter the 29th degree of libra on October 28th; lest we forget that libra is one of two kingdoms of his detriment, it would be wise to exercise patience and slowness around the animal of the soul during this last stretch. As he prepares to enter his domicile his limbs are covered in a grain of skin, budding appendage, desperate for the deep cauldron of scorpio to boil off the airy film.
With the sun in the house of mars, I chide myself to not get too attached to fixed realities or securities. The fixed continually erodes under the anchor of scorpio, and I suffer greatly for my attachments to them. So I think;
seeing the word COVID and hearing OVID in it's bio
a certain hilarity to surety— in a few hours I'll be somewhere else, and thus, certainty as time travel with no guarantee
and finally, do I desire to function without seam because I desire to be closer to the machine? if so, is it in romance or jest?
xo,
sarah