After days and days of rain and storm the sky has finally blued, ocean mirror / reflected love, and I'm happy to report that I ate a slice of toast with both butter and nutella as I watched the Sun move into Leo from my glass stippled bathroom window.
The weird fish of my hips and spine seem injured; they move around erratically, nibbling at my sciatic nerve. I am in pain in the way that I can breathe through those waters. Deal with your thumping heart now, laced with clods of soil / bedrock departure from Cancer, for the Sun in Leo is the smoothness of liquid rock, saliva lava, roiling rolling on; you see you.
Venus, hot and wet, the circle of Soul surmounting the cross of matter; of honey, toothsome, coagulum, voluptuous. The shape of the beloved in the fresh scatter of flour for the bench. She opens my eyes. With her graceful drop into Virgo on July 21, the hidden earth, now, chatters on about botanic humility, a nod to her summer residence here in Mercury's domicile. Venus shows me not only the beginning of softness but what comes before and after, warmth and drain.
Here in her fall she is the heart that calculates the color of skin drained of life while lush in the way that lush is still—
his skin then, just after he had died, looked like the color of something useful: cooking utensils, copra, the earth, the color of the day early in the morning when it is no longer dark but not yet light. (Kincaid, The Autobiography of My Mother)
but is that my Capricorn moon singing quietly, insistent, like earth itself rising behind my teeth? (I will try my hardest to not attribute something falsely to some other thing)
In the zoom call, me gazing into me like the true Leo I am, the camera, my hand bent in a square to pillow my cheek. The requirement of a 90 degree angle: to crush the nerve that runs passage from wrist to fingers, to the thumb that marks us functional animal. I obsess now, every time I kneel on all fours, wild dog, injured bear. It's better to make a fist. Witness to my own injury and me, seer, the future of my own inability.
Venus in Virgo as, attention as the beginning of devotion (-Mary Oliver). The phase when children begin to play alone alongside each other rather than always being tempted to only play together.
I do not wish to speak about, just speak nearby (-Trinh T. Minh-Ha)
I used to worry, deeply, about never being able to truly understand another. Now I worry over the existence of that errant thought, worrying the bone (wondering if) like ego panic. I ask Venus for her blessing; to crush the shells, the error, to powder her milk, to bury the earth into attention, to just speak nearby, to love by a wide birth.
xo