The message of today’s oracle is to reach beyond established forms so says the laugh-a-minute Dane Rudhyar in his interpretation of Gemini 5° A Revolutionary Magazine Asking For Action. Again magazines, especially of a provocative nature, are Gemini-ruled; and we see the duality of the sign expressed in what is and what could be. But what of this revolution—will it be explosive or quiet? For instance, yesterday, I seethed a bit in societal unrest and also in its personal parallel. I suppose there are seeds of an overthrow in what I think and say. Most of what saddens me about society-at-large and close to home, is the fact that it is constructed to benefit the few, in whatever form, and not the many. I think of revolutions, historically, seeking to turn that tide. But bloody revolution rarely does anything but put the pigs in charge of the animal farm, being no better than their predecessors. There is much jealousy in revolution, often; the radicals want what the establishment has, though they will often be loath to admit it. In our personal lives this is known as sour grapes. But I look at this symbol being ruled by Leo in a twelve-fold sequence and that provides a clue to something better.

Leo is the Sun King and Queen of the Zodiac. The David and Bathsheba. The Arthur and Guinivere. David revolts against Goliath, representing the gigantically oppressive status quo but he actually does usher in something better and more noble, as does Arthur, albeit briefly. Breakthroughs or breakdowns: We either outwardly rage against the machine or break with reality under the pressure. But is there not a third option? I dare say there is. If we are really talking about current forms needing to be eradicated it needn’t be outwardly violent or inwardly destructive to escape or override these forms. We can simply go to our happy place—the Camelot in our mind—where we might find peaceful meditation and a noble existence of might for right. The Strength card in the Tarot depicts the Lion and it isn’t a symbol of outward aggression but one of inner strength, bearing, nobility and conviction. Leo rules the heart, yes, but also the chest back and the spine, which is synonomous with having nerve and certain resolve. Aslan appears in reaction to the world being overrun by some Ice Queen for far too long. The modern day symptomatic translation possibly being: too many “ussies” with Tilda Swinton or any other gracious celebrity attempting in his or her own right not to act the part, but remain real; which often results in their being exploited by any Tom, Dick or Harriet looking for the next hit of fame by association. Meanwhile, you’re just you and that should be enough.

Lest we forget, Aslan only attacks once at the final battle between good and evil, which is forever being waged within us, ending it. And only after he has sacrificed himself, laid himself bear, in total non-resistence, Christ-like, to the slings and arrows of the weak and ignorant who know not what they do. For reals. Rudhyar words it thusly: “withdraw[al] inwardly into the mystical state in which one identifies with an unformulatable Reality.” You should probably read that sentence again. We have the option to neither inwardly crumble nor outwardly tumble what icey constructs, devoid of compassion, with which we find ourselves confronted. We can go in and mystically melt them on a peaceful path of least resistance, one not to be confused with passivity. For it is in mystical meditation that we find that constructs are an illusion as is most external so-called reality—paradoxically, the only true reality is the infinite, eternal all which must first be perceived within ourselves. That’s where the magic is—real magic of goodly intention that takes flight and fights all that is not good in this world, illuminating how unstable negative structures are so that they fall apart by their own weight.

Yesterday I said: Look at You. Now I say: Go in. Imagine a world where everyone did so, where we all sought enlightenment, without pointing a finger, or fighting or fretting. It’s not the easiest thing to do. We all fall into negative behavior of lashing out and blaming other people and situations for our problems; just as whole societies wage wars and commit crimes of slaughter and genocide. It will not get you/they anywhere but backward. And, in the process, a great many treasures will be lost, whether they be preserved ruins in a desert or the jewels of your own spiritual progress. Forgiveness is the key to opening a door onto this one true reality—forgiveness of others and, most importantly, forgiveness of self. Christ didn’t die. Aslan didn’t die. Arthur didn’t die. He went into deep meditation, symbolized by the Lake, under the care of the Lady thereof. All to rise again, reconstituted, from the dissolve.

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What’s with all the Christmas stuff? It is a bit synchronic though as I work on our show for Joe’s Pub on the Summer Solstice, the day the Holly King takes over from the Oak King and pagans do burn mistletoe, at least the pagans in the Celtic tradition. So fine I will deal with this Holly and Mistletoe Reawaken Old Memories Of Christmas symbol for 4° Gemini. We are dealing with ancestral images which, even those dating to pre-Christian, Druidic roots, and such things are ruled by the sign of Cancer and the fourth astrological house in a twelve-fold sequence. Dane Rudhyar says today is about a “return to the source”, and Cancer, as the cardinal water sign, is expressed by a fountain or spring. I am doing my own returning, in the next couple of days, to Cape Cod where I can’t wait to get sand in really uncomfortable places. I have always needed to live near an ocean and have been very fortunate that I have for most of my life. I was speaking with a client recently about recapturing the spirt of ones salad days. The misteltoe and holly in the image are sacred and ancestral, and I think they ask us to examine what those elements are inside of us. How do we get back to our own source of being. It certainly isn’t through nostalgia but something deeper and more primal a connection. These are themes in the show we’re currently writing for sure. In this fish bowl world in which we live, where everybody is watching everybody posture and post visual and textual snippets of their life on social media, directing it to appear a way, trying to manipulate others’ perspective of them, it only makes me crave a simpler, more anonymous time when, if you had to reach me, you had to catch me at home on the phone, now quaintly referred to as “the land line.”

Of course I am saying this in a post that will appear on social media. And I wish more people liked the Facebook page for the Cosmic Blague but I really shouldn’t care. The whole purpose of this endeavor is to return to, first, the source of these daily Sabian symbols but also to whatever wellspring of stories these symbols might trigger. Whether writing or performing or producing or what have you there is that soul-crushing risk that there won’t be an audience. But it can’t stop one from soldiering on if you have some calling to express yourself. I do think our popular culture has torqued the balance to the extreme; such that the same handful of celebrites get all the attention; the sad fact is that this trend is mirrored even in what are meant to be non-commercial forms of art and entertainment; it can all seem like a popularity contest; and if you’re not designed to be so over-the-top needful of attention or worship—as many popular artists and personalities are, even in what’s left of our (or any) subculture, you won’t get it. The same downtown performer who bemoans the loss of a true avant-garde artistic community is the same one who goes on tirades that they don’t get enough press, awards, or attention from the media or gentry at large. You can’t have it both ways. I have always thought that such self-professed “down and out” people who protest too much about the evils of celebrity or wealth would be the first to jump at the opportunity to have them, and they would be just as bad as any kardashian [sic.]—I am of the mind that the lower-case “word” kardashian should be introduced into the English language, meaning: an entitled, vapid greedy, venal no-talent who seeks fame for fame’s sake and is devoid of any spirituality, compassion or sense of proportion; it could also work as an adjective given its -ian suffix.

So perhaps we don’t know what it means exactly to return to a source or our own individual source but I think we know what it isn’t, and what elements of our own personal or collective life represent being as far from a sense of honest purity and spiritual power as can be. So maybe we start there and just keep backing off these things in our own life. For some it could be as simple as cancelling cable, or only using social media for professional or philanthropic purposes, or turning off any means by which we can become polluted or manipulated by such powers seeking to create a certain want in us that manifests in our buying products or into political or religious or other kinds of ideology. We can’t totally isolate that’s not good. But we can stay away from people who play the game of making others feel less than or are constantly and desperately trying to represent their lives to us as somehow better than our own. I think another aspect of returning to the source is finding your true tribe which for me means developing relationships with other nerds who are on a path toward increased self-awareness and expression in manners that lift up others not put them down for ones own self-aggrandizement. And if that means a lot of solo time en route to better communion, well, that’s what books, beach blankets and hammocks are for.

Copyright 2015 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.

I have a way too many stories that might be triggered by today’s image, The Garden Of The Tuileries In Paris, having lived in Paris and spending a great many years traveling there, first for fashion shows that saw me walking through the garden daily, and then later for chunks of time when time and money would allow. Just last winter we took an apartment for a few months. Nothing about Paris ever gets tired for me, and I could never bore of the Tuileries, especially, except in encountering a scam artist or gypsy thief. But even that can be culturally interesting if you have your valuables firmly tucked. So I don’t think I will story tell today as I do need to save my energy for the show we’re writing; but, back I will offer some anecdotes.

I worked in Paris in 1985-86 at Passion magazine, which was a super big format magazine and we would have vendeurs who would swing by the offices to pick up big stacks that they would then sell on the streets, in the parks and gardens, in outdoor cafes and even in restaurants, walking through crowded bustling rooms of conversation and scraping cuttlery and tinkling glasses, Passion along with Interview and City and whatever else might be on offer. Before I got a job at the magazine, I too sold them on the streets for a day but I was terribly bad at it so I was grateful I was hired for an actual job in the magazine. I did though hand them out to front row faces in the fashion shows which in those days were in tents in the Tuileries not at the as-yet Carousel du Louvre. I remember handing a copy of Passion to Princess Caroline at one of the shows, saying, “here you might as well have one since you’re in it”—there was some story on her. I was always off-handedly addressing people that most people treated with uber respect and kid gloves. It was the eighties, and I had a socialist ax to grind and authority issues. Some years later, during a book signing for Sextrology at Colette, Princess Caroline would attend and tell Stella and myself, “I’ve heard so much about you.” Really? Okay.

There were several vendeurs of Passion; the most ubiquitous and prolific was called Jean-Yves, I believe (pictured below)  and one of them was this African guy who’d I see here and there around town, in furtive glances, out of the corner of my eye. He was very dark skinned and small and had a shaved head and was usually hidden behind these large magazines he was holding up. One evening Stella and I were out to dinner with a crazy friend of ours called Vivian whose outfit for the evening was a pair of mens striped flannel pajamas. It was the eighties. I can’t remember where we were having dinner, somewhere in the sixth arrondissement; and this fellow through the restaurant and I grabbed his arm and asked in bad French “tu vend Passion”, to which he responded “mais oui”. I explained I worked at the magazine and invited him to join us, which he did. He ordered champagne and I remember thinking that he must do pretty well selling those publications around town. He said his name was Jean-Claude he was from Cameroon and that his father was actually something of a tribal chief. Very interesting. He was highly educated and spoke English and French superbly and after we killed the bottle of bubbly he invited us to a club privé called Le Flashback. Off we went.

The place was dark and filled with poseurs and you had to purchase a bottle of something which would be placed on your table and you would pour and mix your own drinks. For some god awful reason we got a bottle of gin. The place was packed the dance floor filled with couples and, as was not unusual in France, single people dancing with their own reflections in the mirror that squared the entire room. I noticed Jean-Claude was behind Vivian with his arms wrapped around her cupping her now naked breasts as they writhed and I caught him in profile and suddenly realized, what a cotton picking minute, this isn’t the magazine seller after all. As horrible and probably racist as this sounds—I promise you it wasn’t—I had mistaken this small African dandy for the often facially obscured vendeur. But, uh-oh, when I asked Jean-Claude if he sold upper-case Passion he said “oui” thinking I meant the lower case sort.

In any case he wasn’t a gigolo and he and I actually became copains, hanging out smoking hash and drinking at his fancy Saint-Germain-des-Prés apartment. I once invited two French guys I’d met in my neighborhood, Jean-Luc and Phillipe, to hang out there with me. We ended up, as guys do, even ones who basically don’t know each other, wrestling, which in this case consisted of Jean-Luc, Phillipe and I each diving at Jean-Claude in turn whereby he would handily pin us with one move or literally throw us across the room. He was like a tiny Cameroonian super hero it was astounding. And the manner in which he defeated our moves with ease made us laugh hysterically as we exchanged glances of disbelief while, you know, being chucked into a wall. None of this of course has anything to do with the Sabian Symbol today at 3° Gemini which is all about “Formalism” but so what, it’s my Blague and I’ll blab incessantly if I want to. I will add this, that in a twelve-fold sequence, Gemini rules this oracle and given it’s rule of the third astrological house, it is associated with boon companions and all kinds of merchants, especially street vendors of newspapers and magazines. So there.

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Santa Claus Furtively Filling Stockings Hanging In Front Of The Fireplace is the oracle for 2° Gemini? Really? The diviners of this symbol were off on this one—or were they?–let us explore. This would be a Taurus-ruled image in a twelve-fold sequence and the keynot is: a rewarded faith in spiritual blessings. The connection I see there is that Taurus (the Garden, Eden) is the sign of innocence, albeit leading to temptation. Even the Taurus myth of Io (and Snow White) and that of Adonis is about the trials and tribulations of passivity and naiveté. We must “be ye like little children” in our pure beliefs that Santa will hang stockings by the chimney with care. In Eden, that was the mindset of Adam and Eve, total, unquestioning belief in the celestial power. We have to have unshakable belief in order for Santa to manifest. He doesn’t without it. I will leave you with this story that I told at Joe’s Pub Winter Solstice Last:

I remember in 6th grade, when we first learn about the Greek gods, right. I was so utterly turned on by the gods. I made myself a tunic out of old curtains I found in the attic and did incantations to Dionysus, wanting divine communion with him or else it was my inner wine-o emerging. But I was sad too because the conceit was that the gods were something people once believed in but they no longer existed. That notion depressed me to no end. But I didn’t give into it. I knew it wasn’t true. The gods weren’t dead. They were very much alive. But this was before I could articulate my reasoning: That the gods are energies personified. And energy can’t be destroyed. That we too are energy personified. Or that Mary is Aphrodite. That Jesus is Eros. And that the connection between the gods and their namesake planets and astrology and psychology and archetype and energy and theatre and temple and spirituality and the stage would ultimately wrap me up like a blanket.

But I remember 6th grade, the last day of school before Christmas vacation, it was snowing, we couldn’t go out for recess. There was no real school work to do—no point starting new lessons. We played fuzz ball. (The class divided in half throwing a softball size pompom like those on the top of our winter caps across the room and if you didn’t catch it you were out. I was typically out pretty quickly.) Then I think we rearranged our desks. And it was a half day. And we were just sitting quietly with our hands folded. It was bittersweet because our teacher Mrs. O’Shea was moving away and wouldn’t be back after vacation. I remember accidentally calling her Mom one day when I raised my hand. That was excruciatingly embarrassing. As if I needed any other reason to stand out like a sore thumb from the rest of the class. But I was always the square peg. Going against the grain. So, 6th grade, waiting for the bell to ring and free us for Christmas week. Hands folded on our desks. Mrs O’Shea with a teasing smile asks the class if we are looking forward to Santa visiting which induced a group groan because 6th graders no longer believe in Santa Claus. So as the class sputtered and moaned and rolled their eyes in a cacophony distilled to a single phrase: There’s no such thing as Santa Claus, I….raised…my…hand…and said: Hold on. I believe in Santa Claus. Loader moans now with threatening jeers. And I don’t recall the exactitude of the Linus Van Pelt solo argument I launched into; but I know it had something to do with the fact that Santa Claus must exist because so many children believed in him down through the centuries and if that many people believed in Santa that he must “exist” on some level, just like the one God whom everyone believed in without seeing and who, I was a bit peeved, replaced my beloved Greek gods whom I loved so completely, just like that one Dick Sargeant replaced that one Dick York as Darrin on Bewitched, my favorite show. I didn’t know Santa Claus was Wenceslas was Saturn was Old Father Time was Father Christmas. Just like I didn’t know that Endora on ‘Bewitched” was Saturn’s wife Rhea Cronus and that Endora meant endure and personified the Capricorn energy of preservation and conservation. I just knew that if every one of those snot-nosed muggles in my sixth grade class, for whom I had a natural contempt, could swallow the fact that their mainly Christian all caucasian father son and holy ghost existed then, by Christ, I could make a strong argument for the existence of Kris Kringle, with a K, like the Kardashians, our modern false gods, all too readily worshipped. And I remember Mrs O’Shea making this face, [sic.] as if to say, sounds reasonable; and 24 sets of other children eyes fixed upon me their gaze melting from bah humbug into a happy gratitude that their childhood belief, so newly vanquished, could be, at least for this moment before the bell was to ring, so magically restored.

Copyright 2015 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Well thank you Mercury retrograde for making a full week’s writing on an upcoming show magically disappear from my computer. Now, before I shake my fists up at you, I want you to know that I fully entertain the idea that what I might have already written was crap and that you wanted me to start again to create something better; at the same time I am fully aware that you are a divine trickster and simply get off on this sort of thing, like when you stole Apollo’s entire herd of white cattle, tying brooms to their tales to erase their hoof prints. I know who you are. I am a Libra, my sun is in that sign, so archetypally I am a son, like Linus, the orator, of that golden god; and yet, I am a Virgo rising, so my entire chart is ruled by you until such time as they discover a planet called Vulcan or decide to give the sign’s rulership to that once-and-future planet Chiron; in the meantime, I’m caught in your grip. And seemingly happily so. As the eternal adolescent god, the messenger, the Puck, Robin Goodfellow, Peter Pan, Robin Hood, and even Batman’s eternally youthful Robin, I have always related to you; dating back to childhood superhero games I never wanted to be Batman (boring) I wanted to be Robin, as he was so shot through will possibility, potential, his future unwritten, and he looked fantastic doing the Watusi in board shorts in a televised nod to beach movies of the time—likewise I would happily play Will Robinson in a childhood reenactment of episodes of Lost In Space. Again I digress. But what else is new?

Today marks the first day of Gemini. So I’m half expecting an oracle of newness from this Sabian canon. You should also know that I’m a bit tired of tying the Blague to these oracles, just as I’ve become reliant upon them to motivate me in a writerly direction each day. Of late I have been saving my energy for writing a new show but as all that material has magically disappeared, as I say, I figure I have a choice, or am at a visceral crossroads, to either put pencils down and say ef it to one or other or both or all of the content on my daily list to create OR to blow it out and write like a maniac, even though I have full client days coming up and I’m actually moving house on Monday. If you know me you know I’ll choose the later. I’m that kind of self-flagellator.

Okay so get this: The symbol for today is A Glass-Bottomed Boat Reveals Undersea Wonders. Let’s set aside the fact that both Stella and I both had dreams of sharks and/or sea-monsters rearing their threatening, murderous heads last evening, I do declare that we might be looking at subterranean, Chtonian energies making their presence  known. If the sign of Taurus, fixed-earth, the Garden, leads to temptation in the form of that Chotonian character, the serpent, then Gemini, newly entered, embodies the duality—the Twins—of consciousness of naked or clothed, right or wrong, good or evil, having eaten from the tree of knowledge of which. I hope that was correct english. The point being that, for ill or nil, we are having our minds open to levels of consciousness previously unexposed or unexplored by us. What we say may be beautiful. It may be astonishing. It may be scary as hell. The point is we are thinking about it. Gemini’s motto is “I think “and the fact that this oracle hinges so much on a new awareness, an opening of consciousness, is pretty mind blowing. Duality is an awareness that we exist on (at least) two levels. Our conscious mind can often be the most unconscious part of ourselves, going about its quotidian business without check or balance; and then, boom some shift upward in consciousness, or some sense of the yearnings of the subconscious, create a divide; we all have divided minds—this is reality. If we didn’t we would likely be insane. The fact that we think about what we’re thinking or what motivates us, and that we question the workings of our mind, is likely the mark of sanity.

We all are gliding through life in a glass-bottom boat. We can choose to look down into the recesses of our minds and hearts to see what lies beneath. There is surely benefit in doing so and there may yet be danger. Right now, I’m keeping my head above board because if I look to delve too deep I might find myself caught. I will not let even the tricks of my conscious mind plunge me into the depths of negative emotion. Au contraire: my emotions are my guide—in the metaphor my emotional life is represented by the large body of water—I am the water—the glass bottom boat is only my mind that gets to glide through it with a window on its workings. My inner world is filled with shimmering and iridescent creatures, embodiments of my goodness and my imagination, and with sharks and probably krakens, emanations of my self-destruction. But, you see the mind, though a sometime trickster, is also clever and light and lively and doesn’t wish to become mired; instead it allows me the facility of safe flight or sailing over my unfathomable nature.

Copyright 2015 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.

A Peacock Parading On The Terrace Of An Old Castle is the image at 30° Taurus, as we bid adieu to that sign for the year. Dane Rudhyar says this oracle is about the personal display of inherited gifts and then he talks about the peacock being sacred to Venus and makes some connection to “Promethean Spirits” from (planet) Venus giving the divine gift of consciousness to “animal mankind.” That’s a lot to chew on frankly. Also I think of the peacock being sacred to Juno not Venus, although I think both goddesses have a stake in what would be Pisces-ruled symbol in a twelve-fold sequence. Venus (Aphrodite/Mari) is the goddess of Pisces in that the two fish of the sign are the animal totems of her and her son, Eros, to whom she would remain tied, in fish form, by an umbilical like cord. Planet Neptune, the sea, rules the sign and Venus emerged from the sea, goddess of love, sea of love. Eros is love. So is Christ, the Jesus fish; and Mary’s (Mari’s) blue gown fringed in white is the sea, she is Stella Marris, sea star. So what about the peacock and the castle?

Before the discovery of planet Neptune and its assignation as Pisces ruler, the sign was governed by Jupiter, named for the king god whose queen of heaven is Juno (Hera), goddess of power. Juno is associated with radiance and to look upon her is blinding. Her myth involves her many-eyed watchman, Argus, whom she, Hera, set to watch over the nymph Io who was messing around with Zeus (Jupiter) who turned her into a snow-white heifer to disguise her. Hermes/Mercury put the hundred-eyed Argus to sleep and murdered him, the first murder of the new-god order. Hera forever preserved his eyes in the peacock tail. Io was freed but Hera sent a stinging gadfly to chase her down, but when the silly cow arrived in Asia she turned back into nymph form and was recognized as a goddess there “returning” generations later as Europa, on the back of a white bull, now Zeus in disguise. Fun times. Needless to say the myth of Io and cow-eyed Hera is a Taurean one, the prototype of the Snow White fairytale. What does this all have to do with the peacock?

Well, the peacock, having inherited Argus’ eyes, symbolizes that which is all-seeing, omniscient, all powerfully divine. And we are at a castle after all, so we have indeed inherited this power and fortune. The display of the peacock’s tail is the consummation. All has come full circle. Io is the maidenform, no doubt, of Hera and their myth is one of exodus, deliverance and return. We have to make mistakes, be stung in the rear, before we can become more knowing and circumspect. We have been around (the world) and we’ve encountered some home truths and they have embolded and enobled us and thus we are free to roam around our experience with confidence on display. If the castle and peacock are symbols of inherited gifts, than our inheritance is nobility and power, which is knowledge, specifically, of the self-sort.

Copyright 2015 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.

It is one of those days you wake up thinking that a new approach to life is in order. And when I say you, I of course mean me. Without going into details, I think that sometimes paradigms that have worked in the past suddenly no longer do. And in cases where one is relying on charitable contributions to non-profit endeavors there is always that possibility that a great many of existing supporters suddenly, and all at once, declare they can’t be of support. The image for today at Taurus 29° is Two Cobblers Working At A Table. Perhaps because I knew today’s oracle is ruled by Aquarius in a twelve-fold sequence, before I actually knew what the symbol was, my mind immediately went to the two waves of the Aquarius sigil. People make the mistake thinking Aquarius is a water sign, but it is the Water Bearer and an air sign. The waves of the symbol are therefore more accurately perceived as wave lengths, whether one is speaking literally as in radio waves or, in our modern world, information traveling instantly through the air via satellites and such, or, more metaphorically speaking, being on a certain wave length mentally or ideologically. Maybe the cobblers are exactly in synch. Maybe one is an apprentice. Maybe they have two different styles. The point is they are at the table together. And when one is chaging the way they think and work, the old style exists while the new emerges. Uniquely, the sign of Aquarius has a primary ruler in Uranus, representing avant-garde experience, with Saturn, representing the old guard, as a secondary ruler. We must evolve and think out of a new mind, on a new wavelength, whilst we allow the existing one, not yet completely outmoded, support us.

Added to which, yesterday, we experienced both a Taurus New Moon and Mercury entering retrograde. I like a Taurus New Moon for its simplicity. All New Moons signal new beginning but Taurus is all about our talents, values and assets—such intangibles that make our garden grown. It’s nice to get in touch with what we have in our arsenal, and to strive to build, to wax, from there. And this Mercury retrograde will also inspire some new thinking by asking us to review what in our experience did and didn’t work. I really welcome this particularly retrograde because I see it as removing last vestiges and residue from past situations that no longer serve, but to which one might still have emotional attachment. Those cobblers are hammering away, creating a new means of moving forward; shoes certainly symbolize the means and the facilitation of our journey. A funny, slight synchronicity: I have been wearing the same Dior boots for ten years and just noticed that the leather has finally been worn through and, though I have an unnatural emotional attachment to my trusty boots, I must let them go. Good thing I don’t have pets; I wouldn’t fare so well at passings and so forth. Anyway, those cobblers are illuminating a new path forward. And I for one am going to let them.

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So Capricorn is ruled by Saturn, called Cronus. Rhea-Cronus is his female counterpart. She is the Grand Mother of the Zodiac and she apparently rules this Sabian Symbol of Taurus 28° degrees: A Woman, Past Her “Change of Life,” Experiences A New Love. Sounds good to me. Who among us doesn’t feel past some monumental change, the metaphor not needing to be taken literally. We are meant, today, to stretch beyond our mortal limits, and fix our consciousness on the fact that there is eternity in a moment and we can change the course of our lives, our destiny, in an instant. Yesterday we had an old, probably sage, woman selling her wares on the side of the road. Today that woman is in the throes of love. Love is the renewing force and fact. Feeling love makes us feel new and, yes probably, young.

Copyright 2015 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.

An Old Indian Woman Selling The Artifacts of Her Tribe to Passers-By is the symbol for today. We are still expressing elements of the cultural collective, like yesterdays serenader; but there is nothing ardent or desperate in ones desire here. We’ve seen this old lady all our lives. She’s always there with her table of wares, maybe toothless and chewy, her arthritic hands moving things around with a careless ease. She might subsist this way, but she seems calm and like she’s figured it all out. At her age she is one with what she’s purveying, and she’s most likely proud of it. There is more than meets the eye perhaps. She might be a wise woman possessing some shamanistic power. The objects might be thus endowed. We would be under the rule of Sagittarius in a twelve-fold sequence here so it is likely that the woman’s focus is on her third-eye higher mind. The sign is ruled by Jupiter, named for the chief god, whose female archetype is Juno, who (as the prototype of Snow White’s jealous Queen), would take the form of a crone selling or giving away apples. Juno is goddess of power and the radiance of her true being is blinding. Similarly, the appearance of the old (American) Indian woman might bely her true nature. Let us not assume today that all is what it seems. The old beggar on the street corner might be a deity in disguise. I think that might be the message, in part, here in Taurus 27°.

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Seduction, desire. These can only be associated with one sign Scorpio. Dane Rudhyar sets the keynote of today’s symbol, A Spanish Gallant Serenades His Beloved as the ritualization of individual desires. Incidentally, the great astrologer Liz Greene writes that Spain’s national horoscope is Scorpio. Fun facts. I have a love/hate relationship with the sign, as Libras do; but that is neither here nor there. Like yesterday’s public park, music and courting rituals are culturally shared, but here they are in service to personal, if not selfish desire. Scorpio’s motto is I desire. It is a spontaneous impulse that is crystalized—the gallant is seeking control and possession of the beloved. Frankly I don’t know what the universal takeaway of this symbol is, except that we see certain conventions, like courtship, as having been cemented into the cultural fabric and refined from the dragging the desired off caveman style. But I’m not feeling anything further on this one. Maybe next year at Taurus 26°.