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? 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.

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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.


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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?

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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.

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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.


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  • 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.

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    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.

    How, in boxing, one protects their hands—the very thing ones uses to inflict hurt and compel submission. Practicing a knowing toward love… I think I understand. That is also a weapon. I read at the same time: This will be and this has been; I observe with horror an anterior future of which death is the stake. By giving me the absolute past of the pose aorist , the photograph tells me death in the future. What pricks me is the discovery of this equivalence. Whether or not the subject is already dead, every photograph is this catastrophe.

    It is true that in mourning our hearts open wider, a wound like an aperture that absorbs all light, all suffering, the foreground and background distinguishable only by lines where a figure might cut through. Why do we open the aperture? To bear witness, to catalogue what will be destroyed so that in looking back we know what needs rebuilding and must be overhauled. We open the aperture anticipating the larger possibilities of the future believing that there will be one despite all evidence to the contrary.

    We are the government now, you say. In writing this, I take a picture of our power and protect it. The vows we make to each other will outlast this world we live in now and see us through to the next.

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    What is an opening is also a light. Your wide-open heart: a signal. We see it, we move toward you, stand behind you, ready to claim and rebuild our broken world. In a basement over boxes I packed so long ago I can barely remember what each one holds, I am parsing through my past and S is reading aloud the different kinds of love language we are capable of. Is gift giving one of your primary love languages?

    I exacto a flimsy strip of tape and pull out a blanket Maya bought me years ago simply because she adored how taken I was with it. Not really, I venture. It is true there is a Leo in my life whose offerings soften my heart. It is also true that I would love her just the same without those gifts, that I recognize the gifts as her love language and regard them as such. When S reads these aloud to me and attempts to pinpoint what feels like love to her, I getting a sinking feeling that I must be one those greedy bitches that just needs it all.

    My Leo friend has this unrelenting will to illuminate the best qualities of everyone she loves while simultaneously forcing them to face their weaknesses and overcome them. It is the love language of witness and pride, the love language of her very being, and what draws me to her. Feeling affirmed. Leo, the world is need of generous leaders and no matter what you do for money, your energy is precious now. So, you must spend it wisely with compassion for yourself as well as others. Can this approach to the language of love translate, for you, to a kind of creative force?

    It is within your power to invoke the love you want. And all this nation. Not nation. What was once expanse. You, I, they, us surrounded. Unable to ask forgiveness of itself, to inscribe particular in its own body that got left begins. As we separated to say.

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    The woman climbs onto his lap and weeps. The man wraps his arms around the woman and then his arms fall limp. He leaves and in ten minutes they return to together. She crawls into his lap. They laugh and then they fall apart. A simple sentence! He yells and only she knows what that means. He calls her Girl and she says Please and strokes his face. People know that I am good at my work. My work is good. Our surroundings determine our experience of the world and it is we who choose when to look and when to look away.

    In listening I remembered a few weeks ago when a friend of mine and I took turns counseling a Libra who had recently lost a loved one to a shocking homicide. The three of us sat in triangle formation for a while. Grief takes a long time, my friend suggested. Your depression is perfectly expected at this time. Her permission seemed to relieve him; she knew his loss in a way I did not.

    Still, it might be good for you to take up some kind of social contract, I proposed , an activity that provides you with the opportunity to generate connections and beauty. Libras are social creatures, after all, and sweet interactions can be a kind of salve over the difficult wounds one must face when alone. I suggested soccer, a sport that seemed to offer rituals of value to him. Instead, he described writing workshops he led wherein he felt integral to opening the imaginations of other participants.

    Is when the reins are in the hand of the young who dare to run against the storm Not needing to clutch for power, not needing the light just to shine on me I need to be just one in the number as we stand against tyranny. The Libra approach is an approach that thrives on community support and collaboration, a group of like-hearted souls working like hell to honor a loved one or, if a Libra feels capable of acting globally, tear down a regime.

    But, Libra, although you can survive in solitude, you thrive in company. Just make sure the company you keep is the company you want, people who reflect the person you want to be in the world. There must be a reason that November stretched so long. Each morning the leaves get brighter and redder and it feels ok to wake up alone or, if not physically alone then, alone in the mind wandering into the morning as if it were an echo of every morning you have ever lived.

    The work is there, it keeps coming, but there is something about the quality of time that does not allow the work. So many beginnings without end, have you found yourself attracting strays? Have you found yourself looking too long in the mirror wondering what beauty is and what it can never be? Someone taught you there is only so much of you someone can take. Someone taught you to measure your love out bit by bit. When you make coffee, you take a small spoonful of sugar and drop it in, then add more.

    You carry the mug with you from room to room and each room inside you feels absolutely necessary. The love inside you fills the house of you like music. You can open the windows, you know. There are certain kinds of nights that make me think of you and last night was one of them. A blonde woman unknown to both us threw her arms around the two of us as we entered, proclaiming the party officially on because we had just arrived. S moved through the crowd greeting people she knew while I made a nest on the leather couch, the fireplace to my left and the singers to my right.

    The blonde woman was up there with them too, sort of swaying, her long thin limbs extended toward every person in the room—especially but not exclusively the men. I leaned over to S and asked her if she thought the Blonde was practicing an unrestrained and playful kind of power or whether she was falling into a deep drunken well of weakness. Watching her fed a whirring thing inside me, a thing I know you understand. It whispers bad ideas in your ear and makes them sound real good. Sagittarius, you and I both know that chaos is cathartic but it is not a cure.

    And I know the world is crumbling around us. I know how that crumbing can make you feel like life is too precious to waste and must be lived apologetically now now now. But, Sagittarius, living unapologetically means losing a lot more than you might be ready to lose so you better figure out what you need right now versus what you want. Because whenever I hear the word angel I think of you, who has a name for every angel, and because I missed you, I went to listen to your poems in a dark and shadowy corner of Bryant Park.

    And, I felt the crowd immersed in your all-seeing genius, your hard hoofed exploration of the world. What parts of me shake loose dirt. What parts wait until you are bare. My jejune bluegrass, why do I eat your light. There are grasses growing up the shabby fence. All of them fluid blade. We sway. What parts of me are wild.

    What parts storing up for the choke. How do I tell the difference. It was on us to create the space we wanted and so we did, my IPhone propped against the glass window of the deli we danced outside of. It was after am and men walked in and out of that deli, young men and homeless men, most of them brown. And there were those who came to interpret us and there were those who yelled out just what our bodies could do for them out their passenger windows.

    Reward Yourself

    And then, there were those who stood watching, whose eyes for the first time in a long time felt sentinel and without threat. It could have been that we were on every street corner in America and we were the only sirens that mattered. What we manifested in that moment, with our wiggling girl bodies, was a moment of freedom in a country where freedom felt and feels like the deadliest illusion.

    But, illusions can be tools too if illusions are ambitions. It is time for you to be ambitious now. And, if you are dancing tonight, Capricorn, I hope your dancing is an ode to your own power. I hope you know that no matter how impossible the word safety is, no matter how often it falls short, you can bend it to your will and make of it what you must. Today I share these letters with you after a month of long nights typing and erasing, wondering whether any words will do when the world seems heavy with unbearable cruelty and violence.

    And, it did help to remember that the world has been violent for a very long time and it has also been beautiful just as long. That despite the atomic bomb, Bikini Atoll now boasts an oceanic paradise. Sometimes I wonder, when it gets to be this late in the month, if these letters will do you good, if they would mean much.

    It is then that I stop wondering and become grateful. I love you, I see you, I think of you often, Galactic Rabbit. If you feel moved to donate toward the writing of the horoscopes, you can leave an offering in turn here. A Scorpio. I like it, being inside the song with them, how it feels free and easy which has not been the case this month for anything else.

    In a karaoke bar somewhere in my recent past, an Aquarius I knew would always choose this song. On stage, she transformed into a lanky glamor of light riding the song like a perfect wave. Something about this advice stuck with me, widened and stretched its meaning. I wanted to sing the song that was right for me, yeah, but more than that I wanted to know how to get up in front of a spotlight and give a performance that was entirely free of inhibition and modesty.

    You learn how to be by being, relentlessly. And how do you choose the song of your life? Imagine your child-heart and your wizened future-self, joining hands down the long path. Me, green sea turtles, coral reefs blown to bits by atomic bombs. This is an article about believing in your ability to heal, even thrive, in the aftermath of great trauma dressed up as an article about environmental journalism. It maintains that reporting on the dire status of the ocean does not seem to better the ocean one bit.

    People, it turns out, are motivated by an optimistic tone and a hopeful outcome. When we believe our actions are too small to make a difference, we tend to behave in ways that create the conditions in which those expectations are realized. Perhaps, something you are learning slowly is that your ability to swim through emotional intensity has granted you the ability to hold emotional space for those around you.

    Besides, how many thunderstorms can a firebird take before she lies down in the wet ground wincing? Even the act of reaching out, of combatting isolation, is another task on a long list that never seems to get shorter. Obligations and responsibilities make demands but, Firebird, you were born the fly and make beautiful things.

    What do you love, in the world, in yourself? Make a commitment to your spirit above all earthly contracts. The gravity of your affection is just tempting enough to ignore your unreasonable demands. As I surface above the music and search for you, I wonder if you know how loved you are, how celebrated. I wonder if you understand that the moments in life when you have felt ignored or unappreciated, the moments when your heart ran way past the roaming fields and it took days to bring it home, were moments when a community of lovers stood behind you. Lovers and friends and lots of wild animals, all of them guard you, all of them lucky to know you.

    And did you really have that argument if no one says sorry and no one says I forgive you? And of course those unsaid things that sit so tight against the chest you can barely breathe through them make me think about family and where our negotiations get us. A Gemini is a double and when there is a double there is a split. Where there is a split there is a wound.

    When a split self guards both sides of a wound, the wound is both unbothered and untended. When a Gemini is a creature of habit, he makes new wounds and keeps them in a familiar place. The well of wounds grows deeper and widens the space between two guards, who would rather not be so far from each other. When a Gemini turns inward and tends to the wound, his split selves touch and support one another.

    You dreamt a house into being. You dreamt light streaming through a window and falling on the pages of a book, the curled back of an animal that was your animal, a room where everything you cherished was protected from rain and time. You dreamt a life into being and grew into that life, the doorways framing your frame, the kitchen with its endless ritual of making and unmaking.

    You married an idea and made a vow. You thought you were the house; you forgot how dreams are made. What happened when the house you built no longer fit you? You let the boards sigh while you paced the floor and packed your life. You were neat and then you were messy. You lay on the ground until the difference between you and the ground was very clear. Then you got up and did what you had to do.

    You are powerful enough to have many dreams, many lives. The foundation is in you and you build each dream on top of it. You construct a nest of pillows and shift the duvet to make a smooth plane for your limbs. You cover your eyes and are in total darkness. The hypnosis tape assures you that all hypnosis is self-hypnosis. Rediscover our ability to forgive those old hurts says the man on tape who speaks deliberate and slow. Your mind is a span of clouds teased out into skinny threads. Your mind is a mood opening. Listen to your own voice, whispers the hand in the clouds, be guided by your own heart.

    And even though it is hard to hear the whispers, you listen. Some of us spend all our emotional energy figuring out the intricacies of giving ourselves up. We know trust comes in waves: I trust you in confidence, I trust you intimately, I trust you to witness my weakness and still see me as strong. I care. Tell me again, simpler. And it is good to believe we can be honest with one another.

    What is seen, acknowledged and what is left to sink heavy to the bottom? If you are not getting what you want from those closest to you, consider this: people learn how to treat you by example, how you treat them and how you let yourself be treated. And this a tenet of trust as well, asking the ones you love to do better, giving them the chance to live up to your image of them—which is an image held together with rare sweetness and good faith. And, because I trust you to understand me, I offer you these words in hopes that you hear them in your own heart: I trust that you mean to be kind to me, I will be generous when you fail to do so, I will support you by maintaining my boundaries, I will tend to my fire with patience so that it warms us both and burns no one.

    Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights. Or I succeed in flashes only too damned well. Jean Rhys wrote about the weight of intellectual loneliness but it did not dispel her loneliness, her enduring bewilderment. In the wilds of mental production, nothing we make for the approval of others will ever be good enough to nurture us. And what is a heart? A muscle that grows weak with age and heavy with time or something unknown to us—scientists and speculators—the way spirit is unknown and felt especially in absence.

    Read about the Leo zodiac sign. A lot of Leo's shining qualities are evident in their zodiac symbols. Learn more about Leo connection with this animal and more about lion symbolism here. A feng shui astrology chart with Chinese zodiac signs as they correspond to the months of the year can help you determine important dates for you. Almost all of the 12 zodiac signs are depicted by an animal, with the exception of Gemini, Virgo and Libra.

    The Leo symbol also has a unique meaning. It comes after Cancer and before Virgo. Ganeshaspeaks provides the complete information about the Leo Sun Sign including all the positive and negative traits of the Sun Sign. To know more about the. The Western zodiac sign of Leo is the closest to the Chinese zodiac sign of the Monkey. Indeed, the lunar calendar dates of the Month of the. For all Signs except Capricorn and Aquarius regardless of what date the Chinese Year began in the year you were born, you will be the Animal associated with.

    If you don't know your Chinese Zodiac sign you.