Shadow ‘scopes are horoscopes that hold space for the darker side of your life, and find the redemptive value in the daily awkwardness & agony. This week they’re especially weepy, with the Pisces New Moon.
After awakening sweaty from a nightmare in which all your grandparents and great-great-great grandparents were shrieking at you to do their bidding, you strip down your pijamas and put on your tyrant suit. With a somber face and fire in your eyes, you step up to the podium, that optic flame the only heat source for the cold faces of your followers who have sat through ten church services in a row in the dead of winter. You belch and your joints crackle as you tell them that your radical ideals themselves have turned into ungraspable kaleidoscopic visions. Pouring whiskey into everyone’s cup, a bristly white beard appears on your face, and in a premonition of the seven generations of leaders of your domain to follow you, you preemptively arm their souls decades into the future with daggers to combat extinction.
As the debts pile up and you can’t see your friends behind the stacks of bills, you try to see past the constructs of dollars and cents, only to find that the reason you’re blind is because you’ve actually been in a legal battle in a foreign country for quite some time now. Give yourself a pat on the back and a kinky smack on the rear for going out of your comfort zone, Taurus. After kissing all the old geezers and bloating your stomach on international cuisine, it’s revealed that the other side of your gender has a vicious little starlet who will stop at nothing to get what they want done and stand proudly in the limelight. Burning those debts, a taste of incendiary fearlessness overcomes you that you had previously not known, the skyscrapers of bills collapse into ashes, and with a haughty laugh in multiple octaves, you declare your right to live an aesthetically distinct life, seeing in a way previously unseen.
After stumbling off the lecture stage with a glass of sake in your hand, putting sexual desire into action feels a little dry. But the eros of life desires flows, and it’s hard to tell if it’s your genuine longing inspired by spontaneous desires of the night, or if it’s the voice of the elders telling you to spread your DNA. Petty fights over inheritances and over your professional reputation are all for naught when you tear up the papers, which you do after crawling out of the bathtub, throwing a temper tantrum that demonstrates why you deserve the earnings and why people who came to hear your extrapolation of art gallery statistics can follow your intoxicated logic if they dare and if they’re capable—yours is the celebration of the drunken tears and shreds that rip through what bind the populace to toxic guilt-making. Only after your manic shredding, and only after the interruptions of the inebriated chatterbox, are all the generations’ desires allowed to flow.
You and your lover awaken to go for a roll in the hay, only to get a message from the one in charge that your joints must crackle over the chalice of sacrifice, and that this is the price to pay for greed and miserliness. A foreign glass of wine paints your lips a deeper red and you contemplate how when you were a dragon, your presence could span more of the land than the home-bound, parental life of your aching body. After bonding with the beloved over cracking bones, drooping skin, and territoriality; after weeping and beefing yourself up with armor to make sure all intruders stay out of this surreal love bubble this week, that armor slowly cracks and stiffens just like your joints, only to reveal that this is the first motion of its expansion outward into wings, and finding that you have these wings and breathing fire, you have become that dragon. All must enjoy dragon’s cuisine.
Power contests of extreme pleasure and extreme pain lead you by an invisible thread into a shady lawyer’s den full of golden cola, puffing cigarette ash over debts. You growl and cry over those debts, insisting that the damn crown stays on your head. But remember, the golden phoenix gets tired after hundreds of years singing to the sun: maybe the crown needs to fall, so that a new signature of your royalty may be born out of all burnt carcinogen on the papers. This is the ultimate performance of power: the celebration of its decay after it’s spoiled. How do you let that corrupted, self-centered jerk within dissolve into the ashen ocean so that full radiance returns? It’s not about a literal act of repayment, it’s about power being moved and confronted with what has been violated in nature, including you.
The demons of competition—the perfectly curated hipsters and pedagogues even more perfectionist, even bigger hypochondriacs than you—“I scream into my pillow three times at night but I’m more than willing to make the sea swallow your name during the day!”—Appear uninvited this new moon, making all of your code-switching, winged-heeled information freeze into oblivion. Remember that ice is one of the great manifestations of the goddess, and the elements coming together into solid form, but it’s not permanent, it will melt. While there, you might contemplate how you can’t just become a nurse in this moment, offering a type of pain medication nobody currently needs or wants, as the ice won’t be cracked surgically. More apt is skating across your bewildered consciousness as if a frozen lake before it all melts, harnessing the rival hypochondriacs who suspend your service as a way to go listen to a new environment.
Servers drool into your food and pets’ eye-gunk drops further into excess than you’re comfortable with. There’s sacrifice that suggests all or nothing rather than moderation. You might become the drooling dog or cat, or you might huff and puff and want to blow your boss’s house down while interiorizing how wronged and oppressed you’ve been. This is the counterbalance of the subservient speaking through you so that you can let diplomacy melt away when necessary and standup for the oppressed: the true heroes are the ones so often treated as playthings and instrumentalities in the public discourse, and your sober compassion is pushed to see the excess of servitude so that you can serve the resurgence of the unsung heroes. Walk around with tongue sticking out, open gash from a catfight, wearing the wound proudly.
It’s as though you become obsessed with that hottie at a party only to puke all over them a few hours into the night, of which your clothes probably retain the odor into the next few days. You’re a dictator in victim’s clothing: “love me, I was wronged, and you’ll believe me because of how cute I am!” The regurgitation catalyzes you to resist taking for granted the process of nature decaying and reproducing itself—though you’re a representative of the reproduction of nature, you’re not infallible or immune to necessity. The intensity of desire and the grotesqueness of unexpected bodily fluids shows you how at one you are with the mortal and the immortal aspects of nature. To know the letdowns after rising to the height of creative power, to know nature trying to vomit itself out as a messy manifestation of its actual reproduction, is to be willing to go deeper into queendom.
You find yourself wandering through a dark corridor to discover your parents rolling around on a bedroom floor between two bunk beds demanding that you send them monthly checks and reassuring you, “there will be no inheritance. We wouldn’t want to give you that burden.” Being swallowed by domestic ghouls when you want to be on the path to enlightenment renders you a thumb-sucking temper-tantrum-having gossiper, spouting acidic words about mom, dad, grandma, or those deeper into the past. It’s the venom, lack and domestic double-crossing that remind you that underneath all the new places you go and people you see, you’re still you, and that sometimes whitewater rafting on the gene pool is even more of an adventure than climbing the spiritual peaks.
You find yourself accosted by the trolls and the peanut gallery, getting noogies from all the brothers and sisters that really in their darkest moments want to slice your head off or vice-versa, and feeling all the inner voices saying you need to save them and be responsible for them. “It’s all on your shoulders, but how could you possibly think in this other way?” This moon may bring out your vain philanthropist, showing your abundance and your righteousness when in fact internally you may be shaking in terror over the ambiguity of abundance and lack, and reddening with rage at the voices lording your sense of responsibility over you. The keenness to lead astray and be responsible for the financial and spiritual demise of others makes you feel like you don’t know yourself anymore, but even those given the role of wise elders have inner terrorists, and it’s time to let yours scream at your action figures, dollar bills, and liquor bottles.
A seductive house-squatter, flickering between appearing as a real-time human being and a shady, chiaroscuro Jessica Rabbit, crosses their legs on your couch, and soon after, you find your possessions gone, disappeared, as though when drunk, you let someone convince you to give them away. A seven hundred year old grandfather, or mentor, or lover, sucks all of the money out of your bank account through a dirty straw. Sometimes a green lion’s face appears on top of your own face, roaring to re-assert its pride after its losses, only to fall on the wet soil and realize that this is a moment of suspended pride. Alternately, resilience and voluptuous endowment appear in your torso and bosom as you walk into the night naked, knowing that possessions are meant to circulate and that your worth depends more on your courageous procession into the sunset than on a number in currency.
After being tossed out of your childhood home into the dead of cold, you limp down the street with bruised legs and calloused feet, face dirty and grimaced. You wail into the night, and la Llorona’s return is seen over the new horizon. Your lamentation echoes through the bodegas, buses and forests alike—the lament of the wronged grandmother wolves. You ask grandmother wolf to eat you up, and she refuses, demanding that you pluck two of her eyelashes. When you run along with the eyelashes, you can see each sentient being, including yourself, for who they truly are. It takes a long time of wandering to finally find the correct blend of discernment and compassion that makes you able to see who you can live with, and how you can live wit them. Though clear seeing may protect you in some way, the growls and lamentations are there to stay. Compassion can’t negate your animal appetite for new blood.