October 27th, with Venus and Mercury bookending Libra, lovers stand in front of a mirror checking their faces for pimples. Songs of praise of self & other bubble forth in desperation, like beige coverup for hickeys from an old betrayal, and the glottal attack of their affection renders obvious what’s lying dormant. The partners fancy themselves beautifully standing tall with their pet mirrors, in a glass palace surrounded by a beach where they indulge in the salt water whenever they please. But they’re tied together at the waist by rope with whitehead boils on their chins bursting to be popped, and one hears the low growl of nearby Rottweilers.
The undercurrent of passions unvoiced lends a reality check: we are the lovers and the zits themselves, and we’re not surrounded by vacation shores but by now-active volcanoes. Hephaestus, god of fire, reveals himself slowly—first as a baby burnt to ash because he’s been born too many times to creators not caring for his form, then as smoke slithering through the land because “you take the other and the planet for granted,” and finally as a beast made of glowing embers that fit together. He advises us to do the work of unbinding, and to take care of the breakouts coming from festering resentments, and to know that this is not a problem, but part of the natural majesty of a volcano.