September 19th, with the Moon entering Scorpio, a shadow passes over our passions. The lower organs rumble, and stuck tears demanding to flow make their way through the channel. A sense that something’s been stolen, lost or coveted somewhere within the ground of our creative fertility prevails, and so the aches and screams of our generative parts demand recoveries of what’s been taken, or explanations of why fate has played a mobster’s game with our most precious memories, desires and pieces of identity.
It’s as if the person without whom we couldn’t survive has taken our most precious childhood object with sweet words, a smile and a kiss. Miscommunications and illicit affairs vibrate in the air on a preverbal, precognitive level of percussive, egg-like orbs; the circle of chaos teasing what’s already been brought into manifestation.
The support comes when short, stout, hairy men, calling themselves the original gargoyles, set up a tent of wooden sticks; a palace of splinters. “Look at the relationship between wood and light,” they say merrily, flying with capes all over the splinters. One part of the wood reveals the light side of how our support systems truly support us, and when they fly to the dark side of the wood, they reveal what’s been corrupted and needs changing. But most importantly, each splinter leans into the others, almost falling but holding each other up through a mutually grounded awareness, by necessity, of both their light and dark sides, able to shift in cooperation.