Today’s the big New Moon eclipse in Taurus. It’s a peculiar one. I’ve had a hard time wrapping my mind around it because with Taurus — the thickest, densest, weightiest most substantial part of the Zodiac (imagine picking up a bull) — we have to see what the bull will offer us, rather than trying to peer into his bovine brain. So I took a zen approach to this eclipse and let it come to me (Cancer astrologers can do this better than, well, you can.)
Lying in the bathtub this morning I received a text message from a friend on his way to a big Kabbalah conference on the East Coast. He’d cut and pasted the entire Sabian Symbol reading for the eclipse degree, from grandaddy Dane Rudhyar, into the message. What a revelation! Look it up for yourself (20 degrees Taurus) because I’m going to talk about other stuff now. But his text completed the download that started several days ago, just as the eclipse point began to perturbate.
The first sputterings arrived when I encountered the above painting of the Bull of Zaandam. The painting’s flat earth tones are keenly complimented by its geometric beauty; and just staring at it opened a tiny doorway into my brain through which a baby bull entered. So I knew I was on to something. Gurdjieff would deem a painting like this an example of conscious art, a form of art designed to illicit a distinct, specific emotional or spiritual response. Most art does not do this.
The painting depicts the legend of an unfortunate meeting between a bull, some kites, a father and a pregnant mother. The outcome of the disaster is an airborne newborn. The story is hedged round with chthonic flavorings — death, birth and magic. New Moon eclipses have a similar confluence.
Something of the primordial realm is afoot during an eclipse, the stable door’s left open you could say. Our response to an eclipse stretches back to the origins of time — alarm vibrates in our cells — our visceral response to the darkening of the Sun. At such times chiefs, kings, tribal elders — all were put on the spot to get the fucking Sun back on track. Something’s awry in the biosphere, set it right! But now the corrective measures must be our own. Mom and dad aren’t here for us. They got killed by a bull.
How do we do it?
Follow the snorting, feel the gravitas — give it a project worthy its potency. Like all of the fixed signs, access to Taurus’s power is protected, hidden deep — you must either burn, drown, suffocate or be buried alive to get to the gold of the fixed signs. Taurus is no exception. When you engage with the fixed signs you’re engaging with tantra. And this is why most folks do not understand the power of Taurus, Leo, Scorpio or Aquarius. Of all the zodiacal signs these four are shrouded with hackneyed keywords. All of the cliches protect the fixed sign’s esoteric nature. Power is rarely used for constructive purposes once encountered or unleashed. Google ‘Hiroshima’ someday.
Taurus marries virility to steadfastness. So you have a fount of rich loamy soil, still and brown black, allocated for fecundity. It’s stock still seed-shelter, the sort of thing that makes birds go wild with song and weeds appear en masse overnight. But this force needs a plow and driver. Harnessing.
Disengaged, Taurus involutes. Lethargy and indulgence bloom and empty Cheetos bags and porn site passwords litter the floor and computer desktop. It’s a slippery slope with Taurus because, again, people do not have a clear relationship with power — much can go awry. Which, as we’ll see, this eclipse will reveal in the coming six months as the degree point is set off by transits.
So engage now. Use alchemical mixing to optimize the staggering weight of the bull. How? Locate Neptune in your natal chart and marry the two.
Neptune’s vespers are completely antithetical to Taurus’ virility I don’t even know if Neptune even exists per se. I mean, it might be the size of a tennis ball and the rest is all fog, smoke and haze. This same something-nothing translates over to the house Neptune occupies in your natal chart.
So, an example: If Neptune is in your 3rd you’ve a colorful imagination but no real feel for being able to do anything tangible with it, there’s a book in there, say, that no one will ever read. Neptune in the 7th conveys a longing for relationship that can open your heart to all of humanity — but this seems too lofty an aim — so you never engage this part of your life; all of your relationships feel incomplete; someone’s always missing.
Wildman astrologer Al H. Morrison said of Neptune: “Wherever you have Neptune” in your chart, “you have to grasp the opportunity. You have to establish an entity, you have got to organize the thrust of what you are going to do…” to give form to this area of life. We respond to each other’s Neptune, we sense a lure or charisma but often this remains vauge and nascent — far from manifestation. Always a deep longing, always something promised but missing — so fill it in, fill it up.
I’m not talking about magical thinking here, in fact the opposite: Something pragmatic and very Taurus. As Pluto continues to move through Capricorn and reality keeps rearranging and shifting with shadow inflation creeping and job numbers stagnating — the Neptune fuzziness needs to focus. It’s a tricky Catch 22. Neptune hints at the magic — what the world is longing for — but also there’s the madness. People can sense it, but can’t see it. Help yourself (and conversely them) to see it.
So rub the genies lamp during today’s eclipse. Out pops a baby bull. Put him to work for you.
Human beings give undo importance to the the question: What do you do? Americans, especially, seem fixated on the question. As a Cancer-ruled nation (the zodiac sign, not the disease), how we make money, consume and survive fascinates everyone. Nothing wrong with fascination, except for how mechanical the question eventually becomes.
The inquisitiveness with ‘what you do?’ is amplified in a bustling gathering like a party, where there might be lots of unfamiliar folks milling about the watering hole. The animal in us wants to feel secure, so an answer to the vocation question telegraphs relief, helps us orient and relax. “I’m a clerk. Oh, and you’re a nurse. Cool.” Our cards are on the table. As if our job comprises the entirety of what we’re about as a person. In the early 70s, counterculture party peeps, still high on the dawning Aquarian Age, devised a much more interesting question: “What sign are you?” I miss that question, and I’m all for restoring the quirkiness of that social strategy.
I attended a party last night where the notion of small talk wasn’t appealing — I mean, if I’d a choice between banal dialogue and watching The Real Househusbands of Hoboken, I’d probably have stayed home and downloaded the torrent. What can I say? I’ve a Moon in Scorpio with Pluto on the ascendant, sometimes my intensity and aversion to the low-grade shrill of chitchat gets the best of me. During a party I can usually toggle over to Venus and let her Gemini-informed esprit take over, but last night Pluto’s Darkman archetype set the conversational tone. Too, a couple of gin and tonics had lubricated things up enough that I became daring and announced to everyone I met, right out of the gate, that I was an astrologer. Usually I don’t. Read more
• “Science has failed. Science, as we understand it, is too flabby, too simplistic…”
• “Collective unconsciousness? No. That’s flatly rubbish.”
• “Ink on paper survives. Electrons don’t.”
• “Ordinarily, organized religion is the most powerful thing on the planet, but in the Aquarian Age, gays are.”
Welcome to astrologer, publisher and online entrepreneur David Roell‘s world. Those are his quotes above. I promise you a stimulating, occasionally infuriating but always consciousness-twanging read.
What’s that classic Bette Davis line from All About Eve? It’ll be fitting. Oh, yes: “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.” Read more
The sun can only be seen by the light
of the sun. The more a man or woman knows,
the greater the bewilderment, the closer
to the sun the more dazzled, until a point
is reached where one no longer is.
A mystic knows without knowledge, without
intuition or information, without contemplation
or description or revelation. Mystics
are not themselves. They do not exist
in selves. They move as they are moved,
talk as words come, see with sight
that enters their eyes.
I met a woman once and asked her where love had led her.
“Fool, there’s no destination to arrive at.
Loved one and lover and love are infinite.”
“Everyone being allowed to learn to read — will ruin in the long run not only writing but thinking too.” –Friedrich Nietzsche
The internet has fostered the madcap idea that — given the collapse of print publishing and the world of editors and agents — everyone should be writing. Something.
Or recording music.
Or painting. Drawing. Doodling.
But — uh oh — so many can’t.
Years ago the author Maya Angelou exclaimed to whomever (whoever?) was listening that everyone in the world had a book inside of him (or her) that was just waiting to be written. Uhm, checkmate! Another author, the gadfly Fran Liebowitz, interrupted Lou and said: “This may be true, but please don’t write it.”
I agree. There is nothing more heartbreaking than when an amateur following what she thinks is her calling discovers that it’s simply the ominous groan of a foghorn declaring: “Danger! Treacherous rocks ahead. Think of your mortgage.”
One of the most egregious areas of online self-publishing are astrology blogs. Holy Kazemi! Here we discover why the masses consider astrology disposable and relegated to the back pages of Cosmopolitan magazine.
I’m amazed when I consider my career and what was required to first learn astrology and then become a good astrologer. Where did my stamina to attempt writing come from? It was a surprise. The one skill doesn’t necessarily confirm the other. One might read a chart but can’t write about it worth a damn.
So, over time I discovered that I had a knack for writing about astrology too. The keyword is knack — and, well, unfortunately knack-ness is not something that can be taught. Grammar (which I’m horrible at) and speling (forget about it) and The Elements of Style can be mastered, but not the inherent nature of a knack. Slippery as a glowing fish.
Too, coupled with knack — and this is crucial — one must have the interest of the reader uppermost. To care about the reader and the investment of her time, this is golden. When I care about my reader I’m forced to be a better writer. So the knack, and this sort of ‘reader empathy’ can not be taught. I’m sorry. As my mom would often say, just before pissing off my father: “There, I said it.”
If you fancy yourself an astrologer and a writer please learn how to write economically and always consider what you are conjuring in the reader’s mind that deflates or inspires his interest in astrology. Think how quickly, easily your writer’s thread can unravel into the warning signs of pre-dementia due to the nature of your subject — an occupational hazard for sure.