The three water signs of the zodiac are associated with the world of the imaginal and the imagination. In Plato’s dialogue Timaeus, he speaks of that out of which all things have generated: the nurse, the receptacle “that we may liken to a mother” or a womb “that partakes of the intelligible [but] is yet most incomprehensible.”
Austrian philosopher Ivan Illich comments: “In these delightful lines Plato still speaks of the image-pregnant stuff of the dreams and imagination … as one who still has the experience of in precategorical, “founded” space.” This describes quite well the nascent, creative realm of the three water signs.
This is a peculiar realm, this world that Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces access. The imaginal imparts to the water triad qualities like intuitive prescience, sometimes maddening irrationality (“I dunno, it just doesn’t feel right to me, I can’t explain why.”) Also visions and unfounded insights. All reinforced with the conviction that the imaginary realm is more substantial, more vital than pre-Cartesian quotidian reality.
But this isn’t a post about traditional associations with the water triad, I’m just teasing that element forward to get you thinking about your own relationship to imagination and that receptacle “that we may liken to a mother” or a womb “that partakes of the intelligible [but] is yet most incomprehensible.”
Primarily, I want to talk about the water realm because our distance from it explains much about our obsession with computers and screens and how screens act as mirrors. Through technology, we attempt to crawl our way back into an experience of inner space (think of this space as the place you occupied before your father’s sperm collided with your mother’s egg) and regain sustenance from the type of silence that is both inchoate and buzzing. The Voice of Silence.
I think this explains our culture’s preoccupation and sometimes addiction with screens. Screens that deliver images wholesale — without any investment on your part in their creation — which robs you of the mysterious middle ground you must pass through to create — to bring forth any sort of creation from the realm of the imaginal. Never any easy process to engage with.
As Tom Cheetham notes in his book on Henry Corbin‘s cosmology, The World Turned Inside Out, we are all starving for the imaginal and the realms of the Imagination.
When the Sufis talk about Imagination they are not referring to it as the fantastical or fanciful. Imagination, within their cosmology, is an actual mode of perception. This is an important distinction to grasp.
In our typical reductionist, mechanistic world we seem to think if we can just see enough images, gather enough access to experience the Imaginal whenever we want — at our beck and call via an Internet application or bit of software that generates virtual reality, we can experience the actual space that is part and parcel the arrival of the imaginary.
You need to read that paragraph above again, to make the right connection. That felt condition, that space from which the first intimations of concepts or images arise, is a condition vitally important to the well-being of the soul.
We require a sense of inner space, via our relationship to Presence, to enable the soul to breathe, to contact the imaginal realm, to see how the conceptual world we live in is simply a shell that overlays and protects a richer, larger experience of life. The dynamic realm that exists free of concepts and the conceptual
The concepts of time and space confine us. To maneuver about within the world we use time and space to demarcate and define. But in doing so we become so acclimated to this lens of viewing reality that we forget the timeless — the unbounded freedom that Presence imparts. The term Presence is used a lot in spiritual writing, losing much of its direct transmission through misinterpretation. Whereas Presence is easily identifiable. It’s a condition of being that requires no faith or belief in any particular dogma or doctrine. Keep it simple. Sense yourself as you are reading this sentence. And that awareness is Presence.
But we can not do this by just collecting and stuffing our minds with images, this is akin to partaking of a giant gourmet meal but without any engagement with the process of collecting the ingredients and the recipes and the cooking that brings the meal to our table. In other words, we can’t sense the freedom of the space that the pre-imaginal realm connotes by simply cramming ourselves with more and more images, concepts, sensations and information.
This starvation for the space that accompanies the imagination and the imaginal shows up in our drive towards the Future and towards the New World.
As Cheenahm explains, “…whether that is America, the Moon, or the virtual realities of the Internet. We can never after such a loss have enough space. In our drive to recover the spaces of the Imagination, we have taken refuge in the Image. Television, movies, video screens in every classroom, magazines, billboards — the world is full of Images, all coming from the Outside, according to someone else’s agenda. They are immeasurably powerful.
The Free Market has known that for a long time, but this is precisely the opposite of that Interiorization of the world that is the goal of gnosis. It is in fact, the latest, perhaps the last, step in the exteriorization and total objectification of the soul. We are driven by it by a kind of perverse necessity: the more we need space for the things of the soul, the more we seek images to fill the space that we no longer create for ourselves.
And yet fewer and fewer of us know the source of this panic or where to turn in response. And so we continue to search for new disciplines of the imagination and are caught by each in turn, disoriented and confused in a world that will not cohere.”
Death opens us to The Now. But to reside in the now means passing through a little bit of death — every — single — moment.
Beyond Saturn’s boundary of rings, are the planetary stand-ins for the enlightenment drive and the mystical impulse: Uranus and Neptune (through envisioning and longing), pull our attention towards the future or the universal. But Pluto, Death’s ambassador, pushes our awareness deep into what I call the non-present. The awareness of no time, no place — a metamorphic marriage of now-ness with nothingness. Freud knew about this particular place and understood the longing that each of us has for it. He called that longing the death-wish.
Really? A wish? Sure. Death: It’s so quiet and peaceful over there.
You can identify this longing within yourself every time you visit a news site online and secretly hope to read about some new disaster or catastrophe that might signal that The End has finally arrived. Now. Who doesn’t want the grinding game to cease, to abandon the sandbox so everyone gets to go ‘home’? It’s not a desire to be ashamed of.
But you know how it goes. Our survival instinct is always trying to distance us from the death-wish — that’s its job, as a regulator of any species — to separate death from life, a divisive process that ultimately forces us to live ‘half-lives’. Small existences. A half-life is a numbed-out experience of reality. A frightened one.
Pluto is the corrector for this condition and assures that each moment is stillborn — it arrived but disappeared at the same moment. Is a tiny declaration for the death-wish. A kind of cessation that offers so much presence, so much is-ness, that you simply lose your head and just ‘are.’ There’s nothing to plan for, nothing to remember. One simply is a ‘nameless’ presence. So death allows us to live fully. But only in the present. A present where death and life are so tightly intertwined there’s no separation between the two.
With presence, there’s nothing for us to attach ourselves to. Nothing to box up and store away, or build a concept upon — there is just the experience of ‘is.’ This Plutonian mystery pulses in tandem with our heartbeat and declares: nothing stays, nothing lasts, all is in constant, passing, motion — including you. It’s horrifying and invigorating at the same time. The sense of freedom we experience when death is allowed to have a place at the table is mind-dissolving but also orienting. Where you should be.
Why? Well, as Hélène Cixous said: “I find my bearings where I become lost.”
So, take what I’m describing, that inner acknowledgment that feels so personal and private and maybe even sacred — your relationship to death — take that and apply it to what we’re experiencing as a collective, on a global level. Perhaps now we’ll begin to understand the bizarre behavior, the acting out, the meltdowns and high octane lunacy that’s unhinging the Old Order: Sociologically. Politically. Economically. Ecologically. Read more
Like my own life, I considered that my Bengal cat Liliuokalani would live a really long, long time. Like forever.
Yesterday, after a quick decline (her heart trouble bloomed in about a month) the vet, a hyper gentle, sensitive soul, administered ‘the shot’ and I held Lili in my arms while all the force of her feline instincts rallied to capture: One. More. Breath. Her frame twisting and turning, fighting against the void — her mouth yawned wide, her eyes dilated into black full moons — as she force-rode the border between living and no-thing. And then completed.
All of that moment is seared into my memory screen today. Hard to shake. It’s one of the bookends between our time together. The joy and sweetness of the very first day I met her and the bitterness of the ‘closure.’
In Portland two years ago I watched my stepmom go through similar contortions the day before she died — not as feral, but her body’s elongating and recoiling in the bed — a leg suddenly jutting skyward like a showgirl’s and then slowly curling downward/inwards towards the comfort of a fetal position. My aunt leaned over to me in the hospital room and said, “Well, she always was limber. Used to be a dancer you know.”
When they left me alone with Lili’s body I stood above her and marveled at the mystery. The eerie kind of invasion that overtakes the mind when confronted by life’s literal demarcations: One minute prior there was an animated beast cuddled in my arms — now — just this shell thing. A beautiful thing, but not Lili. A beautiful Bengal cat rug. Gurdjieff remarked once that: “Time is breath.” This must be true.
What’s timelessness about? I’m curious about this.
Even at home, an hour or so before taking her to the vet, Lili came shuffling out from the bedroom after she heard the distinct sound of a can of tuna being opened in the kitchen. Despite the fact that she’d no appetite. And then later in the living room, beneath a chair, she made a small lunge towards a sparrow that had landed on the outside deck. Bird was gone. But her attention wasn’t. She shifted again, fascinated now with a spider that was moving up the sliding glass door’s edge. Could she reach it to swat it? No awareness that in an hour she’d be lugged over to the vet and no longer be alive.
I want that. Not an unconsciousness towards the reality of my death, but a vibrant curiosity towards the last rattle that rides the demarcation. In her song Sweet Bird Joni Mitchell sings:
Out on some borderline/
Some mark of in-between/
I lay down golden in time/
And woke up vanishing.
Seems we’re always on this line, but we ignore its patient persistence to finally blur and then cut. We fill up the space and the time about our death with ideas, beliefs, theories, something some Buddhist told us, or maybe grandma’s ideas about Jesus and family reunions in heaven. Read more
Like many writers, some of my better efforts — especially of an astrological nature — inadvertently (from laziness) show up on my Facebook page and not on AstroInquiry, my website.
Because many people still do not interact with Facebook and because Facebook’s algorithms have become more restrained as of late — (meaning although I have thousands of followers/friends on the social network my posts seem to only reach people who live in teepees in their backyards) — I’ve decided to reclaim ownership of my writing and create periodic updates like this one to publish on my network: The MeBook.
I’ll do this periodically as my agitation builds to a tipping point. Maybe four times a year. I dunno.
Enjoy. Or maybe not.
Or just fucking follow me on Facebook and save me the pain.
If you’ve ever pondered the planet Mars’ rulership of the sign Scorpio, consider this quote from Scorpio president Theodore Roosevelt: “Get action. Do things. Be sane. Don’t fritter away your time. Create. Act. Take a place wherever you are and be somebody. Get action.” When Ted was a kid the doctors warned him that because of his questionable health any sort of heightened activity would kill him. And that warning was disregarded to the fullest extent of his body’s wild, unfettered spirit. The Scorpio spirit personified.
Camille Paglia unleashed in a rip-roarin’ Salon piece: Covering the Don, the Clinton Creature and the Prince! Fab.
As I mentioned in another post: Camille’s the only critic I’ve read that’s tuned into and teased out Prince’s Scorpio ascendant (ala the voodoo element). There’s always mention of Prince’s manipulation of sexual imagery and bombast, but with Prince it was transgressive in a way that made his 80s peers — especially Madonna — seem conventional.
Too, his persona’s decadent arc: Rent-boy to silk and lace dandy — yes! — also very Scorpio ascendant. The extremes. The larger arc, with Scorpio’s all-or-nothing demeanor? S&M rent-boy to monkish Jehova’s Witness. All the same trajectory.
Nothing in the 80s can match his LP Dirty Mind and its taboo-shattering (a song dedicated to incest, etc.) array of tracks. Yes, the themes, lyrically, were transgressive, but the construction of the music itself was voodoo-ish and hypnotic. Once the album got on your turntable it was impossible to turn it off. Spooky magic.
Learn Astrology Via Cartoons!
Here’s a Mars in Pisces individual in the planning stages of his day:
My last Prince post; ’cause it’s gotta stop now.
So I just finished playing Purple Rain from top to bottom, something I haven’t done in years because we’d played the record so many times in its entirety back in the days (it’s probably the last album that required that sort of commitment — total immersion or nothing).
And I’m speechless — but will write some stuff out anyway.
PR reminds me of a masterpiece painting, like something from Caravaggio. A bizarre comparison but Caravaggio had a prescience that brought Hollywood glamor lighting/chiaroscuro charisma to the most solemn of subjects, and Prince does that with PR. He’s showing/playing you the joy of creating some kind of prototype of musical perfection. Like a Mozart concerto or Miles Davis solo.
Celebratory giddiness is pressed hard against the ache, devotion, and itch of unrequited love, religious fervor and sexual obsession. We kind of forget about that amalgam when we think of Purple Rain. The muscularity of the musicianship is shocking. Airtight. Like a coded transmission from another galaxy: “I’m not a woman I’m not a man. I am something that you’ll never understand.” A gorgeous thoroughbred horse standing proudly amidst admirers.
But really: No words. Just put it on again.
Presently. (Full Moon in Scorpio conjunct my natal Moon.)
“People who have a nice, healthy connection to their crotch have a better connection between the head and their heart, and in a land of sexually healthy people we’d have less crime, less poverty, less divorce, less drug use and fewer right-wing Republicans.” –Larry Flynt