Tuesday, September 11, 2012
What Happens When I Take My Eye off the Astrology Ball
Short answer: It's not pretty. Long answer: Because I was unusually harried and pressed for time on Saturday afternoon, I failed to look ahead on my trusty astrology software program for the exact timing of two doozies headed my way: transiting Neptune opposing my natal Venus and transiting Mars conjuncting my natal Moon. I knew they were coming; I just didn't know how soon. Like, on Monday. And I was away from my 'pooter for the rest of the weekend. Oops. Part I: So Venus Walks into a Bar and Spills Her Drink on Neptune... I raised a sensitive issue with my sweetie ca. noon yesterday instead of holding my water till the next time we got together. Pobody's nerfect, and a few hours later I made an effort to set things right by articulating myself better, and I think I succeeded. But try telling that to my mortified Venus in Virgo as Neptune exactly opposed it. It was a perfect storm of bad timing, hurt feelings, and yes, opposition. At the very least, I should've taken the Moon in Cancer into account before saying anything; emotions run pretty high during this lunar transit. Part II: Moon-Mars Meltdown The Moon may soothe an angry Mars, but the reverse just ain't so. As a Lunar Scorpion, I have no halfway feelings: I am either scaling the heights of ecstasy or plumbing the depths of despair; Zenning out or really pissed off; in hard-core downtime mode or wanting not just to connect, but to merge. Scorpio is an emotional Water sign, yet its Fixed quality makes it far more stubborn than its cousins Pisces and Cancer, and its ruler, Pluto, is a tough negotiator that dwells in the realm of extremes: birth, death, sex, taxes. It's the power behind the throne, not the performer in the spotlight. Mars in Scorpio is all about power and magnetism, and its capacity for getting shit done is truly amazing -- but when it's under stress, front and center is the last place it should be. So what did I do when, upon returning home and perusing my astro software, I clearly saw that Mars was due to cross over my Moon shortly after 9 p.m.? Under the fog of Neptune still opposing my Venus, I went ahead with my plans to read at a performance series that I already had plenty good reason to think was no longer working out for my particular set of sensibilities -- in fact, with these misgivings in mind, I had already discouraged my sweetie from attending the show. I did not want to attend either, yet I decided that it would be a chicken-poop move to cancel unless I were truly ill, and feeling sad and worried did not count as such in my book. As my little crew of friends were not going to show up till later in the show, when the curator of the show asked me when I wanted to go on, I requested a late slot (which meant very, very close to the exact conjunction between Mars and my Moon). Most of the show went fine; unlike last month, most performers stuck around after their slot to shine; the venue was even air-conditioned (though it wasn't necessary, as NYC had cooled down considerably by sunset). Then a dyed-redheaded woman, who looked to be smack in the middle of middle age, got up there and sang, then flat-out yelled, incoherent verses while banging a wooden spoon on the table closest to the stage. She reminded me of a mental Ethel Merman (Menthal Merman? Ethal Mental?). Like the Journey song "Don't Stop Believing," she went on, and on, and on, and on...till she managed to clear most of the room. With her bright red hair and headache-inducing racket, she may have been a manifestation of Mars on my Moon; my reaction was quite unusual for performance-mode me. When people understandably began jumping ship, I hot-footed it over to the back of the room to ask the curator of the show if he was planning on yanking this woman off The Gong Show anytime soon. He pointed out that I'd asked to be put on late; I thought, but did not reply, that this preference had nothing to do with the fact that Menthal Merman was causing a mass exodus. I myself nearly fled the venue without reading, but stuck it out and seethed during the next performance. I was most assuredly not "feeling it" when I was finally standing at the mic and peering out at several rows of empty tables and chairs. I apologized to the curator for my Moon-Mars meltdown, but I don't think I sounded too convincing. And I think I know why.