It's just another sign of the times, so to speak, that I was so consumed by my corporate job that I thought transiting Pluto had finished opposing my natal Sun for the third and final time last month.
I was so wrong it wasn't funny.
Nope, I am in for two more back-and-forths with Pluto this fall, and as someone with Pluto Rising, you can bet that I'm taking it personally.
My whole sense of "I am"-ness, aka the Sun in astrology, has been annihilated this past year. I keep thinking of that line from William Butler Yeats's masterful poem "The Second Coming" (from which I quoted in my last astrology post from 2016, before my two-plus years of radio silence): "The center cannot hold."
It's not just the obvious challenges of Pluto -- the power-tripping, the greed, the sense of being held down by The Man or Big Brother, the attraction-repulsion to just about everything vaguely interesting, the humorless intensity that makes Having Fun into as much of a challenge as scaling Mt. Everest.
This transit of Pluto has given me 8 cavities in the past year (Capricorn rules the teeth) that I have to get filled next week and will set me back thousands of dollars (even though I was able to get it financed). 8 cavities. How can this be my mouth?! I have about half that number of fillings acquired within my near half century in this incarnation. Can we say the rot has literally set in? Yes, let's.
What else? Well, though my job involves writing, it is about as far from my identity (the Sun) as a writer as I could get, and I find that it has hindered my ability to write For Real. The good stuff, the real stuff, which for me means fiction, poetry, and astrologizing. What I have been writing and so-called proofreading for the past year and a half may be helping some people, but it sure ain't beautiful, and it often feels like a dubious travesty that exists only to make boo coo Delores for the genius who saw a particular market open up (thanks to Resident Trump) and rushed to fill it.
It occurred to me tonight that it is not a coincidence that the Uranus-Neptune conjunction of 1993 fell within a degree of opposing my Sun, so that Pluto has been going back and forth over that point for the past year or so. 1993 was such a crisis-filled year for me that I suppose that I am lucky to have survived it. But in a strange, subtle way, I didn't.
That was the year I derailed myself from my trajectory -- MFA degree, English and/or creative writing professor, making good on my Golden Girl promise as an official adult.
I jumped because the alternative was to remain in Boston, where burglars broke into my nice little studio apartment in the Back Bay and stole my jewelry and my stash, a splinter infected my heel, and my middle-aged, married, lush of a writing professor (who at that time was also the head of the MFA program and editor in chief of a prominent literary magazine) hit on me 25 years before the #metoo movement.
And where did I land? In the heroin-chic grunge scene of Seattle to collide with fellow Pluto Rising Kurt Cobain? Nope, I landed in the house of my suburban childhood, just outside the only city that could just go by "the city" and you would know which one I was referring to, back to my screwed-up parents who showed not a drop of sympathy for what I had been through. I was also seeing a shrink who was so harmful I complained about him to the National Association of Shrinks, which of course didn't take me seriously. Hardly the best milieu in which to lick my wounds, so after some gratuitous verbal abuse from my father, who didn't like the look on my face one fine November day, I mainly stayed with my best (and only) friend, a much older man whom I'd met at a writing program two years earlier and had turned me on to astrology. He lived in a rundown hovel in the East Village when Alphabet City was still somewhat dangerous, and I got into shrooms and rediscovered my passion for drawing, which helped give me something resembling perspective and hope instead of giving up when both MFA programs I'd applied to rejected me the following spring, and I did not mail a piece of shit to my undergrad writing prof who'd refused to write me a new set of recommendations on the grounds that I had lost whatever was "goodhearted and true" about my prior work.
And speaking of work that year...I didn't, unless you count the handful of astrology charts I did that year for the first of my clients, mostly women from the baby boom generation who were irked yet intrigued that a so-called slacker like me, about half their age, could be so insightful. Would you count that as work? No, I probably wouldn't either -- not anymore, at least. That alone shows me how far I've fallen.
Clearly, Pluto has been stirring up all this long-time-ago shit, of my first year out of college, the year I veered away from literary academia, the year I first became aware that I was in something called Generation X (up till then, I thought only baby boomers had a generation) yet set apart from it (Uranus-Neptune transit opposing my Sun). A quarter of a century later, determined to be autonomous and not depend on anyone ever again, to live in the city, my city, on my terms, I have made a chilling discovery:
I still have not found any measure of peace or true self-acceptance. I try to count my blessings every day, because I know how much emptier and more awful life would be without a home, love (even if it is fraught), my cats, and my few real friends. Yet at the heart of everything is my stomach-sinking feeling that I am making a living, but not truly living.
If life is suffering, I must find something in this life that is worth suffering for.
Do you hear me, Pluto? If you can't throw me a bone, send me a sign to help me find my way back to the self who still had hope (and an hourglass figure to boot).
