Dirt pies and dandelion sandwiches — remember what you used to consume as a child, Aries? Long summer afternoons in the field behind the soda plant trying to hit the top panel of the bottling warehouse with a tennis ball… Was that you? Why are you in my reminiscences? Why are you sticking your nose into other people’s bidness? Keep it to yourself for a bit, won’t you?
Vanity, more than gravity, is the force most constant in our lives. And I’m not talking about staring in the mirror for three hours; I’m talking about the crippling terror that stalks us through our days, and leads to wild overcompensating maneuvers: berets, hair plugs, risers in the shoes… Thing is, you can never escape the horrors of aging; but damn, Taurus, a beret? Terrible idea.
I’m not going to go on another rant about how a ridiculous amount of Americans believe in the existence of angels. You know why? Because angels are kind of pretty, and the idea of them is nice. In this rotten world of ours, every small notion of good, every fleeting brush with the beautiful is important. Oh Gemini, you can be an angel if you try, even if it’s for just one day.
It’s never as hard as it looks. Human beings can do things that appear as if they’re magic, when all it takes is a little concentration and a lot of boring Tuesday afternoons spent doing the same thing over and over again. Take the “healthy relationship” trick, Cancer. You may think it’s some kind of nutjob Costa Rican voodoo action, but it’s not — it’s patience and persistence (and sleight of hand).
A book is left out on the patio. Its pages flip and shimmer in the midnight wind: a lone anemone on the bottom of a deep, black sea. Suddenly, a scuba diver floats down into the picture to take a look. But the scuba diver can’t read, thinks the book is just another specimen for the bag and rips out the most important pages, rendering the thing unreadable. That diver? It’s you, Leo.
“We want the funk!” they shouted. The place was jumpin, you were feeling like you had your A-game ready. You stepped up to the mic, Virgo, and surveyed the madding crowd. As you prepared to drop your sick lyrical science, you suddenly realized: you have no funk. Life presents us with a lot of shocks, this is unavoidable — it’s how we deal with them that makes us who we are.
Three simple words: “Pass the butter.” Changes everything, doesn’t it? Now you’re transported back to awkward family dinners, where everyone just wants to get away from the table as quickly as possible: him to the golf on TV, her to the telephone, him to the garage, her to the bar and grill down at the corner… Where did you go, Libra? Are you still stuck at the table?
Camus was cool and everything, all gloomy and prophetic, but he also liked to get laid as much as possible. So where’s the moral authority in that? You can pretty much say whatever you want if you happen to be having lots of sex, because no matter how existentially empty you become, you can always find humanity in the arms of another. You need to get some, Scorpio.
What if we’re all dead? Whoa! This is heaven?! WTF?! Man, shitty. Granted, there are aspects of this afterlife that are pretty heavenly: getting off a small plane on an equatorial tarmac, loose shirt rippling in the wind, wide-brimmed hat mitigating the sun’s aggressive glow, the one you love breaking free from the waiting crowd to greet you… Heaven, Sagittarius, is here.
I had a reindeer-riding instructor with a terrible tic. His name was Udon (there’s an unusual symmetry between Lapp names and Japanese noodle dishes). Udon, when confronted with a stroppy student uninterested in the proper way to mount a reindeer calf, would start licking his enormous pink lips: a problem in the far north. Capricorn, why is it we can’t help but harm ourselves?
A sci-fi true or false quiz: In ten years, we will be living in giant balloon cities that float from energy source to energy source? The seven-day week is soon to be replaced by fortnights named for the Bush family? Aquarians everywhere are growing more reasonable and emotionally stable? Sadly, the last one is false. You’re just going to have to keep fighting your nature.
A rucksack, a bindle. A trusty sidekick nipping at your toes who keeps strangers at bay and keeps you warm at night. A hunting knife and a map. We become too anchored in place, Pisces, too beholden to the false totems of the material world. Why do we continue to worship in dumb silence? Why do we sleep? What would Tyler Durden do? (Sorry, I’m having glandular problems)