TAURUS APR 20 — MAY 20
Shortly after graduation, I lived next door to a saxophonist. I would return late at night from my apprenticeship at the observatory, and I would hear the sax wailing as I turned onto my street and watched my long shadow float through pools of streetlamp. Then he moved out, and a prog-rock drummer moved in. I detest prog, Taurus.
GEMINI MAY 21 — JUNE 20
A neatly packed duffel is a sentence. A duffel (with shirts and ties jammed in and rumpled) is a sentence with a parenthetical. A duffel—stuffed—a garment bag, a rolling suitcase (for toiletries; extra layers; laptop in case there’s time to get work done): sub-Jamesian jibberjabber. Action is language, Gemini; efficiency is eloquence.
CANCER JUNE 21 — JULY 22
New acquaintances were invariably impressed that I had read Finnegan’s Wake, and would press for details about Joyce’s late opus. Then one day, it was suggested that the saga of stolen leprechaun gold I had described sounded more like Finian’s Rainbow. Our self-knowledge, Cancer, is often constructed upon a faulty foundation.
LEO JULY 23 — AUG 22
It’s true that we are all of us like snowflakes. That stuff about no two snowflakes being exactly alike, though, is bunk: many snowflakes are in fact identical. (It’s been proven. By science.) You think a snowflake cares about its specialness, though? Of course not, Leo: it’s too busy being urinated on by dogs.
VIRGO AUG 23 — SEP 22
Did you know that for years Austria was left off maps of Europe? The mapmakers just cold forgot one year, then neglected to doublecheck their preexisting templates. But looking at it another way, Virgo, what’s Austria done lately that anyone should remember it? Don’t be like Austria. Or those mapmakers. Or your father.
LIBRA SEP 23 — OCT 22
It was so thoughtful of you to buy me that kimchi fridge last Christmas—you knew what a hard time I was having with the dogs digging it up. People who complain about gifts reducing relationships to transactions have a point. But here is another point, Libra: It is really, really hard to find a place in Fort Greene Park to bury kimchi.
SCORPIO OCT 23 — NOV 21
I once loved an aerialist, Scorpio. For hours I would sit raptly, neck craned upwards, thrilling to her every Ankle Return, Double Swan and Angel Drop, the spotlights burning through the chalk dust to make a halo ‘round her curls. Thighs like yams, that girl had. Then, after a week, she moved on to another town. The circus is like that.
SAGITTARIUS NOV 22 — DEC 21
Hot coffee and the sunrise—that’s all I need. Well, a muffin would help (blueberry is nice), and today’s Times. A sheepskin jacket if I go out to clear brush. Bisque for lunch I guess? A good book, an aged single-malt. A Michelin-rated chef to cook dinner. A private screening room, for after. A masseuse named “Ute.” Simple pleasures, Sagittarius.
CAPRICORN DEC 22 — JAN 19
I’m innocent I tell you, innocent! Sure, there were witnesses and DNA samples; sure, my Facebook status that night was “Out Committing Crimez.” But I say I was framed! Denial may be undignified and cowardly, Capricorn, but sometimes it’s the only way to avoid the stigma of a conviction for impersonating an anesthesiologist.
AQUARIUS JAN 20 — FEB 18
After his funeral, it emerged that my people’s greatest poet was notorious among the local whores for requesting “the mielkki special” (a role-play involving the demure milkmaid, the lusty rural mail carrier, and an actual live cow). Scandal! There’s a lesson here, Aquarius. “Get your kicks, don’t feel guilty, soon you’ll be dead,” maybe? Sure, why not.
PISCES FEB 19 — MAR 20
Oh to glide along the snow, the wind biting your cheeks, your body tucked snugly within a blanket, the Arctic vista spread out on all sides as your master mushes your fellow-dogs ever forward—but wait, why aren’t you out there with them? Of course, your sore paw. A sick day is a wonderful thing, Pisces. Take one, you’ve earned it.