Oscillate wildly.
"PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): The fictional young English wizard Harry Potter can communicate with snakes because he knows their language, Parseltongue. The real English magician John Dee (1527-1609), who served as astrological advisor to Queen Elizabeth, was able to converse with angels in their native language of Enochian. And now, you, Pisces, are about to undergo a four-week intensive course in the language of love, which may include lessons in both Parseltongue and Enochian. By July 20, I expect you'll be close to fluent in several new romantic dialects and an exotic variety of pillow talk."
Hmph. And just when I thought I was all settled down and cozy in my Oneness, Rob Brezsny comes along and fouls me up again. Who says I have to listen to his tired old astrology, anyway? Although a bit of the ol' Parseltongue wouldn't be half-bad right about now, huzzzah!
It's irrelevant and meaningless, regardless of my freedom of will. None of it measures up to the fact that in 66 (long) days, I'll be home. Kicking up dust with each turn of the axle as we drive our mechanical pony slowly through the Gate. How shall we declare our arrival this year? Ozric? Digweed? A little K&D just for shits and giggles? I'm going to roll the windows all the way down and let the dust creep into my nostrils and coat my eyelashes, birthing me in reverse, enveloping me in the womb of the playa so that I can prepare to rise up again in flames (as a Phoenix is wont to do). The burn is truly my birthday.
What's 66 days between old friends?
"PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): The fictional young English wizard Harry Potter can communicate with snakes because he knows their language, Parseltongue. The real English magician John Dee (1527-1609), who served as astrological advisor to Queen Elizabeth, was able to converse with angels in their native language of Enochian. And now, you, Pisces, are about to undergo a four-week intensive course in the language of love, which may include lessons in both Parseltongue and Enochian. By July 20, I expect you'll be close to fluent in several new romantic dialects and an exotic variety of pillow talk."
Hmph. And just when I thought I was all settled down and cozy in my Oneness, Rob Brezsny comes along and fouls me up again. Who says I have to listen to his tired old astrology, anyway? Although a bit of the ol' Parseltongue wouldn't be half-bad right about now, huzzzah!
It's irrelevant and meaningless, regardless of my freedom of will. None of it measures up to the fact that in 66 (long) days, I'll be home. Kicking up dust with each turn of the axle as we drive our mechanical pony slowly through the Gate. How shall we declare our arrival this year? Ozric? Digweed? A little K&D just for shits and giggles? I'm going to roll the windows all the way down and let the dust creep into my nostrils and coat my eyelashes, birthing me in reverse, enveloping me in the womb of the playa so that I can prepare to rise up again in flames (as a Phoenix is wont to do). The burn is truly my birthday.
What's 66 days between old friends?
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