Do As They Must

I ignored all the zodiacal theories for the past two years, the ones that questioned the long-enstated system of horoscopic interpretation. Instead, I read such books as Chart Interpretation Handbook by Stephen Arroyo, All Signs Rising by E. Wade, Esoteric Astrology by Douglas Baker, Astrological Body Types by Judith Hill, Essays on Astrology by Robert Hand, Linda Goodman’s Love Signs by Linda Goodman, Planets in Composite by Robert Hand, among so many others, all of which are based on the traditional zodiac.

In fact, though, there ought to be not 12 astrological signs, but 22. This is based on which constellations pass through the trail of the Sun according to Earth’s position. For those who doubt a geocentric perspective, it is necessary in accordance with how the stars might affect us specifically. If we were to, say, occupy a different planet within our solar system, or even one in a distant galaxy, this naturally would change our theory of the stars. With the given signs and constellations commonly asserted, I have entered the renewed dates with the semi-commonly accepted 13th sign of the zodiac Ophiuchus, also known as Serpentarius. A rough outline as to the order, though certainly written by myself, not a professional, is as follows:

1. Pisces 12 March – 18 April

2. Cetus

3. Aries 19 April – 13 May

4. Orion

5. Taurus 14 May – 19 June

6. Auriga

7. Gemini 20 June – 20 July

8. Cancer 21 July – 9 August

9. Hydra

10. Sextans

11. Crater

12. Leo 10 August – 15 September

13. Corvus

14. Virgo 16 September – 30 October

15. Libra 31 October – 22 November

16. Scorpio 23 November – 29 November

17. Ophiuchus 30 November – 17 December

18. Scutum

19. Sagittarius 18 December – 18 January

20. Capricorn 19 January – 15 February

21. Aquarius 16 February – 11 March

22. Pegasus
These are based in large upon Ptolemy’s studies, as well as the ever-reliable Belgian astronomer Jean Meeus.

While all this information confuses my previous astrological education, it is invigorating to know the changing reality of the universe. The shifting of the traditional signs’ dates concurs with the wobbling of the Earth’s axis (thanks to its gravitational attraction with the Moon), maintaining a 25,800 year cycle. The dates strictly adhere to when we currently see each constellation in the Sun’s horizon.

I am particularly intrigued by Ophiuchus, the Serpent Holder. Mythologically, this constellation can be linked to Asclepius, the god of Medicine. Orphaned early on, he learned much of what he knew from his adoptive father, Chiron (represented by Sagittarius), concocting remedies, and gained the power to revive the dead, thus outsourcing Chiron. Asclepius’ main symbol was the serpent for its shedding of skin annually, thus an image of renewal.

Dipsy Doodle of Life

Early this morning Phoebe, the cat who lives with me, sat perfectly still in a chair, her back to me, watching, where a bird was trapped in between a partially opened window (between the upper pane and the lower pane that was lifted, where the two overlapped). He was a little thing, probably one of the babies that’ve been learning to use their wings above our balcony, so I knew he could get out of the narrow opening (how did he get there, anyway?), but he was stubborn to any rescue support. My first premonition was to get Phoebe in a different room, where she wouldn’t take a swipe at the earliest opportunity. She is, after all, a beast unto her domain.

It took Jonathan’s and my own dedicated focus to get the bird out alive (we could already see little blots of blood marking where he had tried to take flight and hit the glass). Finally, after much trial and error, with two fly swatters to hoist him, he made it out of the window’s crevice, flying to the back of the apartment  (he likely thought we would prefer to eat him, getting away from our grubby mitts ASAP) where we heard a thud as he hit another window. He was still alive (the feminist in me hates assuming that a mysterious “it” was a “he,” but maybe I’m right to assume), and after a little more good work he was summoned to the balcony perched on a newspaper where he disappeared in moments.

I was prepared the whole time to find a box and bury the poor creature in our backyard. I thought he was going to die, if not in our window, as soon as we got him out. He was resistant to our help, avoiding the various objects we offered him so he could jump out safely. At one point his tail looked broken as he smushed himself into one corner, head crowded down, body surrounding it. At another moment his head was stuck between some wood, and he seemed as though he was giving up, he laid there, blinking his eyes.

Anyway, I hope he’s safe somewhere now. And if he died, I hope he had his friends and family nearby to make it easier (instead of two giants talking with bulky words).

It reminded me of a time when a previous boss of mine (one I worked for in Missoula, Montana), tried rescuing a bird. This bird came in through the store’s opened door, attempting an exit through a large glass window, which certainly must have rattled his brain as he fell to the floor instantly, never to perk back to health. My boss was particularly shaken by life’s traumas that afternoon, as a little box containing the corpse of this bird gloomily awaited its burial.

Yesterday I took an unexpected journey in a borrowed car, admiring a bend in the narrow lanes on the outskirts of town, where ancient limestone blocks concocted curvy walls and trees nearly swept the road with sagging, lush branches. Just as I was dipping into the slight descent, a chipmunk that I initially mistook as perhaps a leaf was scaddling across the two lanes. I was almost too close when I shoved my foot in the brake. Upon realizing the near-death of a tiny creature, my heart leapt, blood spinning vibrations of fear into my brain. It doesn’t get any easier, no matter the size or toll of death.

A Haven For Attempted Cleanliness

The kitchen floor is the bane of my existence. I’ve tried loving it excessively, daily sweeping and a weekly or bi-weekly scrub with suds. Why do I have old hardwood floor corroding beneath my feet when I make breakfast or the usual coffee or when Jonathan prepares some vast unassuming feast? Today I swept twice, not initially feeling up to scrubbing until an hour later when I noticed a few dried spills, one was peanut butter which my bare toes smudged, at which point I could wait no longer, disgusted by mine and Jonathan’s slovenly ways. Filling the blue bucket with hot soapy water, I infiltrated those boards and the vast cracks between with all the vigor my arms could pursue. Once I felt how close I was to the floorboards, closer than my short stature is accustomed to, it dawned on me the tyranny I was exercising. My shoulders were at my ears and I was focusing, direly, on all the mysterious stains on the pearly wood.

Perhaps if I had not also washed the dishes, dusted the glass and wood furniture, thrown in and hung two loads of laundry (the sheets are drying in the sunshine of our balcony), picked up the stray papers, sorted the piles of mail, scooped the cat poop, straightened my desk, taken out the trash and recycling I would not have felt so homely, or like I belonged with some fleet of begrudged female cronies southbound in a bygone era. The ritual pursues and I resist changing my role.

No matter the status of those floorboards, the increasing gap between doubtlessly infested by a growing amoeba-like case (one that is perhaps responsible for the scuttling noises late at night), I can do no more than what I know I must. It ain’t genetic, it’s pure neuroses.

Personal, Though it Seems, An Update

I wrote sometime ago that I was moving to Louisville in a few short months. Thoughts, sleepless nights, personal ambitions and hopeful endeavors have sustained to a new reality, thus a new future. After hesitation, I’ve decided to put off moving to any other city for a few more years as I enter graduate school here in Lexington, Kentucky. So, except for weekend jaunts to Louisville, Ky, where one might find me with fingers curled around a camera in, say, Butchertown or Germantown or at some coffee dive, I will be found, no more, no less, right put as I am now, except with more books, perhaps a little anxiety, and more to relay about cataloging.

As for blogging, maybe I’ll shape up and ship out, or maybe I’ll get back in this sphere that I’ve never really belonged to: the internet. Sometimes it appears raggedly demoralizing to history and nature as I perceive it, but the good and the bad meet in some common gray area, usually, coalescing a compromise. Meanwhile, I’ll read between the lines.