SUBSCRIPTIONS TO THIS NEWSLETTER, COSMIC EDGES, ARE ON SALE. Subscribers get special treatment: discounts on astro sessions, 2+ posts per week, the entire archive, and cosmic rigor and poetic derangement forever:
UPCOMING THINGS:
Last week of April only:
NEPTUNE: DREAM MACHINE: one 90-min reading (once these sessions are gone, they’re gone)
Apply by May 3:
NEPTUNE: DREAM SESSIONS: 4-sessions, pay-what-you-want generative deep-dive into Neptune in your natal chart, transiting Neptune, dreams, your art.
May 10:
DREAMS AS ART: a 3-hour workshop co-taught with the psychoanalyst Vanessa Sinclair
A hungover sky. The moon just passing over a conjunction with Pluto, lord of the underworld, in the early moments of Aquarius, its body heavy with the bliss-fatigue involved in holding hands, if only for a few moments, with the lord of the underworld. It reminds me of what Thomas Mann wrote in Death in Venice: “…art is an intensified life. By art one is more deeply satisfied and more rapidly used up.” Venus and Saturn are also separating from a conjunction in Pisces, and Mercury inches away from Neptune in Aries.
Pairs of planets, having merged, are now separating. Used up, morning after energy—reflective. The head sore. Waterlogged, burnt, whiplashed by how energies join and separate in air, water, fire. That’s the whole alchemical thing—solve et coagula, dissolve and reassemble, forever and ever. The sun left Aries and entered Taurus over the holiday weekend. Earthen ground on which to contemplate all this movement. Taurus is mid-spring’s beautiful bull—correcting and working with the brazen heat of Aries and preparing for the heady maneuvers of effervescent Gemini.
I’m sending poems from a book I’ve been working on for some years, to paying subscribers every Sunday. I missed yesterday, so here it is today, the 10th installment. I’ll do almost the whole book, I think, plus process notes and random thoughts. Today, a poem kinda about Thomas Hardy’s Emma poems—which he wrote for his wife after her death, but from the POV of Emma, a little. What it’s like to be the image someone falls for and writes about. A very Neptunian thing. Here you go: