Poetic License Horoscope for June 15-21

Aries: Around here, the commercials are changing from annoyingly sincere we-a-company-really-care-abut-you themes (Seriously, fuck ALL the way off, Amazon) to annoyingly sincere we’re-all-gonna-see-our-friends-again-in-person stories. It’s okay if you’re not ready for this. Neither is anyone. If you want to keep peering warily out the door except at protest time or keep perfecting your listening expression via Zoom, go ahead. You’ve come so far, be safe and careful.

Taurus: Someday, you’ll be able to return your library books. You’ll be able to hug your favorite librarian for real and then stand around a while chatting about politics. You’ll browse shelves that have been waiting all this time for you, be able to restart your TBR list with a vengeance. In the meantime, have you written to your mayor and city council to make sure the libraries are funded? The stars would like them to have the money previously earmarked for the racist police! https://www.inquirer.com/opinion/commentary/philadelphia-city-budget-library-cuts-police-reform-20200610.html

Gemini: Now, we paint out our intentions on the streets. Decorate and rename the whole map of you to honor Black Lives Matter. Use everything from highway yellow to sweet pastels. Use love, plus everything from chalk to Krylon. In her window, my neighbor made a miniature justice garden tended by little bears. You and she are spelling out the future inside and out. Everything is here for you, waiting to be remade.

Cancer:  Consider what you might call about on the non-emergency line in our safe-as-pillows post-police future. “Hello, you’d say, can you help me with this bird call? I think it’s an oriole but I’m not sure.” Ask how many colors in an outfit are too many! The stars run that line and they’ll tell you there’s no limit. Ask what your cat’s trying to say when she places a paw on your arm while you’re reading, or when your other cat misunderstands an open book for a bed. Things are quieter, brighter, and slower when no one is hunting us, I promise.

Leo: You’re planting a labyrinth of seeds, I promise. As you walk through the same magic space again and again, the flowers will grow taller, and more emphatic, and more thorough. You’ll be more and more aggressively a rainbow. Every bloom, every prism facet of nature is here for you, to teach you. Look into their bright and petalled faces. Step lightly among the stalks. The leaves are here to make energy and feed you. The scent is where you learn to thrive.

Virgo: The stars do not know what to tell you. Ache is just sometimes ache. There’s no puzzle-box that unlocks it, no secret labyrinth door that unlocks with a secret translation, a sapphire amulet, or a handy code. It’s just ache. Make a spot for it next to the good window. Drink your coffee, look out at the leaves, and pine for all you’re missing, for all you’ve lost, not matter the obscene riches you still have. There’s still plenty of time in the day for walks, marches, and letters to congress. You’ll be fine.

Libra: Here’s how you unlock the book that’s already knit itself into your cells: Walk along the beach in the evening, without worrying about where you’ve left the towels, the cooler, the striped umbrella, the hibiscus La Croix, the special mermaid-themed phone case to keep out the sand. Just walk, unencumbered, in the sparkling edge of the waves. Study shell fragments, look for whole scallop shells or sand dollars or Cape May diamonds. Think of lighthouses at dusk and let it all sand you down like beach glass. Then, the words will come easy and constant, like the tides.

Scorpio: Take every step away from claustrophobia, even in the smallest ways. Turn left instead of right at the end of the driveway when the neighborhood is getting to be a bit much. Switch everything off or do the opposite. Drive with the windows down and Janelle Monáe blasting: “Don’t try to take my country, I will defend my land. I’m not crazy, baby, I’m American.” Crazy is a reasonable response after all of these days and weeks and months and years. Find a way to get it out on paper or just into the sweet air.

Sagittarius: Welcome any friends who wander in, even other people’s cats who jump in through the shoddy screen door. As the evil White House fences are transformed by lovely humans into bare-heart art galleries, what boundaries can you neglect or transform?  You’re becoming porous, like fence wire, like art, like the way leaves breathe, like light through the forest ceiling. See what sustaining thing filters through. See what small, dappled light you can hold in your hand.

Capricorn: You’re crossing the country now for home. You’ll see mountains that seem much closer than they are because they’re so big. You’ll see light sparking and crackling from the edges of fire. You’ll see pretty treed slopes and maybe a little weird June snow. You’ll see streams, rivers, lakes, and fountains teeming with the discarded statues of imperialists—you know, regular stuff. You’ll see mysterious new monuments engraved with future instructions. Drink plenty of water, turn the radio up loud, and get ready for tomorrow to welcome you.

Aquarius: Think about Yayoi Kusama, how meticulously she paints dots and dots and dots, how deftly she makes all those mirrors repeat, how sad she was when some museum wouldn’t let her give away parts of her own installation. Think of the devotees lined up to look at new configurations of light and color, to spend thirty seconds or a minute with these new refractions of themselves. You can refract like that, but a million mirrors more! Everyone says so!

Pisces:  Ethylene is the chemical that helps apples ripen and then spoil. It’s a gas that spreads, that’s why one bad apple spoils the whole barrel. (#defundthepolice) You are ripening, but you are also the opposite of ethylene, breathing newness and growth into everything. Dig up the ground of yourself and plant something new, turn decay into fresh roses, fresh strawberries, fresh sunflowers reaching skyward. Here is a hoe.

Say Her Name Street Art! (Abolish the Police! And ICE!)

Things That Made 2016 a Life-Changing Summer, Part One

Things That Made 2016 a Life-Changing Summer, Part One

In some ways, I’m just beginning to process the fact that my summer began an intricate fracture and a harrowing surgery that coincided with forty-nine of my people being brutally murdered in a nightclub. But somehow, the magic of staying engaged and working for change kept me from seeing the world as a pile of bloody bones. It was a miracle summer that changed me in so many large and small ways. Hoping to honor the profound and ridiculous experiences that I’ve been blessed with, in no particular order.

1.      The way the world looked out for me when I was hurt. From the moment that I was hurt, passersby gathered to help. A pair of strangers called 911 and stayed with me. A passing friend-of-a-friend brought me ice and stayed to comfort me. My library friends came out and helped me to keep from passing out, helped me to get the driver’s information. The driver waited with me too. The EMTs and policemen were kind and helpful, keeping me calm in such a scary moment. Nearly every healthcare professional I encountered has been expert, thorough, and kind. 

      

      Most important, though, has been Amy. She has sacrificed so much time to help me get through recovery and to this place of near-health. Our original plan for the summer had been for me to cover the store as much as possible so that she could take a vacation and get some of her own medical stuff done, and I feel TERRIBLE that that didn’t happen—I hope that I get to make it up to her somehow, thought she certainly doesn’t expect me to. Every day I’m amazed that I pulled off the magic trick of being best friends with my ex-wife, and I’m so, so lucky.

2.      The Philly for Pulse Vigil. I’ve already written about it here, but that evening stayed with me. It made me so proud and grateful to be part of such a diverse and activist city, to keep that closeness with my fellow humans as we marched through the street and tried to remember the words to “Born This Way.”

3.      Marching for Black Lives.  After the murders of Philando Castile and Alton sterling, Amy and I decided to join one of the many marches happening around the city. The march we chose was in a cool Puerto Rican neighborhood I’d never visited before. There were metal palm trees decorating the street corners and golden murals like everywhere. As we marched, residents unfurled flags from their balcony like something you’d see on the news, like being in history. The gnashing events of the week found expression, everyone was rising up. I didn’t agree with everything the march leaders were saying, but why should I need to? It was grief and revolution and honesty. After the post-accident weeks I’d spent being afraid to cross the street, I was helping strangers shut down an intersection, awed to be a body for them. My own allyship has been fraught and deeply flawed, but it was a gift to be trying still, standing up for justice in such a clear and tangible way.

4.      Flowers and fireflies. While I was scared and stuck and concentrating on growing bones, while I couldn’t write or draw or drive, I made myself keep up on my walks around the neighborhood. Sometimes I was sad that I couldn’t go further, but the flowers on these few blocks were different every day. There was always something new to notice, and for the first half of the summer, there were always fireflies. Being separated from usual summer goals and preoccupations, I was able to look more closely at what was in front of me, to slow down and take more notice.

I originally meant to put all of the things in one post, but I got overwhelmed so I’ll have to space it out. So much to get to!

Yay April Checkmarks, Sooothing May Goals

Canvassing for Happiness

So it turns out that the world is a lot like it looks to my panic attacks. Everyone is jangled as the reality of Trump voters settles in. A small faction of Sanders supporters have decided it’s okay to throw dollar bills at the former Secretary of State and call her a whore. Campaign emails designed to fire us up to fight for good can bring out the worst in everyone, including me. Even my incredibly well-curated facebook feed can trick me into thinking I’m on a battleground. My heart has started doing this new beating-really-fast thing to signal when I’ve had enough.

But the part that seemed like it would be the hardest, the actual calling of strangers and knocking on doors, turns out to be the part that makes my heart feel most at ease. As soon as I get a phone list or a canvassing map in my hand, I feel like a new person, confident and purposeful. I’m still shy, and I still have to keep back tears on some topics, but I feel a sense of safety, a flow like I’m on the right track.

Before President Obama’s first campaign, it never would have occurred to me that I could do more for the process than vote. I don’t know how he convinced me that I was entitled to participate in his campaign, but he did, and I’ll never stop being grateful. Phone banking that fall was an easy job. Almost every call was a lovefest, and those phonebanks are some of my warmest memories, despite the raging toothache I had the whole time.

This time around, I thought the calling might be tougher. Before I managed to reweight its algorithm, my facebook feed could sometimes convince me that I and a handful of my pals were alone in a sea of Sanders-love. But the thing about real life is, it’s a safer place. Many people were happy and relieved to hear from us and almost all of those who were opposed were still kind and respectful.

Last weekend was my first time knocking on doors for a candidate, and it was the most perfect paradigm of a spring evening, complete with exuberant tulips and smell-of-happiness lilacs. A woman stopped us in the street and said “Oh! God bless you!” and signed up to volunteer on the spot. A couple of ladies wearing rainbow H buttons gave us an enthusiastic “Go Hillary!” (This happens to me daily even when I’m not canvassing, and it rules.) Neighbors of all categories said “yes” or “no” or “uncommitted” and I couldn’t help but geek out to myself (and also geek out to Amy) that! Democracy is amazing! And! These are our neighbors! And we’re not helpless! We can do something! I get extremely corny around election time and I’m totally not sorry.

The next day, when I went back to photograph all the flowers I’d longed after while canvassing, I felt even more at home here than I usually do. No matter the election’s outcome, having heard so many voices and looked into so many faces will make me a healthier and happier human being.

Since I left my church last year, I’ve had (with a few wonderful exceptions) trouble sustaining close friendships. The heart-space that had formerly been occupied with close chats and post-church brunches has often been filled by the little daily moments with strangers that give me a sense of hope and belonging. This election has made me rich with those moments. This year and beyond, I hope I have the strength to stop scrolling myself into Internet Brain Poisoning and keep finding joy in real life.

Friday Like Poem: The Longwood Gardens Nightscape is Not a Place for Rational Decisions.

Haven't posted one of my own in a long while, kind of excited and super-vulnerable! Be gentle.

And remember, you can submit Friday Love Poems any time! http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2015/07/call-for-submissions-friday-love-poems.html

The Longwood Gardens Nightscape is Not a Place for Rational Decisions.

You will spend the early part of the evening in an Impressionist painting,

nothing but natural light on trees.

You will experiment with all kinds of sitting—

first-kiss-in-two-weeks under a paradigmatic tree sitting,

on the lawn in front of a froggy lake sitting

trying to stay awake while your hair is played with sitting,

all before it even gets dark. You will half-look for the beer garden

and give it up as lost.

Next, you will forget all you know about constellations,

you’ll forget all you ever knew, and

every configuration of stars will look like a present

waiting to be unwrapped, or having been unwrapped.

And oh, the fountains, you’ll forget what you know about water,

about class struggle and conservation, and wonder

how anyone gets anything done

in a world that has all this pretty water

arcing toward the sky.

When you get to the piped-in fireflies,

lavender and blue, you’ll realize you

were both once saved by suburban lightning bugs

one summer apart but in the same fields, in the same story,

give or take a misery.

This is right around the time you’ll remember

that you were once really good at dropping acid,

when the conservatory lights dim

and the flowers are at their most neon,

and the kids everywhere have glow bracelets

and you want one. (A glow bracelet, that is.)

Someone thought to project

vertigo patterns and supernatural music

onto the topiary garden

and what is left to dream of, after this?

When trees are lit up as blue jewels,

as those silver fireworks that look like bees,

as a phoenix taking flight,

and you are lit up with soft touch

which you usually don’t prefer

but in this case hits the spot,

with a beard brushing against your forehead, your neck,

you’ll forget to even judge the Apple watch

when its soft interruptions become a gentle heartbeat.

Yoko Ono said you should listen to a heartbeat

and Yoko Ono would never do anything to hurt you.

Once you have learned every bench,

you will both regret and find yourself glad that there are

neither couches nor beds.

You’ll decline a dewy hillside,

but agree to a shove against a tree trunk

suddenly and with all your strength.

You will not be able to resist mentioning

your dahlia colored underpants.

You’ll burn bright with the same lights

that confuse and awaken the trees.

You will forget your compass, your shoes, your water.

You will find and then lose

your nasturtium seeds from the gift shop.

Extravagant like the flowers, you’ll spend everything, all at once.