eclipse season, cont’d.

The wildfires grow so that by the end of the day, breathing is difficult. I bolster my lungs. All light is rubbed-raw pink, or beige tinged, like the walls of a smoker’s home. Just ashes falling now.

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wildfire shower

 

Dreams and sleep and information have all been wild around this last eclipse. A few nights ago I had an epiphany while watching The West Wing (leave me alone, I’ve never seen it and it was Adam Arkin episode). It was a tremendous shift, posing as a smooth one, like simply rounding a corner in a familiar neighborhood or like stumbling upon an overgrown formal garden and its right amount of concept, and juxtaposed feral growth.

Before sleep I tug at my red grounding to the earth, making sure, clear blocks that look like burnt bricks, comb my green of white threads, frown at my weak yellow; not canary or goldenrod, more a thinned butter. But marvel at the saturated prussian blue, the plum-black purple.

A few weeks ago, in a not-yet-sleep-but-not-still-awake was shown: my own hand pulling a heavy brass knob closed behind me; a thick door closing off the before. My baby on my hip, my dogs at my feet in a new, lit, white and pink, all warm, calm, and possible. A relief and a *finally,* and the space expanding for us to walk in and be now… just this gratefulness, and relief. And promise.

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This lady closed a book. A sting on my arm, while sitting on my steps and then her insides expelling. I sat with her for her last, gave her honey, warmed her with my breath, a prayer of thanks and goodbye.

__________

Yesterday, a passing, but somehow it feels like a gift. This is just something else he crafted to share. If I think of Ashbery, all I think of is: permission. His work grants permission. Or at least, it has always granted me permission where I have otherwise not been able to find it. All personal space, and all clouding out, and filling in.

Some John Ashbery Poems

Late-ish

My Erotic Double

Some Trees

 

John Ashbery, Obituary

 

 

solar eclipse in Leo

Eclipse+Cookie_rectangle
Eclipse baked good from Gem bakery

A strong thing happens when a subject really resonates with me or I feel it extremely deeply; I become paralyzed to talk about it. Or write about it. It’s like I feel too much and speaking about it or trying to communicate it (I fear) will only fall short, and thus kind of mar it somehow. Lessen it. So with some things I don’t even take the chance.

It’s that way with this eclipse. Maybe it’s because it’s hitting me personally (which I’m excited about… personal revolution is my jam), with my Sun and Mercury sitting in my natal chart at 4 degrees Sagittarius. Everyone is feeling this eclipse, but some people will be *really* feeling this eclipse. (see: the President. Scores of people have already written about his natal chart and the possible impact from the eclipse. ) And it’s not just for a day, the resonance for everyone has been long leading up to, and will last long after.

For themes that will be continuing / deciding themselves, playing out now and moving forward or ending, look back at your calendar / journal / emails from the end of February through March of this year, the most recent eclipse season.

The best I can offer are links to writings and postings that are deftly written and considered. Happy eclipse, all.

 

Steven Forrest РThe Big August Eclipse

Chani Nicholas – How to Consider This Eclipse (thoughtful interview about how to think of an proactively utilize eclipses)

And, Chani’s weekly horoscopes. She doesn’t always resonate with me, but lately she’s been especially discerning

Julie Demboski – The Solar Eclipse in Leo

Phaedra Mitchell – August 2017 Horoscopes

everything i watched while The Tower card dismantled its last, and then thin fronds ached up though ash-new land.

Almost two months ago there was a two-week period of nothing; just metaphorically dotting & crossing the last marks in an afterword, and closing a back cover. Then, spreading open new, aspirin-white pages, watching everything remaining rush to arrange and take places, like a show about to start. One last thought of gratitude, and then surveying across the clear new, and nebulous.

That very quiet period was a strangely still pocket, not totally unlike just after H- was born, when feeding 5-6 times per day and through the middle of the night left me with a lot of time of just having to sit, and be. During that time I cranked through a ton of viewing and this time, albeit a smaller window, was the following…Read More »

every thing here

Weeks back, the osprey returned for a second year to the cell tower, viewable from the kitchen window. The nest is newly preened, the male flying low over, ripping branches and twigs, hauling them up and up for his mate to arrange, make. She beds the nest, awaits the chicks. And the river fish he brings to her, hooked on talons, dragged dripping, wiggling over our heads.

Last week, I found a fish on the lawn, dropped in the yard. It was fresh, silver scales, neatly pierced through like binder rings had impaled its back. The head was mostly eaten, but maybe distasteful and thus disposed of. That I found it before the ants was surprising. That I found it before Fred the dog, more surprising.

H- was shown and explained to about the talons, the head, the proximity to the nest. Now sometimes he will look up, cock his head and say: “…’member fish?”

Years ago I had wanted to plant something tall enough to obstruct the view of the cell tower. Now it’s valued, marking time by hosting a paramount symbol of seasonal change. There’s a lot that’s compelling about it, crowned with an immense nest, twigs and weavings sticking over in every direction, the contrast of it.

And later, in the late summer, the young will hop among the woven twigs, try out voicings, cry for days while the parents sit watchful in a nearby tree, coaxing them to hunt and fly by remaining away. And then they’ll all leave until spring again, when the mates return, embodying absolute fidelity and seamless harmony. The silence of the abandoned tower in the colder months entirely wipes clean the slate of previous seasons, like shaving too closely to the skin.

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poor photo of the cell tower queen

*

There’s been a bird feeder outside the kitchen window for years. Aside from winter, it rarely gets a visit and when it does, only from the sparrows. But suddenly it’s a sanctuary. The juncos chase away the song sparrows, the red winged blackbirds remove the house finches, the scrub jays flee the steller’s jay, and the single crow removes everyone…

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(she) bang(s) the drum

I went off about bees and pollinators… again. I feel like all of these quotes should wind up with me saying: “…and get off my lawn!”

It seems I said: “And finally,”¬†twice… the ol’ bait & switch. You think I’m going to make my final point and then bam, one more point for your face! Thanks to Avital for… well… so much, but especially for including me here; really good company to be in.

Screenshot 2017-03-18 13.32.59