July 31, 2015 heralds the last Blue Moon (the second Full Moon within a calendar month) to be witnessed for several more years; the next will occur on January 31, 2018.
This Moon falls within the constellation of Aquarius…and is beautifully suited to this placement. Aquarius adores everything oddly meaningful, and thoroughly enjoys sharing that bliss with humanity at large. Furthermore, this Moon is in opposition to the Sun in Leo, which exhilarates Aquarius even further as these two find common ground in the staunchly Aquarian ideals of independence, sovereignty, and respect.
This Moon is a Looking Glass, in every aspect of the notion. A reflection of one’s self, with limitless virtuosic possibilities.
To convey the allusive nature of Aquarius’ radiation within this unique Moon phase (in reference to the photo above)…
“This is a doorway
which does exist.
I do not know what waits on the other side.
(I mean: imagine…),
as one steps across the threshold –
eyes adjusting to the cool dim within –
there is every face one might ever want to see;
and every experience one dares to dream…
What would that look like?
And how would that go?
One’s attitude toward it is all one can contribute.
The situation remains the same, while the outcome
rests on the individual.
Face risk with positive intent. Emit your highest vibration and find it returning to you a thousand fold. Personal evolution results in universal revolution. Enjoy the ride.
Others who opened this box found me dead, and dragged me out anyhow. How could I choose life at that point, when it was simply assumed and not even confirmed? Not that it wasn’t a good time, mind you; I certainly made the most of it. However, the experience overall left something to be desired. Altered states and physical pleasure, certainly, but to a great extent unfulfilling. I occasionally felt fleeting twinges of regret over the absence of my soul. Not their fault, I suppose…they fell into the trap of the observer influencing the experiment; indeed, as I truly believe they were unprepared as it was for what I carry in that box, much less the fact that Schrödinger might have thrown in a dead thing to boot. So they got theirs, I learned some things, but in the grand scheme of it all the recorded result should have read, “Xs for eyes”.
Then there is you. A different breed of scientist, entirely.
Fearless of what is contained within. Willing to discern how the archetypal ills inextricable from consciousness can foster evolution rather than mire a populace in despair. Now that, my friend, is worth living for; it is the difference in my choosing 1 instead of 0 (the inherent flaws in the binary system notwithstanding, which is a discussion for another day). Finally, discourse on how the experiment has an autonomous perspective in and of itself. Which in this case happens to be that the calculus of love is the limit of courage as it approaches fortuity. So, here I am, living and breathing; soul and all, partly because it makes a difference to you. In the previous experiments, the dead ones, there were limitations and rules…such as not being able to divide by 0. Unfortunate. It only stands to reason, then, that on this side of what gets labeled a paradox, the endeavor is limitless. No rules are necessary. And thus – by invoking the transitive property – no regret. Regardless of circumstances of the past, present, or future.
If you will be so kind as to please do let the good professor know that I have proven his theory that quantum states exist, have chosen to plant myself firmly in one rather than hover in both, and he can now carry on with another subject and container. I do, however, recommend that perhaps minimizing the variables, e.g. a less tenacious beast and definitely an uncluttered box, could expedite the gathering of data.
I look forward to finally exploring what this alive gig is all about.
July 2015’s first Full Moon (there’s another on the 31st) is the Buck Moon, so named by Native tribes to commemorate the season when young deer shed the youthful velvet from their antlers and segue into deeper existence as adult males with the responsibilities implied therein.
This Moon instigates the facing of fears, whether you are a willing participant or not. It rests in Capricorn for the full phase of its cycle, a constellation which suffers no fools in this realm of self-truth, either. Mitigating any pain associated with the personal evolution process can be achieved by using the bright light of this Moon to fully illuminate one’s own reflection.
Acknowledge self-imposed roadblocks. Own your excuses. Perhaps this is not the time to implement drastic change, but willingness to shed skin and take a step toward a new path is forward motion which won’t disappoint. The steady determination of Capricorn allows each individual a unique timetable and rewards effort when the approach considers the long-view.
Stand proud as you grow into greater auric adornment; pragmatism allows dreams to develop beyond expectation.
The initial somnolent groan of thunder rose and faded just as she took her first step onto the trail. A small toad – roughly the size of a dime – leapt directly in front of her boot and the amphibious duality of all her existence coursed through neural pathways with an insistence she’d erroneously assumed shed for at least these few hours of the afternoon.
Connection, she sought. Communion with life outside her head and her experience. The tangible as opposed to the cerebral. In theory, anyway…
Within minutes, the rain began; big sultry drops, steady but without malice. Soon she found herself warmed by the as-forecast sunshine, stalwart in its refusal to abate. Yet, the moderate deluge rendered her thin cotton shirt slick and cool as a second skin.
The dual sensation triggered in her the raw and recent memory of a perfectly sinewed limb wrapping fully around her compact rib cage to draw her tight against heavily inked smooth flesh intent on pressing ardently to her chest.
She drew a sharp breath to shake off the recollection; turned her attention to a fuzzy lichened stump on the left side of the trail. A means of focusing her senses toward eyesight in reality; an attempt to diffuse quickened pulse due to sublime connection in reverie.
After all, the purpose of this rural sojourn was to put time to good use; to avoid obsession or brooding or pining for an opportunity the likelihood of which had been abandoned dozens of years prior. However, that very rarely (if ever)-imagined fantasy was now…fruition. Right back into the marrow of bones. It was so stupid, really. So…inexorable.
Back to planet Earth; exposed tree roots provided an ersatz stairway down the steep incline. The tendons in her knees screamed in pain and she welcomed the visceral experience with a scowl. Now, her mind again… a quarter century had passed since their entangled so-very-young-but-old-enough-to-know-better intensity, an interval during which she’d given hardly a bare-minimum of consideration to the concepts of causation or consequence (not true: she contemplated these things constantly. Life, and especially love, was an eternal exercise in calculus and statistical analysis; though, inevitably all outcomes were systematically rationalized into dismissal in favor of education through experience) and now – NOW – suddenly, a need to make time pass and get to the next Development.
“Junky,” she chastised herself.
The connotation of such conjured an exceptionally large and ugly spider to creep into her sightline along a rock, providing a reasonable distraction as she lamented the innumerable tiny toad lives probably lost to the savage arachnid mandibles designed expressly to feed an empty soul.
She rolled her eyes and sighed at her own impatience, at her understanding of the intrepid monstrosity’s dissociative cunning she envied, and all too often falsely believed she possessed.
Even as she left its horrific visage in the past, she could feel its shadow slowly inch toward her jugular vein. Whispering in her ear the myriad paths to heart-break. As if she hadn’t submitted the list herself; as if she’d not penned a dissertation on how to thrive despite the shattering of foundational love. Still she felt the electricity of fingerling traces toward bloodletting; she scrutinized the feasibility of exoskeletons and whether they kept horrors out, or treasures in.
That rumination ended abruptly as the trail took a sharp left and she found herself face to face with a large black quarter horse, identical in ebony hue to the eight-legged demon she’d encountered a half mile earlier. The mare’s bulk steamed from the heat of muscle exertion met with the cool mist left behind from the rain (the sun had finally given up and barely mustered a wan glint at this point). Her rider, clearly rough at every edge, began speaking immediately without greeting nor introduction.
“We got four we’ve raised up what won international dressage titles. This one here though, she’s training for a 500 mile trek in Colorado. And a thousand mile go after that,” location unmentioned, “Needed a rest though. She’ll letcha know when she’s needin a rest…”
He went on about the saddle he was using, and the mare’s owner, and sundry other details, but the woman only listened to the horse. Usually she made an instantaneous deep connection with such a creature but this one didn’t really want to be bothered with all that. She was well-kept; good feet, tack well-fitted. She had a scrape on her nose but it looked to be from a calculated sovereign act committed without regret. So the woman engaged no further than to silently remark on excellent confirmation and demeanor. She stepped aside as the pair continued on their trail, mouth slightly agape while recalling the White Knight from Through the Looking Glass; the rider continued speaking as though she walked beside them, until he was out of earshot and most likely continued then even still. Her brow furrowed once and she very nearly ran after to catch up and live a different life entirely.
Rather she continued on, now juggling three disparate modes of existence in her sun-baked waterlogged mind…armored aggression, cool consideration, and the idea of a hybrid in-between (not necessarily in that order)…
She arrived back to her conveyance to civilization. Out of the rabbit hole. Across the chess board. New perspective, change of scenery…a sleepwalking dreamscape fraught with illusory information. A day in the life, really. Opportunity to chisel these events into answers that suited questions not yet on the table. Oh, but they would be. Art has a way of finding its painter; its writer; its actor…its muse. She smiled suddenly, at realizing that having a muse was going to be all of the fun – and finally none of the work – of being a muse.
“I’m not in the business of stating the obvious this morning. It’s too early.”
“It’s almost one.”
“If the liquor store isn’t open, it’s too early.”
“You’re seriously waiting for the liquor store to open?”
“On a Sunday?”
“Did you even go to church?”
“Champagne will be my salvation.”
He grumbled a laugh
“Well, what are you doing here?” Uninterested, but not completely devoid of social graces.
“Getting some beer.”
“You unbelievable ass hole! Judging me for waiting and here you are doing the same thing.”
“I just forgot about the Sunday law, I’m not waiting.”
“So you just drink this early everyday, then? Buying your booze before most people are back from weekday lunch?”
She swooned with the setting of his jaw.
“You could have gone to a gas station. Probably would’ve been easier for you.”Softening her tone; so practiced, so sarcastic, “Don’t be embarrassed, Sweaty, we’re in this together.” She stroked his arm, forefinger trailing the veins hidden by his sweatshirt.
Harry was actually his name, an unwanted family heirloom, but she had long ago decided to prefer “Sweaty.” One squalid description for another, who could refuse?
“Stop that.” He swiped her hand from him, all traces of friendliness swept away with it.
The bells on the door rang behind them as the lock turned, unleashing them from the long-lost-love, talking-is-fine, this-doesn’t-hurt, scenario.
“Please,” she held the door, gesturing inside, “After you. Your beer is getting cold.”