Singing Severed Head

Not everyone reading an astrological forecast understands exactly what each aspect listed implies, but simply listing the Full Moon in Scorpio’s set of aspects probably breeches the cerebral barrier and transfers it to the gut, much like the effect of said Moon itself: Moon in Scorpio opposite Sun in Taurus, Venus in Aries opposite Jupiter in Libra, Mars in Gemini trine Jupiter in Libra, Saturn in Sagittarius trine Mercury in Aries conjunct Uranus, Moon in Scorpio trine Neptune in Pisces sextile Pluto in Capricorn which is also square Uranus, Jupiter and Mercury as well as sextile the Moon and trine the Sun. Hmm… Quite the array. The Moon full blown in Scorpio’s g-spot, while the Ghost of Rust and Perimeter Duke gives the Scorpion’s claws a sensual manicure, Voyeuristic Dionysus directs it like a snuff film, Mercury and Uranus confined to the orchestra pit where they fire up some Switched On Orff fully electrified Burana out of sunn0)))’s set-up, minotaur stagehands charging down forking backstage paths, adjusting sandbag tensions and candelabra heights so the production communicates coherently, unseen, but the under-hoof rumble adds to the stirring urgency of what transpires within the orb of the silver screen that absorbs and casts images down upon us.

On Thursday we emerge from the cinema again and into the light, our pinhole retinas like crude paper cameras overwhelmed by the saturation, but gradually grow ironclad cast and climb to the apex of the caduceus to perch on scepter heights and survey what had happened. The Moon springs off the glare of Scorpio’s now garishly lacquered and much exaggerated pincers, drawn into a trine with Venus, Mars’ dirgey D root powerchord harmonized by an augmentory double octave A, Luna leaves this as but a mere caress before rushing toward Lilith in Sagittarius by Friday, where we make our fire sacrifice, and burn the chimerical masks we wore to Wednesday’s Full Moon Masquerade Debauch. Some of you might have actively partaken in the summoning of the completed Homunculus from the lunar retort the day prior to and during the Full Moon, where as others won’t happen to notice the transparent little person squirming in the glassware cum equine womb until Friday, when Judgement’s horn blasts subside into the distant hills like atmospheric funeral chanters over the misty moors. Mercury and Uranus’ conjunction creates the ecstatic breath of God that fills heaven’s horn, and like the strobing light of Arcadia, unstable energy rushes through the instrument and calls the celestial form out of the cold clay crypt which is Saturn’s square womb and tack with Titan’s ashes, some Caduceus shaking mesmerism hypnotizes the cobra which rises from and dances above the basket; we all—- I refer to us, our friends and families, who this configuration summons to mind and memory, both living and dead (for in this week Lemures sabbatical and the Saints of Cold Sophie blow the breath of tombs across Riesling vines) as well as the fraternities and sororities of Saints that offer us patronage, gather around the tomb to murmur orisons and pure petitions. Rise, form, become, hear the music of the Hazel flute piped by fingers that flutter electric, as those of the one Pied, who summoned Saturn’s rats, and banished them as if Elias Ashmole’s leaden statues. Begone rats from this grave, you may not gnaw upon the flesh of this King’s Head, severed during war, for on the appointed hour its eyes will open, it will take a breath of the damp earth’s air and hear music in the sounds of rustling leaves, as if Angels of the Windy Seasons strum their harps, and with full sight and sound this King will survey the compass rose and sing songs that celebrate most miraculous things. Coins of seven realms conjoining, he tells it like a tale of wars and glories, to which a scribe must set it, and under whose writ a temple must be erected.

The Moon, and it’s confederacy of configurations fills all the seven faculties of the imagination with oracular wine, as if filling the cups of fealty before a great toast is made, and in rounds those that formed the ring bear their hearts as words tumble from their lips. But this is no mere poetry slam. This is the seal stamped on the christening of a contract. A temple will be built tomorrow, no matter how drunk you become tonight, the craftsmen and artisans arrive by morning and construction begins after the nights cups have drained, and the Homunculus who bends over you in your Dragon’s Dream, carried away like a hobo hiding in a boxcar; the Half Formed Human bows his head above you and pours out the emptiness of his skull, showering over your slumbering shadow. The Universe abhors a void, and rushes in to fill it. Whether or not you spend the Full Moon reveling or swimming in your bed, the contract signing celebration precedes the fulfilling of the praxis.

You might draw your attention to assembling or improving your alters in the coming days, breathing the life of artistry into your statuary, and refining the details of your temple. This goes for the Temple of The Body as well, or at least the Self. Sign a contract with yourself to refine every detail of your life this season and then go about it like the studio technician mixing the record; start with the three knobs on your receiver, treble, bass and volume, then move on to the equalizer and sweep across the mixing board, paying attention to the spectrum of mids, gain, compression, reverb, and effects loops, one channel at a time. Mix for quadrophonic. Set your speakers one each into the corners of your room (or occultum, studio, garage or what have you) and then, once the wavelengths cease to vibrate the Caduceus out of your hands, or the infra-lows no longer levitate the bricabrac off your bookshelves, put your album on review and create a new logo for yourself, draw it on the floor, situating your body in the eye your Heraldry. Raise your wieldy weapon then and light your celebratory cigar, smash the champagne bottle on the prow, raise the flag, thanking God that the temple is ready to enter, the Statue finished stands in wait for the spirit.

If the triangle of spirit doesn’t rise into the square of matter so easily, seek divine intervention; you might need a second opinion. There are times where what you think should happen have nothing to do with what should. Allow yourself to be guided. Do what the spirit tells you. Cast the salt and sand across the floorboards and look at the figure under candle light, letting wax drip into the intersections. Ask THEM to interpret the figure. You might happen onto the step you couldn’t find in the dark now that the Moon brightens the path.

Swiping past Saturn on Saturday the 13th, while simultaneously opposing Mars, the Moon now waning from full, melting into an irregular pearl, or the odd alabaster tooth of a centaur statue warped by clinging condensation, but barely even brief enough to sight before the hot winds hit it from either side and whisk it away. This aridity might be nice for those whose houses had grown moldy, and will serve to throw the windows open and cross the floors with early summer breeze, where for others it merely pilfers their perfume. Either way, with the Dragons head now rising out of the Kingdom of the Sun and it’s tail receding into the Walled City of Winds, the moistness of moss that coats our brains might begin to peel or flake like lichen, which isn’t all bad, its medicinal properties should be put to steep, and the dark nettle pools left over from the Moon might do well to be beaten by a sunray— the blackened germ within the shadow water might be imbibed as Warrior’s blood, maybe a necessary elixir for those of us who face the Dragon head on by profection, or anyone who’s a Leo, get going on the collyriums and eye protection charms now, you’ll want them by August.

Next Tuesday Mercury steps into Taurus on the day that commemorates St. Brendan the Navigator stepping onto solid ground across the atlantic, and leaves mutual reception with Mars as the hot planet is applying to a sextile with Venus in his sign. Maybe not the unified mind of a school of fish, or Dolphins that swim beside one another, sharing swapping brain hemispheres so they can take turns sleeping, but there is the synthesis of a committee implied here. Mercury hits the ground at an early marathon pace, striding strongly but conserving energy for his steady progression across Taurus. He began this marathon and was called back last month, now he finally returns to the track, the distracted actions of Mars friendly to the heated senses, it’s not just a jog, but a bit of a dance, like an elegant martial progression through moves, a deep body sequence. A time to put the materials in play. If you made a magic head on the Full Moon, bring it to the crossroads Wednesday the 17th, as the curtain of invisibility will be drawing; if you spawned a Homunculi, rest it in the element of correspondence; if you carved a statue, erected an altar or built a temple, call the spirit down to Earth. Next Wednesday, both Mercury’s day (air) and Astaroth’s day (aerial), hosts a grand trine between Jupiter in Libra, the Moon in Aquarius, and Mars in Gemini. Mercury ruling the sign Mars is in, as well as being trine Saturn, who rules the sign the Moon will be in, and Jupiter friendly with and visible to Venus, who rules the sign he is in. All this is to say, with Mercury back on the ground, and this harmonic like a triangle ringing over the sublunar surface, Wednesday the 17th is an ideal day for a walk through the spirit arena, with the allies you’ve created watching over from the bleachers.