Aquarius, The Death of Intimacy
Pluto never has a pretty face. We astrologers like trines and sextiles, but no matter the lovely aspect, Pluto is never easy. The Age of Aquarius will not be all peaches and happy hippie cream. No. It will be about A.I., and waiting for computers to give you permission. And worst of all, it will be about which individuals get thrown out of the boat because they are unnecessary baggage.
As hippies we were so excited for the coming Age Of Aquarius. Harmony and understanding. Sympathy and Trust abounding. “You know the drill.” (Thanks for that one, Joe.)
Problem is, none of those keywords represent our wacky Aquarian traits. Harmony is for the Sun, at the heart, grand central station of love. Understanding is for Neptune, GodEss of Eternal Mist. Sympathy is mostly a lunar emotion and Trust is for when Mars is in Scorpio.
Rex Bill’s keywords for Uranus begin with aberrations, abnormalities, acceleration, accidents. Uranus is the modern ruler of Aquarius, and though many astrologers argue about it, the pointy stiletto seems to fit.
Aquarius is #11 on the Astrology wheel opposite from Leo in the #5 position. This is the Continuum of Love. The Actor is #5 and the Audience is #11.
There are six continuums within the twelve steps of Astrology. Each one has a theme, with keywords for the two ends, which are not ends, but curves that turn the energy back to its other side. Its alter ego. Its opposite.
The beast with two backs, or two faces, is the actual One with a front and a back, when it is, at the nexus…
… in union, which in truth is the reality, the experience.
OH my god, Jewelly Jewell, get out of my/your head!
“But I live here!” I digress to my own self. Let us continuum.
“Please hold while I check on that.” I hold. I wait. I turn on my tablet to look at my messages, because, God forbid, I lose the connection in an attempt to multitask my device. And Keep that in mind. It is a device. Not my friend, or even an ally. A simple device that in reality removes me, by incremental degrees from humun contact, from resolution of my issue, from the heart of my issue, from heartfelt connection, from the heart of reality into the realm of theory. Digits. Air words.
“Please enter your sixteen digit card number.”
The tension mounts.
“Yes ma’am, are you there? I have the agent for you. Can I transfer you now?”
“Yes please.” I sigh. Another dismal digital tune assaults the ear. The nausea. Ad nauseam. The body talks. The mind’s neighbor speaks barf and inflammation. The body talks. It says,
“You cannot stomach this experience. Get out! Run! Save yourself.” But I need to do this job. I must prevail. Prevail or die. Really. Without the thyroid pills, I die. Without the acupuncture, I hurt. Another lady speaks from inside a bucket in broken English.
“Jello, I m Mariiyhyu. How kin I hep yu tudey? Ow kinI dofer you?” I’m not xenophobic. I just can’t understand her. That sweet lilting way she speaks is charming. I appreciate it, like hearing French, it sounds wonderful but it means nothing to me. Thus, the frustration rises to the throat, anxiety threatens an attack of spewing word vomit all over my device.
Breathe. In 6, hold 6, out 6, hold 6. My thymus is still in revolt. I’m too old for this! In my day…. Yes, in my day, we talked to each other, using words from our mouths connecting to the ears of another flesh and blood person, who was listening and responding in the now with receptive fleshy ear and heart. I know this may seem odd to the digital generation, but there was a time when we were not associated with a single number, much less a sixteen digit number.
We also dropped in to visit friends, often without a phone call. We gained entry with a special skill. It was called knocking on the front door. But nowadays, you might bruise your knuckles with such a violent gesture and be compelled to report this injury to a digital receptor of authority. Best to type on the keyboard. Saved contacts.
My granny’s phone number was Viking 3-6720. VI3-6720. We remembered the phone numbers of loved ones. So, I am a liar, you see, because we did have phone numbers in my day. I suppose that was anathema to the grandparents who lived before the telephone. Change is Truth.
Beep beep. “Please enter your eight digit birthdate, ending with the pound key.” I enter.