Ophiuchus and Orion, Libra and Scorpio

Orion was a hunter. Though I am not quite sure what he hunted for, really. What are hunters but pursuers, people of wild thought and mind?

He was hubris, and angered Gaia when he threatened to hunt down everything, and so she sent a scorpion to dispatch him. 

Ophiuchus, the snake charmer, revived Orion with an antidote. This is why he stands halfway between the Archer Orion and the Scorpio. Good friends, those two. But what sort of antidote?

I don't know if I've said, or you know, but I was born 5 weeks early. I should have been born 'round Dia De los Muertos, I should have been a Scorpio, but I was born a Libra, fighting and a cord around my neck.

And I see in myself the trepidation, the delicate balance, the diplomat, dance of Libra, but as I grin in the mirror I see the mood, the bile, the passions of Scorpio. Torn in two, I look up at my favorite constellations.

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Swell and Ebb

I'm falling back into routine. It's remarkable how Pavlovian I'll let myself be. Days bleed into one another, wounds that don't hurt or heal.

Yesterday I visited a friend and her new baby. 16 days old. That kinda new baby. My friend was tired, so I let her take a nap while I held that tiny new human. 

I forget sometimes that babies are the beginnings of people. Neonates especially. The baby fell asleep in my arms, and I found myself just watching, somewhat impassively. 

And then I felt one of those heart pangs that take you by surprise.

It wasn't my "biological clock". Mine doesn't tick. Perhaps it needs to be wound (clock needs to be wound and a wound that doesn't heal)

...I looked at that baby and I thought about all the sadness she will have to experience. All the parts of the human condition. Cause' she's not quite "human" yet; she has never known the dark inside us. 

And then she seemed impossibly beautiful. This perfect little life in my arms. She is living, breathing potential.  

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Catalyst Rex

I've been many things.
Catastrophe. Catatonic. 

But for now, I'm Catalyst.

Made of cogs and feathers, shots of whiskey. Strings pulled tight and bits of leather.

.

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Orion's Belt

In the morning it's still a little cold, but it's bright
Even squinting I see the water's the same gray blue as my eyes which
Widen
As my body bristles in the breeze and I want to curl up back in 
The dark little vardo
And wrap myself in memory, grin.

Instead I brace myself and stare at the pier and think
"this is the last time you'll see this pretty pier, you're going to fly back to New York in no time, and this breeze will be replaced with that of the Q train shuttling you home"

I feel my self grumble with the thought, and my mind instead turns to red solo cups on worn wood planks, silks in trees, Orion's belt,toes in the sand, and Cool Hand Luke. The heron that scolded, and I just laughed and laughed til I stumbled back to my little gypsy wagon, pitch black and I felt the hush and rush.

And with that I can grin. We're all travelers of some kind. We enter, we exeunt. But I will not concern myself with the end of the play.

And so my pale eyes reflect back the water, and I stretch up towards Orion's belt,my fingertips smell like a kretek, perhaps Orion thinks of me when he smokes a djarum. He's there, with a slim waist of stars, even though I can't see him in the sunrise.

My fingertips graze the cusp of morning and I whisper prayers of thanks that my wings are not clipped.

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