Storytellin’ is written inta the fabrica the Cosmos.
Always was (cos we got here to now — mostly in the kinda historical costoomsya see in the movies), an’ always will be (less’n we are frickin’ stoopid ‘bout narrative in super general an’ drop THE END before THE CLIMAX in the forma A NUKE).
Truth is, nuthin’ moves without generatin’ narrative.
Jus’ lickya lips for a sec, test this one out.
(I am not tryin’ to be lewd here cos I wanna be respectful to alla the generous peeps at Medium gonna mebbe indulge my lovea what they got up an’ happnin’.)
Feel them luscious lipsya got onya?
Coolest reality check I can muster, tellya — an’ now we gonna figure out what this all means … together.
Way I see it, you got a whole buncha saliva in that speakyplacea yours.
You got inside an’ outside surfaceaya lips, tongue ridged an’ furrowed with innumerable tastetastic sulci — an’ that is beforeya consider any hairsya got fluffin’ offaya face with varyin’ degreesa hirsooteness (or bitsaya dinner caught inya teeth an’ stuff).
Gotta say, I describe this potential mlehfest clear as I can forya — equally imagined (cos I got no clue what fungal mayhemya got gowin’ on backsideaya toothy grin right now) an’ realo (I jus’ ate a banana btw) — an’ I would not wanna presoomya to be no kinda ZOMBIE got no motive sensualityaya own, but FFS you don’t even gotta lick on anythin’ to take in alla the info far as this experiment goes.
You are jus’ kinda there.
Or whereverya are.
Truth is, you are a big lumpa YOU-stuffs — drool an’ lips an’ all — occupyin’ time an’ space, fulla potential to make sensea your place in the Cosmos via the mediuma allaya tinglydanglies.
Get To The Point. I Have A Life.
Point is, same kinda “lumpa-stuffs occupyin’ time an’ space” deal extends to alla the planets we got twirlin’ round the Sun alongside our lusho home world.
(Home world is called the Earth, jus’ in caseya never walked across the label.)
See, Joopiter an’ alla his planetary buddies been circlin’ the planet beyond before we hoomans — or even the dinosaurs an’ the amoeboid polypbeests — got to be around, an’ unless sum colossal asteroid comes bowlin’ into our solar system like a viciously spun cue ball, gotta figure the planets gonna roll on in their own sweet way till the enda time.
Science guys can even predict what they gonna do next, zillionsa years inta the fyooture.
Thinka what happens evry month.
Ain’t it jus’ weird how the Huff Post an’ other nooz outlets now regularly feature articles about the Moon alongside alla the usual celebrities behavin’ abominably schwango?
Full, Noo, Harvest, Wolf, Eclipse — there’s always sum loono story gowin’ down.
So much about inanimate objects is predictable — even monsterstuffs like Saturn an’ his zingoringo — but layered on toppa the bleak mathstrophysics is a delicious worlda myth — exotic an’ soulful stories gonna transform barren craters into moist an’ tender eyeballs with POV, persona an’ ♥-morphin’ iris hues.
Neptoon alone could prolly fillya bathtub with luscious liquid legend, dear reader — exotic stories fulla immersive pullin’ power.
From brute gravitation comes allurea narrative, same as when hoomans kiss on one another’s lickyalipsibles after makin’ eyes ‘cross a crowded room.
In planets an’ people you got certainty meets uncertainty, an’ narrative blossoms from this catalytic touch.
Thing is — what happens next ifya are unpredictably vulnerable hooman ‘steada workaday celestial colossus?
Maths guys got the planets down — but what about alla us? What about our stories?
Gotta figure the enda ANY an’ EVRY unfoldin’ story always lies in the fyooture, an’ deep down we want alla the intertwinin’ narrative arcsa our lives to work out good an’ carry our favo ever protagonist an’ alla their buddies forward with heart an’ verve — same as fiery ol’ Mars or cranktasmal Uranus or dreammaculate Venus out there on a spin.
Where the planets got predictability, hoomans desire foretellismo.
Oh, Yeah — I Read That Right At The Start. What In Hell Are You Talking About?
Prolly you should Google it for yourself, but ima helpya out.
Here it is:
Want my opinion?
I got no idea how Google never saw that comin’.
Tellya, algorithms, hardcore math an’ alla that superpredictive schwango got nuthin’ on artful simplicitya hooman creative flux.
We are such cool combiners an’ togetherers, all shadesa invention an’ discovery roll out BEGINNIN’, MIDDLE AN’ ENDIN’ from our interactions in time an’ space with any shit gowin’ down you wanna name.
(An’ btw, dontchya jus’ love how alla the planets got named after ancient gods an’ deified hero types?)
Foretellismo describes sumthin’ we all desire real bad.
It is a waya thinkin’ got more swagger than hollow prediction, more certainty than wild risk — an’ fewer obfuscatin’ cataracts than blind hope.
Consider it a wayta massage the eternal narrativea past, present an’ fyooture — evrythin’ you spun out to this precious heresynowsy moment reimagined beyond the infinite void betweenya story so far an’ the next cool things gonna happen.
Seems evryone craves mastery over that perpetually mutable sweet spot.
Despots, advertisers, fiction writers — an’ all shadesa people with all kindsa ferocious dilemmas who wake each day for wanta mebbe more than 24/7 struttin’ an’ frettin’ on life’s stage.
“Tell me, tell me, please — in my hour of deepest travial, will the choices I make today work out good?”
Aw, cos ifya had that kinda punch on reality right now, how smacksyhitsy it would be to romp out on a fyooture got allaya invention-made-flesh flyin’ easy peasy fromya progenerative an’ experiential polyassholes!
Problem is, foretellismo is an illusion.
Fake News? Sorry — I Am Outta Here
Oh, but see — illusions’re powerful an’ super practical architectsa change.
They propel stories forward, fill ’em fulla lush expectationals — like any movie scene got Hugh Jackman stripped to the frickin’ waist.
All stories gotta move on into the unknown or they gonna get borin’.
That is why you never got roundta readin’ that 12,465 page trilogy entitled Night Of The Monk Contemplating Gorgonzola.
Where is the conflict there beyond please, braino — do not force me to pick this loser up an’ read it!
Borin’ is stuck — an’ no one likes the storya stuck if they are not only readin’ it aloud but also livin’ out its life-drainin’ enslavements evry relentlessly samo daya their finite existence.
Foretellismo helpsya form proto-tangible shapes in the Void mebbe you wanna reach for — or aspire to become.
It has illusion. It has sinew. It has benevolent mutability slooshin’ from its DNA.
Costoom foretellismo as astrology, an’ you got an archetypal menagerie gonna harmonize along withya half-formed hopes an’ schemes, its massed growls an’ pincersnaps syncopatin’ withya decisive action — all accompanied by that humma paralyzin’ charm oozes outta Librans when they burst into song in the mall.
Librans! Ha! Tell Me About It!
Way I see it, sumtimes we all need a narrative lift from the communal ether — motivation gonna pull us up outta sum present moment oblivionhole that is not simply BUY OUR PRODUCT! FEEL BETTER INSTANTLY! or GUESS WHAT? DEMOCRACY IS TOAST! or anya those context-unspecific quotationsya see vomited up on FaceBook like headless poultry in needa breast, drumstick an’ downhome seasonin’.
Gal workin’ long hours in sum loser store gonna be eaten by robots, old guy lost his lifelong sweetheart but nonea the memories, entreprenoor takin’ a gamble gonna fix or shaft — gotta figure alla these people are walkin’ stories, fulla love an’ loss, hopes an’ fears, triumphs an’ regrets, strung out sumplace where the fyooture shuffles unnervingly at reality’s edge like sum slumberin’ monster, ever outta reach yet still close enough for unknown talonsta thrash outta the darkness an’ scar with anxiety or fear. Or despair.
Alla these people can (if they wanna) take a dip inta their stars (by which I kinda mean the planets an’ their associated narrative twinklea myth an’ story) an’ divine elemental succor as they float on air, step out on solid ground, light up with inspirational fire, or go kiss on a fluffy hamster got the mange an’ mebbe jus’ an hourta live.
Evryone gotta figure what positive an’ influential stories matter most to them, I guess.
Historically, we gotta figure what dreams an’ illusions have moved most hearts an’ minds sumplace got more benefits for free exercisea hoomanstuffs?
I guess that is why the void between today’s versiona the fyooture an’ alla our stories so far got all kindsa misappropriated archetypes thrashin’ around in its insubstantial ethers like wannabe titanium stranglerats.
Thing is, astrology is instantly quaffable spiritual moonshine, one size fits twelve.
You wanna feel good cos you spent $300 on a noo cell phone gonna pissya off by the enda the week cos it promised INTUITION, DELIVERED TO YOUR FINGERTIPS — an’ then melted?
Or d’ya want that frissona satisfaction comes from havin’ your opinions confirmed by what later turns out to be fake nooz?
Or d’ya wanna mebbe win out cos y’are a Taurus? Dependable an’ true — an’ blessed with consummate donut eatin’ talentsya can synch with ballistic fart techniques in restaurants (with no riska failin’ to receive warm hugs from evryone)?
Truth is, no single life existed since hoomans got to be hoomans that walked the rainbowa sum singularly universal narrative arc.
We are mix an’ match aggregationsa what works — raw materials pulled from the herescape an’ blended all idiosyncratically happenable by our own brainos linkin’ up an’ smoochyin’ on out.
We are blissfully lickable tangible matter blessed with far-reachin’ imagination — if we wanna use it.
Sounds Dinky! Can I Steal That For My LinkedIn Profile Rewrite?
Sure, but for the sakea brevity, you should prolly jus’ write alchemist.
It is cheesy, I know — but what is cheese beyond milk an’ grass an’ cow giblet squirto all blended an’ squishoed together?
Thing is, stars mebbe got an angle onya lifeya can notch inya forwardstuffs bow alongside allaya other existential arrows.
Astrology don’t tell the whole story, but history, culture an’ emergin’ nooz kinda trainedya upta manipulate (an’ respond to) archetypal forces in flux.
Gotta figure nouveau astrology narratives might have a place right now alongside relative noocomers on the storytellin’ block like TV, Digita outta Home, an’ Facebook memes packin’ cat-themed motivational frickin’ mantras.
Antecedentsa this kinda schwango got born when people much like ourselves gathered round fires at deada night an’ entertained one another with stories as they compared rottin’ teeth, flaunted scars long as frickin’ snakes, an’ carbonized wild bunnies (before dyin’ at the ripe old agea 27).
No room for SOAP SO SMOOTH YOU’LL FEEL LIKE A GODDESS or 5 WAYS BECKHAM’S LATEST TATTOO WILL INSPIRE YOUR BATHROOM MAKEOVER there.
We gonna adopt astrology with more passion an’ diligence, we jus’ gotta take care we don’t get too far up our own assholes an’ lost off on celestial wankology people don’t give a shit about.
At the brain-zappin’ calculus enda the astrological scale, we got transits an’ conjunctions an’ all kinda crapola no one got a brain feels pain gonna much care for.
Other end is the more lyrical an’ poetic hooman touchpoint — the meltin’ potta all passion, spirituality an’ emotional jiz juice.
Astrology gotta always remember how the startin’ point for people is their passions — their dreams an’ interactions, their unfoldin’ works-in-progress, mebbe even their stoopid pets.
Took us a while, but right now in the noo millennium, we are loosenin’ up a little an’ bein’ straighter with one another ‘bout how our inner lives spin in an intricately woven yet sometimes unnervingly rift-riven way with the face we show to the world, an’ how we touch on one another in ever more divergent ways as we baseline tryta get a handle on the chameleon masqueradin’ as our own essence.
We are as planets spinnin’ round the Sun, only with waaaaaaaaaay more freedom, way more choice, way more sentient firepower.
On a good day, we even got streamin’ movies, bottlesa vino — an’ the sudoku-toppin’ trivia conundrum known as FFS what is covfefe?
But I figure qualitya summa the stories we got spinnin’ the globe here in 2017 is kinda lame.
Oblivion sniffs the wind an’ stomps a hoof inta the dust, readyta trample all achievement before it.
‘Gainst that foretellismocated certainty, prolly all kindsa different an’ more positive narratives gotta go workout sumplace fulla lycra skimpies an’ sweat — an’ up their game sum to the beata Kanye.
An’ astrology is one such game.
Centuries old, it is equally bloodied an’ ferocious.
But, hey — who cares ‘bout that?
These may be hard times for soft stories — and the soft people wish ’em into bein’ — but we seen worse before an’ we seen it through.
Gonna go write sum horoscopes now.
I am through bein’ quasi-academicalistic…
Princess Balestra is an astrologer & writer person.
She lives with a refrigerator fulla alcohol — & zero toads.
If ur nice to her, she will mebbe write your stuff.
Copy — Fiction — Crap