Last night was a New Moon in Scorpio and today is Halloween. I don't think it gets any spookier than that, folks.
I've been thinking a lot about the quote from Henry V, "you have witchcraft in your lips." And I went to a vintage market yesterday and bought this old bomber jacket that used to belong to someone named Tina. And the cluster of crystals next to my bed continues to grow.
New Moon in Scorpio demands attention. Scorpio is the sign most drawn to transformation and evolution; these natives can slip between sensibilities and addictions and past lives absolutely seamlessly. Their powers to self-destruct and self-sanctify are nearly equal.
A New Moon serves to dig up all the bullets burrowing just beneath your skin; to slide the veil off your darkened face. This is the time to challenge yourself to be afraid, to cast a harsh eye on your fears and shortcomings. Be brutal with the roots of your insecurities and nurture their victims.
Ghosts are real and they are always lurking. They are empty vodka bottles hidden in your underwear drawer from high school, and every time someone has touched you without your consent. My ghosts are old poems, voices echoing off bathroom tiles and the violent desire to be cold in a warm room.
Honestly, I was never the biggest fan of Halloween, I think because the spooky cobwebbed parts of my brain are never satisfied with how inadequately I can display them.
If you are not the free person you want to be you must find a place to tell the truth about that. To tell how things go for you. Candor is like a skein being produced inside the belly day after day, it has to get itself woven out somewhere. You could whisper down a well. You could write a letter and keep it in a drawer. You could inscribe a curse on a ribbon of lead and bury it in the ground to lie unread for thousands of years. The point is not to find a reader, the point is the telling itself. Consider a person standing alone in a room. The house is silent. She is looking down at a piece of paper. Nothing else exists. All her veins go down into this paper. She takes her pen and writes on it some marks no one else will ever see, she bestows on it a kind of surplus, she tops it off with a gesture as private and accurate as her own name.