Ken, the guy who fixes everything in my landlord’s buildings, just fixed all the lights in my high-ceilinged apartment. There was a time when I did that myself just to prove I could take care of everything. That time has passed, especially given how fragile the fixtures are in my house, how accident-prone this bruja can be when she’s sad, and how Mercury retrograde likes to bullock electricity.
Before he came over, I cleaned my house thoroughly for the first time since [sadness fills this blank]. Now my house is so sparkling and shiny that Grace has consented to share her belly as well as her most operatic purr. She’s so beautiful that she doesn’t deign to adorn ugly spaces.
My permakitten knows what she’s doing.
Today at least, I feel better. Forlorn still, but more internally organized. This is the chief purpose of retrogrades: to reboot what requires rebooting, to dig deep into the part of our lives that the retrograding planet normally governs. Mercury rules organization, communication, and forward motion so it makes perfect sense that I am returning long-unanswered emails, sorting out schedules and paperwork, untangling every metaphorical and literal cord in my life. Setting the stage for whatever and whomever is to come.
That said, the planet of communication is retrograding in blurty, blunt Sagittarius, the zodiac’s resident court jester. The wrong people are bound to receive the wrong text/email/carrier pigeon message; the unspeakable is bound to be spoken; and all kinds of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf confrontations are bound to riddle the Planes, Trains, and Automobiles snafus of a Thanksgiving weekend void of Mercury. Goddess knows I’ve recently blogged everything I need to say (and a lot more) so I’m keeping it lo-fi for the rest of this week.
Grace really sets the tone of this well-appointed solitude.