January 19, 2018. Photo: Ariana Reines.


THE SUN ENTERS AQUARIUS AT 4:24 EST TODAY.

Aquarius, the water-bearer, rules the ankles and the transmission of information in waves.

Sound currents; electrical currents; the seeming suddenness with which the spirit of the times commands new social orders.

Inspiration, and inspiration’s consequences.

Inspiration, and inspiration’s consequent gossamer and fiber-optic structures.

The idea of the internet and the internet itself.

Elvis Presley, “How the Web Was Woven,” 1970

Not so much the waters of Rome, but the imperial aqueducts and plumbing. 

Less the exploitation of resources than the exploitation of information. The idea of information itself…

Aquarius is ruled by Uranus, the Promethean planet that presided over the age of democratic revolution here on Earth, and which continues to carry the spark of wisdom, of social conscience—and the often violent transformations ushered in by that spark—in a given era’s collective consciousness. (I’ll say more about Saturn in the Aquarian mode next week—Saturn ruled Aquarius alone until the discovery of Uranus in 1781...)

Uranus is part of the negative space against which we live; the fertile silt where the lotus roots, the neglected wisdom that falls to the bottom of riverbeds and ocean floors only to be thrown up again upon dry land, with only apparent suddenness, to be tilled by the masses and irrigated to the billion outposts of our every mind through a vascular structure with all the perfections and imperfections of our times.

The process by which the unconscious becomes conscious only seems to flower suddenly.

If water, as we’ve noted earlier, represents Emotion in Astrology, then the water-bearer is the transmission system of Emotion. Thus, social networks and especially electronically-mediated social networks.

In Egypt and Babylon, Aquarius was associated with flooding: the story of Gilgamesh; the annual flooding of the Nile. In Ancient Greece, it was Ganymede, the handsome young boy whom Zeus either became an eagle or sent an eagle to abduct into service as his cup-bearer. The Egyptian god cognate with Aquarius was Hapi or Hapy, an intersex figure, blue in color, with breasts and a beard, representing both divine fertility; mystic moisture, and its judicious application on the ground. Making water in the desert. Thinking of Hapi I find myself circling back to Tiresias “with his wrinkled dugs,” as T.S. Eliot put it, the blind prophet blessed to experience sex as both a man and a woman; a memory of wetness, a whiff of humidity, carried into the airy realm in which experience is put to work for the collective, as knowledge.

The dry applications of prophecy. The idealism and patience it takes to weave a web. Generational achievements; collective traps. The “nets” of culture and social order James Joyce sought to fly “by” and fly beyond.

There is always more to be said than can be written in a single morning.

As I rooted through all the available mythology, something felt off in all of it. And then again, because Aquarius is often said to be “from” the future, I want to add, Aquarius presides over that which does not yet exist as an archetype…

The handsome cup-bearer, the emphasis (I stand by it) of the plumbing and the aqueducts over the water (or whatever substance) they transmit, electroacoustics before and beyond music, the vibration of mantra as primordial music. Special deliveries from the future; alien downloads; nonmonogamous yet eminently high-fidelity systems; the things you can only learn by being alone with your computer…

There’s so much more. See you next time.

Ariana Reines

January 19, 2018. Photo: Ariana Reines.


Ariana Reines is a poet & playwright. She astrologizes at lazyeyehaver.com.

January 18, 2018. Photo: Ariana Reines.


I’M CURIOUS if you’ve ever found your soul upended by an image. By a single image.

This is the one that did that to me:

A frieze of Doubting Thomas from the cloisters at the Santo Domingo de Silos Abbey in Spain.


It was something about the awkwardness and rhythm in exact proportion—something about the Christ, in half-crucifixion position, offering his wound to the probing Jupiter finger of the Apostle Thomas—strange enough to verge on the sexual, awkward enough to wedge itself through the joinery of my skull, crack open my begging bowl, & let the light pour in.

I’m not Christian at all, but I did watch a lot of Nick at Nite when I was little, and my friends had stuff like this in their houses:


I mean, ew.

You imbibe certain gaseous forms of Christianity just existing in the United States.

But the various forms of Christianity aren’t my point—and it’s not my intention to insult anybody’s religion. It’s more that, because I’m Jewish and Judaism, like Islam, doesn’t like graven images or the depiction of divinity in anything like human form or humanoid terms, I was something of a tabula rasa for the various iconographic codes of Judeo-Christian Capitalism.

But I know you don’t need me to tell you those enamel angels look like the sex dolls of a pedophile. And I know you don’t need me to tell you that, when obscenity—sexual exploitation and rapacious war—is simply the background, the negative space against which we take our every breath, the space of reverence within us, almost imperceptibly, and even without effort, finds itself doing an unplanned and self-taught gymnastics, guttering and flickering like an insistent flame—to keep itself just strange enough, just barely-beyond our ken enough to evade the fornicating maw of the real.

Blessed guts: Eskill & Vicky Accompanied by T.P. Poly Rythmo, “Ecoute ma mélodie” (Listen to My Melody), 1980.

To return to the “Incredulity” of Thomas above—I see that moment, in which he demands to touch the wounds of the risen Christ, as a gorgeously weird instance of generosity, of lesbiating intimacy, and a hilarious conflation, on the part of mainstream Christianity (if the thousandish-year repertoire of Thomas Incredulities can be believed) of sight, touch, and belief. How generous, to offer your body yet again, after you’ve already poured out your life’s blood on the cross. How daring and brave, to bear witness to the enormity of a miracle by admitting you can’t believe it, while your comrades, in their neat rows, are acting all pious and docile.

I’m fascinated by the hypnotic encoding of those image repertoires we have no choice but to move through, and then the power of certain instances—in image, or encounter, or sound, or breath—to crack them open. I won’t waste this space posting images I consider forms of exploitation hypnosis. You’ve seen tens and hundreds of thousands of such images. I know you know what I’m talking about.

But I’d really love to hear about the images that make you feel un-hypnotized. That make the beelzebubs immediately stop feeding on your face, that banish the scums and the demons from your mind, that return you to your sovereignty. Write me at lazyeyehaver@gmail.com or letters@artforum.com.

See you tomorrow.

Ariana Reines

January 18, 2018. Photo: Ariana Reines.


Ariana Reines is a poet & playwright. She astrologizes at lazyeyehaver.com.

January 17, 2018. Photo: Ariana Reines.


A NEAT GASH OF SUNLIGHT is widening across the sand. We talked late around the fire all night, trading origin stories. An Egyptian god spat into his hand and had congress with himself and made two sons. When things began everything was darkness and goo. A woman took a boat to heaven and got drunk with God and carried all his powers down to Earth. The feminine principle accidentally emanated a son then hid him in clouds; he didn’t know he had parents when he created us; there was much he did not know, in spite of his capacities as a fabricator, hence the world we now know and inhabit. Adam and Eve each came into a jar and waited. After a time Adam’s jar had a baby in it and Eve’s was filled with worms. The planets are the wheeling gears of some obscure machine. Ants led people up a reed that and emerged onto the floor of the Grand Canyon and that’s how life in this world began, but there had been three failed worlds before this one . . .

Maybe it’s mendacity that makes the universe expand, I wrote one time in Tasmania when I was freaking out. And I wrote, the sky is like a child’s cheek, delicately veined.

With so many planets in hardheaded Capricorn I intimate every kind of accusation against such fabulation. But I cannot live without wonder. It comes easy when you can see the stars. It’s weird to hide from the stars in cities, and then go to the Internet to get them back. It is like everything the networks and structures take from us, and then we feel lucky when, on occasion comes the privilege to buy back pieces of ourselves. I’m really craving privacy this morning. And down in the arroyo, enjoying it.

Venus moves into Aquarius at 8:43 PM EST; the Sun, Pluto, Mercury, and Capricorn are still surveying the lay of the land from on high in the palace of chronology and executive power—the young moon moved into Aquarius early in the ambrosial hours.

As the Sun’s time in Capricorn dwindles, a word about the mountain goat’s mysticism, often paid short shrift. There’s a lot to be said for climbing to a certain height, the better to gain perspective. There are things you cannot see when you’re down in the goo, in the muck, at the beginning of the world. Capricorn is often depicted as a goat crawling out of a seashell—he carries the memory of the sea, and likewise the memory of feeling, all the way up to the severe heights where he’s comfortable. There is tender pilgrimage behind the severity he’s known for.

Ariana Reines

Mama Cass, Mary Travers, and Joni Mitchell, “I Shall Be Released” on The Mama Cass Television Show, 1969. Via Hedi El-Kholti.

Ariana Reines is a poet & playwright. She astrologizes at lazyeyehaver.com.

 

January 16, 2018. Photo: Ariana Reines.


“analogies are dangerous”

Muriel Rukeyser

I ASKED MY TEACHER how he came to learn astrology. Misery he answered. Misery is a good school I said. The best, he answered. Laughter. 

I asked him how he’d made my chart eight years ago, whether he worked with an ephemeris in some form. He doesn’t have Internet now and he certainly didn’t have it then. I asked the planets where they were when you were born, he said. I rather believed him, while disbelieving, or I believed him with a sense of humor, the only way one can believe anything, perhaps the only way one should believe anything, including the world in front of one’s nose, the falling bombs, the bugs skittering across the prison floor...

OK, but I let my two normcore assimilationist brain cells think their obligatory thoughts: that he must own an ephemeris, that he might have had access to one, that he might even have put my birth data into one of the innumerable chart-generators online, at someone else’s house, in someone else’s office; why not; he may well have done so and nevertheless also asked the planets where they were when I was born. 

When I read a book, he continued, I’m not exactly reading, I’m comparing. I’m comparing what I know innately to what’s written on the page. 

I know that kind of reading. That’s poet’s reading and I’ve been doing it forever. I think it is more and more common, though the metrics by which to measure innate knowledge against delusion and quackery are only in very early stages of beta testing.   

What I was really after was ordinary, practical information about how he integrates astrology into everything else he does when he heals. I didn’t have to ask this question aloud. He heard it. On this path, he began, using a construction I have never known him to use, on this path humility is essential, and your first task, always, always, is to help.

Humility is surely required if you have the power directly to quiz planets as to their location at such and such a moment. The Greeks and their old, forever unheeded counsel against hubris is likewise well known. In any case.

I’m not sure the asceticism of Misery School or the extreme humility required if one intends to hold and make longterm use of, offer longterm service by the employment of divine gifts is for everybody. It might come off a little gray, like the Internet gray of today’s sunrise, cut by a single clitoral glow.

Nevertheless I believe we all have these capacities. Whose infrastructure must be rebuilt. This stern New Moon is commanding both ambition and an ethics.

And so, from the bitcoin of the mind, with eclipses in view as well as an array of other gifts I’ve prepared for you this week, and even though I thought I’d be writing you something different this morning, two tiny things.

1. Don’t look back. Not today.
2. Things are grim, I know, but they’re also ridiculous, thus not without erotic promise.  For example, here is Capricorn Marlene Dietrich, looking back to mourn without directly doing so, turning her excellent bones toward the absurd kleig lights of the future, like the hard femme moon giving birth to herself above us and below us in a few hours.

Rest in Power, Dolores.

Ariana Reines

Marlene Dietrich sings Pete Seeger’s “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” 1964. Video, black and white, sound, 4 minutes 27 seconds.

Ariana Reines is a poet & playwright. She astrologizes at lazyeyehaver.com.

Love’s not Time’s fool (Shakespeare, Sonnet 116). Photo: Ariana Reines.


THE NEW MOON occurs tomorrow, January 16, 2018, at 9:17 PM EST, at twenty-six degrees & fifty-five minutes of Capricorn.

As the Sun’s tenancy in Capricorn nears its end (he enters Aquarius on January 19—preceded by Venus, who moves into Aquarius on January 17, and Mercury sails thataway at the end of the month) this New Moon lovingly invites us, once again, to initiate the structure, discipline, sobriety, & integrity heralded by Saturn’s return home to Capricorn late last year, & by the mystic marriage of masculine and feminine pulsed into us by the Cancer Full Moon on the New Year.

Mars is hanging out with Jupiter in Scorpio till January 26; Jupiter perfects his sextile with Pluto in Capricorn today: it’s time to be the best boss of yourself, to transform all the vicissitudes of shame you’ve ever wallowed through into patient, grown-ass care for your finances, your professional situation, and the profoundest aspect of the heights of your worldly ambition.

Remember that whatever Saturnine work you’re putting in, you must be doing it for Love. And if Love is not to become Time’s fool, she needs to work out a schedule she can live with.

This might be a slight deformation of a Kabbalistic formula I once heard Leonard Cohen describe, but basically if the King and Queen aren’t both sitting on the throne up there in the cosmos of your brains, there’s no creativity, no magic, no beauty— nothing works in what you do, no matter how hard you may labor at it. So it’s not that I’m suggesting merely working harder. This is a year, to paraphrase the graphic novelist & artist Nomy Lamm, to undertake and profit from your hardest & your softest work.

Daddy’s home. His car is in the garage, he’s doing work on the house, fixing the plumbing, mending cracks in the wall & holes in the roof. He’s clearing debris out of the garden and massaging the overworked fields. Maybe he’s been a shitty dad for most of your life, but he is listening to your grievances now. He is eager to do what can be done. He is not the apologizing kind, but he is examining the old charts and tables. He is drawing up new charts and tables. And when the Sun and Venus move into Aquarius, they’ll both be looking to entirely untested and from-the-future answers to questions so deep we’ve already spent all our tears and our suffering and our longing on them. Maybe emotional exhaustion is a good thing. I’m looking forward to looking, with you, more coolly, more structurally, more galactically at what we’ve done to the planet, to ourselves, to one another.

Nina Simone sings “Pirate Jenny” at the International Jazz Festival in Montreal on July 2, 1992.

There’s more to say about the heavy wages on the ledger for the slavers, the frackers, the incarcerators, and the rapers of the kingdom of this world, but I’ll save it for tomorrow. The sun has just risen, and I gotta go.

Ariana Reines


Ariana Reines is a poet & playwright. She astrologizes at lazyeyehaver.com.

Chögyam Trungpa. Caveat emptor.


The wrong way to take refuge involves seeking shelter—worshipping mountains, sun gods, moon gods, deities of any kind simply because they would seem to be greater than we. This kind of refuge-taking is similar to the response of the little child who says, ‘If you beat me, I’ll tell my mommy,’ thinking that his mother is a great, archetypically powerful person. If he is attacked, his automatic recourse is to his mother, an invincible and all-knowing, all-powerful personality. The child believes his mother can protect him, in fact that she is the only person who can save him. Taking refuge in a mother or father-principle is truly self-defeating; the refuge-seeker has no real basic strength at all, no true inspiration. He is constantly busy assessing greater and smaller powers. If we are small, then someone greater can crush us. We seek refuge because we cannot afford to be small and without protection. We tend to be apologetic: ‘I am such a small thing, but I acknowledge your great quality. I would like to worship and join your greatness, so will you please protect me?’

Surrendering is not a question of being low and stupid, nor of wanting to be elevated and profound. It has nothing to do with levels and evaluation. Instead, we surrender because we would like to communicate with the world ‘as it is.’ We do not have to classify ourselves as learners or ignorant people. We know where we stand, therefore we make the gesture of surrendering, of opening, which means communication, link, direct communication with the object of our surrendering. We are not embarrassed about our rich collection of raw, rugged, beautiful and clean qualities. We present everything to the object of our surrendering. The basic act of surrender does not involve the worship of an external power. Rather, it means working together with inspiration, so that one becomes an open vessel into which knowledge can be poured.

—Chögyam Trungpa, Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism (1973/2002). Shambala Classics, Boulder.

See you tomorrow.

Ariana Reines

January 14, 2018. Photo: Ariana Reines.


Ariana Reines is a poet & playwright. She astrologizes at lazyeyehaver.com.