Every Third Day Astrology

So here I am on the fourth day of Uranus stationing as close as it comes till March next year to opposing Neptune and squaring Saturn with one day's worth of pain pills left after gum surgery in Palomas two days ago, listening to the Ben Webster MP3s Anonymous sent me last year and wondering what would happen if I emailed him - Anonymous, that is, not Ben Webster.

So - knowing that it's July 21 by working backwards I can figure out I must have written the above on July 9, which is 12 days ago. And what are the conclusions to be drawn from that, she asks, immediately answering her own question by saying perhaps she no longer has any motivation for writing this blog, which would certainly seem to be the most obvious conclusion to be made. Or forget about motivation - perhaps she no longer has any desire or need to write this blog.

(For those of (the two of) you wondering about the reference to self in the third person, please be aware Pamela has been watching poor Sarah Ferguson going in search of herself at 8:00 pm every Sunday night for the past month, babbling on about her perfect childhood while her mother beat the crap out of her and becoming a princess when she met Her Man (which as far as I understand it, never happened because she became *only* a duchess on marriage while her children, the Ugly Sisters at The Royal Wedding, are indeed princesses because they are daughters of a prince) - anyway, after listening to poor Fergie going on and on and on about murdering poor Sarah, Pamela has become somewhat fixated on the idea of referring to oneself in the third person and has begun to find it rather amusing.  (Ah ha! Does Pamela think she is murdering HERSELF by not writing? Does Pamela think if she does not write she is a worthless waste-of-space like Fergie? Does Pamela need to go off and meet a Shaman in Arizona and shriek "MOM!" as she flattens herself on the ground, because, just as Sarah was, Pamela was also deserted as a child by her mother? No, is the answer to that because Pamela wrote a play in which her mother gets beheaded, so Pamela has taken care of the past ha ha and has no need to fall to her knees and implore her mother to come back. Or get angry. Or something.)

None of which gets us any closer to the reasons for Pamela not writing her blog on a consistent basis, when she's supposed to be so blown away and all by the way she experiences astrology in her day-to-day life that she is totally compelled to share her findings with the world (or rather with the two or three people who occasionally go and check to see if she's added anything to her blog in the last month).

Well, Jupiter squares Pluto for Pamela in three hours time, and while there's been another manifestation of that transit she can write about next time she logs into this account, surely that expenditure of a tremendous amount of energy in an effort to succeed has something to do with her being able to bang away at the keyboard for the past 15 minutes.

Every Ninth Day Astrology

So on June 26th I wrote that I had been, until then, incapable of writing prose for a living, and so far the only result of that is that I've been incapable of writing anything for nothing, not quite the desired result.

Never mind. Perhaps it's because of Uranus opposed to Neptune, which is supposed to be electrifying my sense of spirituality and giving me glimpses of cosmic unity with all creation. Any glimpses of cosmic unity that I've had have only made me wish this transit would hurry up and be over with (Uranus is squaring Saturn at the same time), and so far the only electrifying that's happened was last Monday when a raven pecked at the wrong thing on the utility pole and fried itself, knocking all out all power to the house, not that I knew that that was the cause at the time. All I knew was I was standing by the fridge wondering if I could eat lunch when I'd had breakfast only an hour before when there was a sudden loud POP and the whirring noise the fridge that was in the house when we bought it nine years ago usually makes stopped. Further investigation (flicking on a light switch) showed nothing in the house involving electricity functioned.

My immediate thought was Oh shit, another thousand dollars (not that my poor old Volvo has cost me a lot of money since I got here or anything), as after a month I am still waiting for an electrician to come and ground the water heater which evidently was not done when it was installed five years ago and has subsequently caused tiny pin holes to appear in the copper pipes (don't ask, but it's not a good thing). When the men from the power company finally arrived two hours later and one of them picked up the fried raven by one of its wings and brandished it at me to show me the culprit, I was so relieved it wasn't going to cost me any money and wasn't my fault I managed not to recoil and cheerfully said Life in the country.

And speaking of life in the country, the jungle sounds outside let me know poor Sweet Pea is being sexually harassed by #12's cat as I type - no! He's up on the windowsill meowing piteously to be let in and saved from his fate. Duty calls.

Hey, I wrote something.