horrorscopes
There are days like this one, where I click on the button "New Post" and have absolutely no idea what it is that I am going to write about.
And it won't be about a book. Not for now at least, because I still haven't finished On the Road. Maybe actually you'll get the book post on the weekend. That way I'll have more time to develop something more appropriate, more intelligent, less boring, something that won't garner me negative criticism by the one of the people whose opinion I value the most in this world.
Now, I know how impatient you all are, desperately clicking that refresh button, to see whether the shiny spoon has updated her page. Wait-that only happens on those much coveted horoscope websites like Susan Miller's Astrology Zone, when the new horoscope is published at the beginning of every month. How do I know that, you ask? Well because sometimes I read mine. Nothing is ever true in there.
I don't know what it is that we [will never cease to] pursue in horoscopes.
I think that horoscopes are desire-killers.
Because in one dimension, the future is unreachable, it dies as soon as we touch it-that, to me is what defines the present. So that burning desire we have to find out about our future, to have access to what is yet unknown to us, to what encircles mystery and perhaps a touch of enhanced happiness [you know, that tomorrow will be kinder**], dies as soon as time passes turning that future into present. Which makes the future a desire-killer. Adding to the fact that desire is already self-destructive upon its expiration, ie, when it is acquired or achieved.
That horoscope, in giving us this overview of tomorrow, of next week, of next month, of next year, kills in us the curious desire we hold towards the mysticism of tomorrow. By giving us false claims, basically.
Which brings me to the second dimension. That horoscopes and astrology are altogether untrue. Yes, I stand firmly by my words. So the desire they create is false. It's fake. Which, by appearing to us in the form of real desire in turn end up killing that real desire. So my horoscope promises me some random facts about my ride to work in the car, and suddenly, I know what will happen tomorrow. Or, rather, I think I know what will happen tomorrow. And I have no desire to look forward to that ride anymore. [okay that's quite the poor example, I'm just saying anything, really.] I simply cannot expect anything new, and my mind will be fixated onto this idea, that this is going to happen to my ride in the car. And there's no excitement there anymore. There's a thought in the back of my head, of something that has been known already, almost of a passageway into a secret garden* that leads to the local grocery store around the corner. A thought of disappointment.
Which, here too, brings us to the third dimension, where just as in most desires, horoscopes are ultimately disappointing. Their effect is disappointing. [as opposed to the way they are defined, as promising, exclusive insights into the future.] The positivity they promise is nothing but a dream. What is more, is that by already being desire-killers [as per the aforementioned illogic] , they become even twice more disappointing.
And why? Because some stars supposedly decided that. Yes. Not books, not words, not facts, not theories. Stars. Constellations. And if you know me, you'll know I love stars. But do I love the fact that some [probably] dead stars are now inventing a future and promising it to me? Not much.
We have an Arabic proverb that can be translated into something of the sort: "The news you need to pay to hear today will be free tomorrow." Which I think refers to and encourages patience. The patience, that is, to let tomorrow tell you what tomorrow has in store for you.
Well, that's an illogic post. I have no idea what I've just written.
So that little joke I was trying to make ended up spitting a post.
That's good I think.
Good night, look at the stars and don't read your horoscope. Read a book instead. Fiction is more entertaining, that I can promise you.
Sarah.
*I was thinking of writing to you about "The Secret Garden" by Frances Hodgson Burnett, but then I decided against it. I'm not ready yet.
**Don't you just love this song? I do.
And it won't be about a book. Not for now at least, because I still haven't finished On the Road. Maybe actually you'll get the book post on the weekend. That way I'll have more time to develop something more appropriate, more intelligent, less boring, something that won't garner me negative criticism by the one of the people whose opinion I value the most in this world.
Now, I know how impatient you all are, desperately clicking that refresh button, to see whether the shiny spoon has updated her page. Wait-that only happens on those much coveted horoscope websites like Susan Miller's Astrology Zone, when the new horoscope is published at the beginning of every month. How do I know that, you ask? Well because sometimes I read mine. Nothing is ever true in there.
I don't know what it is that we [will never cease to] pursue in horoscopes.
I think that horoscopes are desire-killers.
Because in one dimension, the future is unreachable, it dies as soon as we touch it-that, to me is what defines the present. So that burning desire we have to find out about our future, to have access to what is yet unknown to us, to what encircles mystery and perhaps a touch of enhanced happiness [you know, that tomorrow will be kinder**], dies as soon as time passes turning that future into present. Which makes the future a desire-killer. Adding to the fact that desire is already self-destructive upon its expiration, ie, when it is acquired or achieved.
That horoscope, in giving us this overview of tomorrow, of next week, of next month, of next year, kills in us the curious desire we hold towards the mysticism of tomorrow. By giving us false claims, basically.
Which brings me to the second dimension. That horoscopes and astrology are altogether untrue. Yes, I stand firmly by my words. So the desire they create is false. It's fake. Which, by appearing to us in the form of real desire in turn end up killing that real desire. So my horoscope promises me some random facts about my ride to work in the car, and suddenly, I know what will happen tomorrow. Or, rather, I think I know what will happen tomorrow. And I have no desire to look forward to that ride anymore. [okay that's quite the poor example, I'm just saying anything, really.] I simply cannot expect anything new, and my mind will be fixated onto this idea, that this is going to happen to my ride in the car. And there's no excitement there anymore. There's a thought in the back of my head, of something that has been known already, almost of a passageway into a secret garden* that leads to the local grocery store around the corner. A thought of disappointment.
Which, here too, brings us to the third dimension, where just as in most desires, horoscopes are ultimately disappointing. Their effect is disappointing. [as opposed to the way they are defined, as promising, exclusive insights into the future.] The positivity they promise is nothing but a dream. What is more, is that by already being desire-killers [as per the aforementioned illogic] , they become even twice more disappointing.
And why? Because some stars supposedly decided that. Yes. Not books, not words, not facts, not theories. Stars. Constellations. And if you know me, you'll know I love stars. But do I love the fact that some [probably] dead stars are now inventing a future and promising it to me? Not much.
We have an Arabic proverb that can be translated into something of the sort: "The news you need to pay to hear today will be free tomorrow." Which I think refers to and encourages patience. The patience, that is, to let tomorrow tell you what tomorrow has in store for you.
Well, that's an illogic post. I have no idea what I've just written.
So that little joke I was trying to make ended up spitting a post.
That's good I think.
Good night, look at the stars and don't read your horoscope. Read a book instead. Fiction is more entertaining, that I can promise you.
Sarah.
*I was thinking of writing to you about "The Secret Garden" by Frances Hodgson Burnett, but then I decided against it. I'm not ready yet.
**Don't you just love this song? I do.
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