Nothing like a new metaphor to wake you up in the morning/afternoon. And these little serendipities are why I love LJ.
I have always hated my astrological sign. I’m a Taurus. (But, she protests, practically the rest of my chart is Aries! I’m really all fiery and sexy and stuff!)
Stupid fucking cow. We’re supposed to be all placid (yes, yes, until
you Tip us, then we Anger and Fuck You Up, but mostly we’re meant to be
Bessies) and domestic and quiet and horf a lot of food and stand around
making contented mooing noises at our mates.
Fuck that noise.
I have so much Aries in my chart anyway, and by the sideral chart I am an Aries, so I usually claim that.
Nevermind that most of the Taureans I know are nothing like that,
except for the food and anger thing. I think this may have a lot to do
with Linda Goodman, source of my early astrological education and
atavistic gender relations throwback extraordinaire. She loves Taurus
women because we’re proper
women, you see. Somehow the same sign makes for Big Strong Alpha Males
and Meek Quiet Omega Females in her mind. I have no idea, but I read a
lot of her in my youth, and what she had to say about a Taurean girl’s
prospects. I think I’m allowed to sing in the church choir. In Love Signs, she literally describes us as lumps of mud
in the discussions of Taurus and Pisces (lovely glittering naiads) and
Aquarians (sparkly bouncing bubbles of fabulous colors). We are far too
plain and stodgy and conservative and cloddish to ever deserve to be
with such marvelous creatures as, well, any other sign. Except maybe
Virgos, they get a lot of crap from her, too. And guess who’s moon is
Anyway, I have never wanted to be a Taurus.Why can’t I be all
Scorpio-smoky, or Gemini-batshitcrazy, or a pretty Pisces fish? I’ll
settle for a super-awesome Sagittarian bow. I have to be a cow? (And I’m a sheep in Chinese astrology. Also quiet and unassuming. There is no hope.)
I’m not a cow! Or mud! Dammit!
And then, an LJ post opened up a window in my brain. A little connection that wasn’t there before.
Of course astrology is imprecise at best and ridiculous at worst. But
it’s part of my personal image-set, implanted long before I had my
cynic-muscles pumped up. And to a little girl who might just be able to
believe that the stars had shaken themselves up in a cup and thrown out
her destiny into the great big sky, the idea that she had rolled COW
was somewhat discouraging. Cows don’t know anything about stars. They
eat grass and are burger.
But I’m not a cow. I’m a minotaur.
Look at my new horns and these FABULOUS cloven feet!
*stompetystomphorntoss* Don’t you just love my nose-ring? How about
this smart new tail?
I’m nobody’s mud, Goody Goodman. Step into my Labyrinth and find out how I Keep House.