TAURUS (April 20-May 20): A Tibetan Buddhist sand painting can take weeks to construct. Artists work as a team, painstakingly laying out colored grains in precise designs on a large platform. Once finished, the masterpiece survives only a short time before its makers destroy it. I believe you Bulls will derive deliciously poignant rewards from pursuing this approach as you toil on your labor of love in the coming weeks. That's what the astrological oracles tell me, at least. I'm not saying you'll have to give up your beautiful creation when you're done, but I do believe the creation will be most beautiful if you nurture an appreciation for impermanence that is comparable to the sand painters’.
GEMINI (May 21-June 20): "Dear Dr. Brezsny: I dreamed you sent me an 88-page letter, pink sidewalk chalk, a glossy photo of Marat-Sade, a postcard of Machu Picchu, and a sandwich made of bologna and yellow marigolds. The sandwich was yummy. But what does it all mean? That your gifts are like flowery bologna that tastes delicious? Also, what did the letter say and what was I supposed to do with the other stuff? —Christian Crackwhore in Los Angeles." —Dear Christian Crackwhore: I suspect that you aren't really a Christian crackwhore and that you didn't really dream this dream. You made it all up, right? Hoping to mystify and delight me? You did. Thank you. I suggest you try similar tricks with everyone you care about, especially those who think they have you all figured out.
CANCER (June 21-July 22): It would be a good week to wear a diamond-studded baseball hat backward to a formal party, play Twister in a museum, make condoms into water balloons and throw them at each other in a park after midnight, try to channel the spirit of Lucille Ball, dress vegetables up in doll clothes, and start your collection of Pokémon cards. In other words, Cancerian, lighten up. (P.S. I also suggest you make liberal use of the following words: frothy, quiver, undulate, murmur, lather, effervesce, scintillate.)
LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): Earth would be an icy desert if it weren't for the sun. Our day star's radiance is essential for the nourishment of every living thing. On the other hand, an excess of solar heat can be damaging — scorching crops, drying up rivers, causing skin cancer. As the only sign ruled by the sun, Leo, you possess small scale versions of that dual power to vivify and wither — both of which are now at their peak. In the coming weeks, I suggest you carefully monitor tendencies to shine way too brightly. But don't you dare go too far and eclipse your own resplendence.
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): I trust you're in the thick of finishing up old business, tying up loose ends, and politely screaming "Get the hell out of my life forever" at every influence that's unworthy of you. May I suggest that you bring it all to a roaring climax with a full-blown ritual? First thing you do is create an altar with objects that symbolize the new world you want to explore. Next, gather 10 scraps of paper and write on each piece the name of someone or something to which you want to say goodbye or good riddance. Finally, burn the scraps in the flame of a red candle as you intone the following words with sincere gratitude: "Thank you for what you've taught me, but I've learned all the lessons I can from you. Now scram."
LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): "Is it bad to live without a hell?" poet Pablo Neruda asks in The Book of Questions. There are thousands of correct answers; I'll offer those that are most true for you in this place and time. It would be very smart and healthy for you to live without a hell if you conceive of it as fundamentalist Christians do — a fiery abyss where souls are tortured for eternity. But let's visualize a "hell" cast in a different mythic image — as a sacred cave of rebirth presided over by the ancient Norse goddess Hel. In my opinion, it's insane to live without that kind of "hell" — especially in the coming days, when your soul will yearn to rekindle lost dreams and refresh itself with sweet, shadowy, sublime riddles.
SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): Your clout has swelled in recent weeks. Your chutzpah has ripened nicely and your cajones have ... uh ... grown more impressive. Now you stand at a crossroads. Will you use your new authority to cultivate a rich consensus? Will you diplomatically curry favor so as to build your popularity, thereby making your power more useful and enduring? Or (goddess forbid) will you throw your weight around with reckless insensitivity, like an ancient Greek hero in the thrall of raw hubris?
SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): At the beginning of the 20th century, two African-American leaders pushed for radically different responses to the intransigent cruelty of white culture. Booker T. Washington argued for a policy of accommodation, encouraging blacks to improve their lot gradually through education and hard work. W.E.B. Du Bois, on the other hand, advocated agitation, protest, and a demand for immediate equal rights. I don't feel qualified to judge which was the wiser approach, but I do sense that you Sagittarians have come to a fork in your own life that'll require you to emulate either Washington or Du Bois. What'll it be, my dear? Slow and simmering or headlong and hard-line?
CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): Composers of classical music weren't shy about ripping off riffs. Mozart lifted parts of Boccherini's String Quartet in C. Brahms' Cello Sonata in E Minor has echoes of a piece by Bernhard Romberg. In his Sinfonia, Luciano Berio pilfered from Mahler's Second Symphony. Ah, but here's the rub. Music critics have on occasion declared the parasitic work to surpass the original. Hans Keller asserted, for instance, that Mozart showed more brilliance in stealing Boccherini's theme than Boccherini did in inventing it. What does this have to do with you, Capricorn? From an astrological view, it's prime time to imitate Mozart. I advise you to appropriate every good idea you come across and make it your own, only better. (Reference: www.music.indiana.edu/borrowing/browsekl.html.)
AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): Federal law allows food manufacturers to leave up to seven rodent hairs and 210 insect fragments in a jar of peanut butter. Any more than that and the stuff is considered unsanitary. While this appallingly low standard may cut it for peanut butter, however, it won't work for you in your own chosen sphere, Aquarius. More than any other time this year, your dedication to purity and excellence must be impeccable. Sloppy mediocrity should be your sworn enemy.
PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): My Piscean friend Artemis was always afraid that having enough money would wreck her career as a poet. Being a starving artist, she believed, was a crucial stimulus for her creativity. Last spring, chaos struck: She unexpectedly received a sizable inheritance, plunging her into deep depression. Seeking a cure, she began traveling in Europe, which had previously been impossible for a person of her limited means. A few weeks into her journey, she erupted in a creative frenzy. Today she called from Amsterdam to tell me she has churned out a book-length manuscript of the best stuff she's ever written. I predict that an analogous blast of unruly abundance will soon come your way, Pisces, leading to the erosion of one of your long-cherished theories of scarcity. Homework. Let's all meet in the same dream while we're asleep on the night of Aug. 19. I propose that our all-night dreamtime rave take place on a beach on the northwest shore of Maui. See you
