LIGHT TRAFFIC

I don’t recall when or why I started thinking that astrology wasn’t just one of many weird things my father believed in but actually pretty cool. My entire childhood, I was told that the reason I was so restless, impatient and fidgety was that the upper (archer) part of my sign, Sagittarius, was shooting arrows into both the distance and the future, and that my the lower (horse) part was itching to go chasing after them. Where had the arrow fallen? Apparently, this burning desire to go galloping into the sunset after projectiles was what made me incapable of fully “embracing the present moment” (a near sin), and of realizing that contentment (a self-referential state of being not affected by life events), could be found wherever you may be. To a nine year old, these allegations – coming from the same source that was behind the Indian gurus with afros and bright orange dresses, transcendental meditation, and ayurvedic diets – struck me as if not outright flawed, then definitely bo-ring.

All I know is that as an undergrad living in Montreal, I suddenly developed an addiction to Rob Brezsny’s off-beat Freewill Astrology column, which came out every Thursday in the back pages of the Montreal Mirror. (At this point of the story, the expression “the apple nevers fall far from the tree” should race through your mind.)

Years later, I must report that I am far from having kicked the astrology habit. In fact, I’ve taken it up a notch. Instead of waiting for the Mirror to come out, on Thursdays, to learn what sort of week lies ahead for us half-horse people, I now read Brezsny’s horoscope online, a full day before it comes out in print. I am not kidding. Currently, I have the Freewill Astrology web site safely bookmarked in the “Utilities” section, right in there between the Meteomedia weather forecast for Montreal and the STM bus schedules. As soon as Tuesday afternoon rolls around, I compulsively start checking for my weekly fix of prophecies.

Many people dislike Brezsny’s style and say he strikes such a perfect balance of vague and metaphorical that he simultaneously means nothing and everything at once. Personally, I find that he’s always on the money.

This could mean any of three things: a) he’s a Sagittarius himself so my horoscope is more accurate than everyone else’s because he feels me, and knows my intense desire to know where the damn arrow landed; b) I am better at reading meaning into empty drivel than most people; c) the days are numbered before I join a community of ascetics who sing the praises of Indian gurus with afros and bright orange dresses.

Only time – and sound astrological omens- will tell.