Email: suningem@gmail.com

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All times / dates: Please remember that all time references (e.g., “dawn”) are PDT – Pacific Daylight Time zone. You can refer to the World Clock in the sidebar for a listing of various world cities or Google ‘time zone converter’ for your own zone.

NOTE: If you’re looking for the Karmic, Luck, Love, Health, Career and Business, Home and Family forecast for the year 2020 – they are in my 2020 Astrology Forecast book. You can find the link to purchase this under ‘PLATFORMS’ in the navigation bar/menu at the top.

NOTE: in the Forecasts every week, I will not be inserting (“stay 6 feet apart”) every time I mention romance or intimacy or “garden party.” But you can insert it for yourself.

START NOTHING:   9:56 pm Mon. to 2:34 am Tues., 7:34 am to 1:22 pm Thurs., and after 9:45 pm Sat. (ALL TIMES/DATES ARE PACIFIC DAYLIGHT.)

PREAMBLE:

Notice there are few and fairly short Start Nothing periods — hinting at a week of action and progress… Not much rest!
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I forecast a Trump second term (despite his terrible poll numbers) — but it’s complicated. In the AFTERAMBLE there’s a full run-down of why I’ve picked Trump. I have tried to keep all personal feelings/bias out of it, but you never know. I wear my mind on my sleeve.
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Your parents are likely to separate if you were born with the ruler of your mother (e.g., Mars if the mother is an Aries)  or the ruler of your own 4th house (e.g., Saturn if you’re a Libra person; Venus is you’re an Aquarian, etc.) in your 10th house (i.e., the father sector).  E.g., if an Aries’ Moon (Aries’ “mother planet” or ruler of the 4th) is in Capricorn (Aries’ tenth) he or she will probably be single-parented.  Another example:  a Libra with Saturn in the 10th. This rule is only general; many exceptions will exist.

If a mother’s ruler of the 4th (or her child’s ruling planet) is in her 7th house, she will likely become a single parent. E.g., a Scorpio with Uranus in the 7th (marriage house) or a Sagittarius with Neptune in Gemini, will often become single parents.
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I’M ADDING a new short story, “The Recruit.” It’s below, after the WEEKLY FORECASTS but before the AFTERAMBLE. I’ll move it to the short story section next week.
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WEEKLY FORECAST:

  ARIES:  March 21-April 19

The main emphasis falls on work, tools and machinery, worker relations, and daily health. Use this week to clarify all instructions and plans for the few weeks ahead in job areas. Your home continues to be your castle of affection and comfort. Your courage and determination are at a multi-decade high. Combine this with diplomacy and empathy, and you have a heroic combination: so be a hero!

Sunday/Monday bring a happy mood, friends and social joys. Your practical luck is unreliable, so stick with fun, flirting. But grow sober, quiet and contemplative Tues. to lunchtime Thurs. Rest, ponder and plan. Deal with civil servants, management types, advisors and agents — results can be deeply beneficial, esp. financially and in career terms, perhaps sexually.

Your energy and charisma surge Thurs. pm through Sat. Lead, help, encourage, tackle problems, and give most of your energy to career and prestige zones. Not particularly good for impressing the opposite sex, though — except, perhaps, Sat. night. Earlier Sat., if you’re bored and/or despondent, chase your ambitions — it will cure your mood.

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  TAURUS:  April 20-May 20

Romance, beauty, pleasure, self-expression, creative and risk-taking urges fill this week and the next two, Taurus. Wish I was that lucky! A Virgo (likely) or Gemini (less so) might attract you now — and they’re willing to bond. Your communications will be affectionate, your daily commute pleasant. Continue to avoid belligerent people and “dark alleys.”

Sunday/Monday test you, esp. at work, and in facing authorities, cops, judges, bosses, parents… Be pleasant, willing and hard-working, and you’ll pass these tests with ease. Your hopes and need for friendship rise strongly Tues. to midday Thurs. (PDT). You’ll feel buoyant, happy, and gratified by glances from the opposite sex. A significant love (affair) might begin. A career/reputation wish might come true. Yes, your popularity’s real. In some cases, you might embrace a difficult romance, one that digs into private places in your background or psyche, and causes disruption.

Retreat Thursday pm through Sat. — rest, ponder and plan, liaison with management types, civil servants, medical, agency and advisory workers. This interval is packed with problems, so don’t aim too high or far (and avoid love and legal zones). Overall, a happy week!

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  GEMINI:  May 21-June 20

The main accent lies on your home, Gemini. Landscaping, gardening, repairs and decoration, new furniture, children and their needs, security, patriotism, rest and recuperation — all are “natural” now to late September. Your money luck continues this week, but only for this week. So if you have purchases to make, or bids for money, make them now. You’re surprisingly hopeful, and will stay that way all the rest of this year.

It’s time to increase your social circle – even now, get out and meet people! 2020 can feature a large investment or financial project with a spouse, partner, or someone — a good one. (Many of you have already done this, but if you haven’t, the opportunity grows quite strong soon — Sept. 12 to Dec. 19.)

Sunday/Monday bring a quiet, contemplative happiness, a tolerant, broad view of life, society, even of the world. There isn’t really any good luck before mid-afternoon Mon. — this eve/night helps you communicate with friends or a lover. Tuesday to lunchtime Thurs. emphasizes your career, prestige relations, ambitious practical projects, and reputation. Chase these — your luck’s splendid despite the general domestic atmosphere. But DO NOT start a new romance (anytime this week, esp. not Tues./Wed.)

A mood of celebration, optimism, wish fulfillment, popularity and social delights — these visit you Thurs. afternoon through Sat. Flirt, laugh, have fun — but make no promises, and avoid pushing practical matters.

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  CANCER:  June 21-July 22

Busy things fill the weeks ahead, Cancer — paperwork, communications, short trips and errands, visits and casual friends. You will be especially busy this week. Your temperament is very easy to take right now, and can attract (new and ongoing) friends and allies. Your career zone remains (to year’s end) an important, potentially fruitful area. Mildness, humour will win; aggression might win, but can incur a higher-up’s wrath.

Sunday/Monday bring secrets, heightened intuition, subconscious promptings, financial and sexual opportunities, research, and medical or lifestyle decisions, commitment and consequences. Unfortunately, commitment now can lead to undesirable consequences, so wait, keep your powder dry (and other hackneyed phrases).

A mellow, sympathetic, understanding mood steals over you Tues. to lunchtime Thurs. Legal, far travel, international, religious, cultural, intellectual, love and media involvements bless you this mid-week. A potential love might disappoint by remaining aloof (probably Tues./Wed.). But a major “turnabout” into good luck and forward motion in relationships will begin by mid-Sept. Soon, success and bright opportunities! Thursday pm through Saturday highlights your career and worldly standing — but not very fortunately, so think before you act. Saturday night offers some mild career/ambition progress.

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  LEO:  July 23-Aug. 22

All that work you haven’t been quite doing yet, some of it from last April or May — well, you’ll be tackling it again, mid-September to December, so get ready…  The main emphasis, for the few weeks ahead, lies on money, earnings, purchases and possessions, memory learning, and sensual “friendly romance.” (I.e., sex without strong love.) Your inner life remains soothing, mellow — spend a few afternoons alone on the back porch, or wandering through quiet places.

Good time to settle or deal with head office or the gov’t. (But be quick — this is the last week of such an influence.) I won’t even mention your legal, travel, intellectual, etc. zone, which is energized strongly until next January. But here, too, immediate action is needed (well before Sept. 9) or wait until Nov. 14 onward to press these travel, legal, etc. matters.

Sunday/Monday feature relationships, fresh horizons, opportunities and public dealings. If you reject compromise, co-operation and diplomacy, you’ll fail. Still, be cautious: not a good time to promise anything, as the other person will take your words much more seriously than you do. Mysteries, secrets, research, the underworld, heightened intuition, financial and intimate opportunities, medical and lifestyle decisions — these fill midweek, and fortunately so — charge ahead. Think about investing in your career, or in a “status symbol.”

Thurs. pm through Saturday brings legal, far travel, intellectual, fame, cultural and religious themes, but it forgot to pack any luck, so proceed slowly and cautiously. Almost better to daydream than act, but make sure first that doing nothing won’t get you in trouble! If you must handle any of these, law, travel, etc., do it well after 5 pm Sat.

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  VIRGO:  Aug. 23-Sept. 22

The accent lies on you, Virgo. You’re at a yearly peak of strength, decisiveness, effectiveness, attractiveness/charisma and confidence! Start things, be a leader. Your words are particularly effective. Friends are warm, affectionate, and your popularity bubbles. But both sentences only apply this week. From July to next January, your financial, investigative and sexy sides intensify. (Sept. 9 to mid-November, the intensity remains, but results elude — so act now or wait for mid-November onward.)

Tackle chores Sunday/Monday, but cautiously, as obstacles and irritations abound. Midweek brings relationships, fresh horizons, opportunities, relocation themes, dealings with the public, negotiation and agreements. If you’re negative, rejecting, un-cooperative or critical, only the bad side of these things will occur. But if you’re co-operative, eager to join and diplomatic, your success can be tremendous — and this is very likely, as good luck is everywhere! One hesitation: a gap might yawn between your lover (romantic interest) and your friends. If so, let time dissolve that gap.

Thursday pm through Sat. stirs the depths — mysteries, finances, investments, sexual desires, medical procedures, lifestyle changes. These won’t be successful, largely, so hold back, don’t commit before 6 pm (PDT) Saturday — after this, you can tackle these themes more productively.

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  LIBRA:  Sept. 23-Oct. 22

It’s your quiet time of year, Libra. Until late September, ponder, plan, and deal with background areas such as government or head office relations, charities and spiritual searching, agents and advisers. One or two significant communications can occur in these area. Get plenty of rest; pamper your health. Higher-ups still favour you, but only until Saturday. Relationships remain ultra important until January, but soon, around September 8 onward to November 13, relationships may seem to either stall, or turn backwards. Be patient during this time, as it’s a natural “get your second breath” pause, and will be followed by a renewal of the bond’s depth — or by a new bond/ relationship.

Sunday/Mon. promote romantic notions and bring you the experience of beauty and pleasure… however, don’t expect too much. Tackle chores midweek. Eat and dress sensibly. This is a good interval to buy or repair machinery and tools, a car or computer. Also an excellent interval to hire employees or seek employment. Relationships loom Thurs. lunchtime through Saturday. Good results won’t come easy. Be cooperative and diplomatic, but also self protective: don’t be roped into a problematic situation. The best relationship trend will come after supper time Saturday (PDT).

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  SCORPIO:  Oct. 23-Nov. 21

It’s a great time, Scorpio! Popularity, social delights, flirtations and an unsinkable optimism lift your mood to happiness. A wish could come true. All this for three more weeks. This week, that socializing could bring you into contact with someone both friendly and sexy, who is willing to consider intimacy. This is also the last week of affectionate thinking about a person or a lifetime together, and about travel, school, media, legal or cultural concerns. (By next week, this thinking turns to doing, earning you the praise of higher ups — but that’s not till next week.) Your work remains intense until early January; however, you will get a respite or breather as chores lighten between mid-September and mid November.

Sunday/Monday is for home, children, garden and mother nature. This is not the best time to start a big project, so just go along with what’s started, or get two days of deep rest. Midweek brings beautiful romance, beautiful beauty, and beautiful pleasure. Be creative, inventive, take a chance. If you’re single and admire someone speak up! This is a very fortunate phase, one in which a love dream could come true. But pursue any goal and you are certain to achieve some degree of success.

Tackle chores and guard your health Thurs. lunchtime through Saturday. This is not an easy interval, so proceed carefully. Read the label instructions twice, and as carpenters say, measure twice, cut once. The only chore that doesn’t have difficulties attached appears after supper Saturday (PDT).

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  SAGITTARIUS:  Nov. 22-Dec. 21

Be ambitious until late September, Sage. Your career is under very good auspices. Be ready for one or two important communications in this zone. This week (only) if power plays occur, you somehow benefit. Also this week only, higher-ups are impressed by your research abilities and perhaps your economic wisdom. If you can invest in your employer’s company, do so.

The bright romantic luck you are experiencing will last until early January. But from mid-September to mid November a love affair will slacken somewhat. Be patient, for this is a breather, a recuperative pause, and forward motion will begin again in November. If you are a woman, bite your tongue before you attack that poor sensitive male ego!

Sunday/Monday brings swift and easy chores, errands and communications, paperwork and short trips. This isn’t a terrifically fortunate interval, so just do what is necessary. Steer your heart toward home mid week. Hug the kids, do repairs and gardening. This is a splendid time to start any major home project such as landscaping or renovations. But start nothing after 7 am Thursday. From lunchtime this day through Sat., romance catches your attention… but love, creative projects and gambles, and raising children, will all face barriers and rejections. So enjoy the mood and the beauty of these three days without taking a major risk. A mildly successful pursuit of romance can occur after supper Saturday, to about 10 pm (PDT).

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  CAPRICORN:  Dec. 22-Jan. 19

This is the second week of four in which your thoughts will wander to larger questions such as what is life, why is society the way it is, how does Karma work, and how does international trade work? Whether in practical or philosophical or emotional matters, you want to see the big picture rather than be buried by details. However, in your case, details often form the pivot points or structural supports for more abstract pondering.

Love is certainly possible these weeks, especially in the present week, as other people will be gracious and affectionate in their responses. In addition, someone is very ready to talk with you about love and the future. Your domestic situation has been quite intense since July 1. Perhaps this has spurred you into renovations, landscaping, a new disciplinary regime for the children, etc. However, now to mid November this domestic theme, although it remains intense, seems to tread water. For this reason, you would be better to avoid starting new domestic projects until November 13 onward into early January.

Sunday/Mon. brings money matters to the fore. Be cautious in purchasing or negotiating pieces, payments, in demanding money, etc. There’s just little luck here (and in chasing sensual intimacy). Midweek sparks errands and short trips, casual contacts, communications and paperwork, and curiosity. This is a very fortunate interval, so use it to send your most important messages, such as admissions forms for college entry, or a job application or love letter. Be curious — ask questions, peruse the media, the news.

Thurs. lunchtime through Fri. nudges you toward home and family. This is not the most fortunate interval, although Friday is not too bad. Proceed carefully, and be gentle and kind on the home front. Recognize the need for repairs either in the house or in the hearts of your family. Saturday after suppertime opens a door to progress, but there’s a little lost if you don’t enter.

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  AQUARIUS:  Jan. 20-Feb. 18

The mists of mystery pillow around you until late September, Aquarius. Dig deep, treasure lies below. Research, investigate. A major life change might come from a sexual coupling, an investment or debt reduction program, surgery, or a lifestyle decision. You might learn a significant secret. Your workplace and workmates are pleasant and mildly lucky this week.

Errands and paperwork and busy chores keep eating up your time, last July to next January. You will get some relief from this mid-September to mid November — this period might also delay expected answers and could cause some mistakes in communications (e.g., mailing a letter on forgetting to put the stamp on it).

Your energy and charisma search upward Sunday/Monday. Be a leader, make new contacts, and start projects — but do this on the small side. It’s not a good interval to launch big, major projects. Chase money midweek – splendid luck rides with you. Buy/sell, ask for a pay raise or raise your prices to clients, etc. Casual sex might occur: if so, it will be a lovely thing if it begins after Wed. dawn or (very early) Thurs., not Tuesday. (All PDT.)

Friday brings errands and paperwork, travel and communications. Proceed carefully here, as bad aspects far outnumber good ones. If you want to make an important phone call or mail an important letter etc., do so after supper time Saturday to about 9 pm (PDT).

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  PISCES:  Feb. 19-March 20

The main emphasis until late September lies on relationships, fresh horizons, new opportunities, public dealings, possible fame, and diplomacy and cooperation. These last two are necessary because others hold the essential power now. You will succeed far more by hopping on someone else’s bandwagon than by trying to push your own cart up the hill. The present week can hold one or two quite significant conversations.

This week also continues a nice romantic streak. Romance and relationships can dovetail into a sweet bond! Money continues to flow by you and through you until January, but mid-Sept. to mid-Nov. might dam the flow a bit, reducing it to a trickle. These two months ahead might also bring money from the past.

Withdraw from open competition Sunday/Monday: rest and relax, ponder and plan, and seek spiritual or governmental knowledge. Pamper your health. Not much is happening. Your energy and charisma soar midweek. This is a very fortunate interval, so start significant projects, be confident, and use your temporarily heightened charisma to attract allies, or at least to persuade important people accept you. (I.e., to let you on their bandwagon, or to shake hands with you on an opportunity.)

Lunchtime Thurs. ends the charisma; thence through Sat., money and possessions fill your thoughts. This is not a very fortunate interval, so proceed with care and be wary of committing yourself to any promise. In shopping, stick to routine items. Pushing for a pay raise could bring the opposite. The only safe time to pursue either money or purchases or casual, friendly sex is Saturday evening after supper time (PDT).

THE END.

THE RECRUIT  — A STORY

PART ONE — THE MONGOOSE

He weighed about 130 pounds, scrawny and not too tall. He was probably nineteen. He had buck teeth, so pronounced that he could not eat hamburgers — the meat patty slid out in the gap between his front teeth, embarrassing him. Every week, he finished the obstacle course bountiful minutes before the next man. Then he stood, watching the rest. The Drill Sergents often ”adopted” a recruit, one they admired for his unusual height, or athletic muscles, or “can-do” leadership qualities — and they joked with him apart from the other recruits, and made him a squad leader, or whatever they thought suited him. But the short, scrawny recruit, though he excelled in every contest except those of absolute strength, was simply not noticed.

One Sargent drilled a bullet-point into his finger to teach him slowness. But from that point he squeezed the trigger so calmly that he became the best marksman in his company. No one noticed that either.  One afternoon, as the company of  trainees lined up in the narrow “street” between the steel quonset huts for a smoke break, another recruits jumped on him from behind.

The jumped-on recruit had worked in a small petting zoo a few years before on summer vacation. A mongoose had eaten through a plywood wall, through the 1/4 “ steel mesh, and through the next plywood wall, and eaten the  brains of a mother possum and her ten children. The recruit found him sleeping, curled, in his own cage. He was mildly astounded. He pitied the possums, but he also felt for the mongoose. It was doing what it was born to do, and it was astoundingly effective at it.

He had to transport the mongoose to another cage. Gingerly, with heavy leather gloves, he tried to pick the mongoose up, and was surprised when it calmly let him. It was a long grey ground-hugging creature with a bushy tail about 2 feet long. He lifted it up and placed it on the concrete floor of the multi-terrarium building, holding its ample tail so it wouldn’t flee. He held the tail and walked outside with it. The mongoose was unflappably calm and pliable, perfectly content to walk with the boy. A perfect, diplomatic gentleman. The boy admired that.

He bent under the weight of the other recruit, who kept saying something about his bad marching, and that he’d better learn to march in cadence or he’d be sorry, while he tried to tie him up in a wrestling hold. He tried several holds while communicating all this. The other recruits watched. His holds, probably learned in a high school wrestling club, surrounded the recruit rather than pinning him, for he met no resistance, yet somehow could not seize and immobilize him. Finally the wrestler stood and the recruit stood. The recruit waited. The wrestler threw his arm into the air and walked away.

He was called into the D.I.’s tin quonset hut.

“Think you’re a tough guy? You want to fight, tough guy?” The D.I. slammed the recruit up against the metal lockers, and proceeded to punch him repeatedly in the stomach.

But they were only taps that would hardly hurt a guinea pig.

“Why do you do that?” the recruit asked, puzzled. “Why aren’t you punching me hard?” Something in this boy’s eyes, or something around him, had held the DI’s hand back.

“What? You say SIR when you speak! You worm! You shit-smelling asshole.” The D.I. called him many names, and finally said, “Get the fuck out of my sight!”

He grabbed the recruit’s shoulders and pushed him out the door and into the “street.”

“You want a real fight?” he said loudly. He shoved the recruit in the back, sending him a few steps forward. The other recruits, about forty of them, still ranged along both sides of the road for their smoke break, watched intently.

The recruit turned to face the D.I., but said nothing. The D.I. pushed him in the chest, then walked “at” him, pushing him again

They were about the same height, but the D.I. was stockier, about 30 pounds heavier, and held his chest high, aggressively. The recruit suddenly fell to his knees, threw his arms around the Drill Instructor’s calves, and pushed. The D.I. fell on his back. The recruit bounced up and kicked the Drill Instructor’s thigh once, with all his strength, with his combat boot. He stepped back and watched the D.I. stand up. He favoured his left leg.

He charged, lunging. The boy turned and ran. The D.I. ran after in determined silence, vengeance in his eyes but a noticeable wobble in his legs. It only took a moment, perhaps in the third or fourth stride — the boy dropped to his knees again with the Sargent swiftly on top of him, but the boy had dropped into a curved ball, like an armadillo, and the D.I. went flying, tumbling over the armadillo, onto his face this time. The boy jumped up and immediately began kicking the D.I.’s left thigh hard and repeatedly. The D.I. jerked up on his arms, rolled over and tried to grab the recruits’ legs. The recruit stepped back and waited. Another D.I., older, a gunny sarge, leaned against a post, arms crossed, watching.

The D.I. formed a tripod with his right foot and two hands and struggled to his feet. He looked furiously at the recruit, his face red and wet, his breathing aggressive, as if he was going to charge. Then, he threw his left arm into the air and stormed off, dragging his left leg.

The D.I. who had watched approached the recruit and said gently, “Son, you’d better go stand by your rack for now.” The recruit went into the quonset hut and stood by his bunk.

A minute later the hut filled with recruits. No one spoke to him. They gaped at him. Soon, two big MPs entered and stood at his bunk.

“Private Lindon? Pack your gear.”

It took 30 seconds. He looked up for the first time. The other recruits were staring at him in a strange way. He stared back, not comprehending. The high-school wrestler sat on his bunk, chin in hand, frowning. The recruit left, an MP on either side. As they reached the door, he turned. “I am not very developed,” he said loudly, apologizing.

“You’re fucking okay with us,” someone yelled. “Yeah!” “Take care, man!” The recruit was gone. “Gold Star, man,” someone yelled. “You can fuckin’ be with me in ‘Nam!” another shouted.

In the brig, he felt ashamed and alert. A new, dangerous place. But he knew how to be unnoticed.

A day later, MPs escorted him to a jeep, then to a  room quite far from the drill field, in a building and an area he’d never seen — gardens, and greenery fell over the adobe balustrades. Rm. 205.

“Shut the door, Sargent, and wait outside,” The Colonel said. “You can sit,” he said to the recruit, gesturing.

“Sir, yes, Sir.” But he didn’t sit.

“Your drill instructor’s still laid up.”

The recruit said nothing.

“If he complains, you could be in the brig for a year or two.”

The recruit said nothing.

“How’d you learn to fight like that?”

“Sir, nowhere, Sir.”

“Have you ever had hand-to-hand training? Martial arts?”

“Sir, no sir.”

“You can stop calling me Sir for now.”

He read something from the desk.

“If I attacked you right now, would you fight me?”

“No, Sir.”

“Because I’m an officer?”

The recruit said nothing.

“Private Lindon, you have to answer my questions. Would you not attack me because I’m an officer? Why would you abstain from fighting me, but will attack a Drill Sargent?”

“I didn’t attack the Drill Instructor, Sir. I have forty witnesses.”

The Colonel sighed loudly. “Private, why did you enlist in the Corps?”

The recruit hesitated.

“Well?”

“I was curious.”

“Curious?”

The recruit’s eyes lowered, as if he was searching.

“And if, say, you killed or harmed me, how would you plan on getting away?”

“I… don’t really ever plan, Sir.”

The Colonel stared fiercely, intently at him.

“Plan! You make a plan, then you follow it. Can you understand that?”

“I understand, Sir. I just… don’t…”

“And no martial training?”

“I read a book on Judo once,” he said, as an offering.

The officer sat.

The recruit seemed neither hostile nor charmed nor friendly. Blank, but with something in the blankness: curiosity.

“I’ve seen your tests. You have a high I.Q. Most intelligent people are talkative; but you are not. Why? Keeping it all to yourself?”

“No Sir.”

“Well?”

“Usually I don’t understand something, Sir, so I just watch.”

He wanted to say, I did always try to march. I don’t know why they say I’m out of step. But he said nothing.

“It was strange that he gave up,” the recruit said. “I mean, in front of all the squads.”

“Are you saying your D.I. acted in a cowardly manner?”

“Oh, no, Sir. I think it has something to do with me.”

“How so?”

After a moment he said, “I think I’m strange.”

The Colonel looked out the window. After a minute he turned to the recruit and said, “We’ll find you another place. You’ll still be a Marine, but you’ll be doing something different. What do you think about that, Private?… Well?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Sir.”

“I’m suggesting sending you to a school, intelligence work. Your test scores are high. Yet you are a strange duck… I’m giving you a way out here. Or, you could just return to the brig for a few years.”

“Oh.”

The Colonel ended the interview by calling the Sargent to take the private back to the brig.

At sunrise, at reveille, they found him dressed in his fatigues, sitting on his bunk, weeping. An hour later the Colonel appeared….

“Do you have any reservations about serving your country in the way I mentioned? On a different battlefield?”

The recruit looked out the window. “Okay,” he said.

The Colonel had asked an MP to enter the cell immediately after he left, to push the recruit around, promising him a week’s leave and no repercussions. He left the recruit’s sight, waited until the MP entered, then watched, hidden, from the doorway, ready to call a halt if it looked damaging. As the MP entered, the recruit rose to his feet, to stand at “slack attention.” The MP suddenly pushed him in the chest, hard, without warning, so the recruit flew backwards about four steps, but he retained his balance. The big man rushed to seize him, but the recruit, fast as an arrow, poked the MP’s left eye, and swiftly after, his right eye, with rigid fingers. The MP grabbed his face, let out a cry and stopped, blinded. The recruit grabbed his bunk — a metal frame with a thin mattress on it — lifted one end in the air, and brought one of the steel crossbars down as hard as he could on the middle of the MP’s back. The MP let out a cry of pain and rage, arching his back.

“Well, why are you attacking me then?” the recruit said, waiting nervously, pleading.

The MP stood to his full height, his eyes weeping, face red, pulled his truncheon out, and said, “Get against that wall.”

The recruit backed up against the cement block wall.

“Turn around.” The private did. The MP was about to handcuff him when two other MPs entered, escorted the sore-eyed one out, and locked the cell, without a word. The Colonel had moments before stepped to the guardhouse and said, “You’ve got an MP down, Cell 5. DON’T touch or talk to the prisoner. But lock his cell.”

“Yessir.” Two MPs rushed out, right hands on the truncheons in their wide belts.

The next day, the recruit was transferred. The receptors didn’t want him; he hadn’t even finished basic training, and hadn’t had infantry training at Pendleton. But after some discussions between the Colonel and the Lieutenant General commanding special ops training, the recruit entered their world. With instructions: Do not make him march.

His instructors soon remarked on his ability to disappear and reappear — almost like a cat. His suspicion of his own strangeness recurred: he had glimpses of a difference. The main difference was, he didn’t believe. He didn’t believe like the other trainees.

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It was a long, snaking road home, to the port where he had lived. The rain-soaked faces were white as mushrooms. His little sister, 11, ran to hug him around the waist. His mother looked at him.

PART TWO — THE NURSING

He lies in the room in the bright sunless twilight. The satin quilt won’t absorb the sweat on his hands. He hears her feet, pad, pad. He rises on one elbow. He says, “How are you?”

“Why do you say that?” she says, in a soft, lilting, careless tone.

He notices, flat on his back now, that his hand trembles as he draws it through his hair.

“I said, how are you?” he says.

“I’m here every day,” she says. “I’m here every day and you don’t know how I am?”

He can say, rising on one elbow, Oh, come on. I drove by the hospital today. I saw you. But he doesn’t, he merely rises, to watch her body. Her uniform drops to the floor, she steps from the coils. With a light, limp gesture, she drops her brassiere on the bed, on his ankles. He watches her breasts swing.

He hears the shower. He imagines her body, smooth, the beads rolling off it. The swaying puppies between her elbows as she rubs her face. Once she said, Robert, Robert, Robert, and he answered, awkwardly, Maureen. He sucks on this, like a stone picked up in the field. He remembers his last laugh, oily with self-fright.

Now she sits at the vanity, nude on her towel, rubbing something on her face and throat. He rises, the bed like a seismograph. He approaches the warm, wet slab of her back. To make up. With a sober movement, she avoids him. He hasn’t. Unable. He stares at the mirror that a moment ago reflected her.

She’s dressing. She’s going out. Potato chips, mixers mixers. He stares. She doesn’t like him staring. Embarrassed, he keeps silent, and keeps staring. She goes. He rolls over on the bed. He takes her discarded nurse’s uniform from the floor to feel the white, cool fabric. When she moves, it is as though a statue just stirred, sudden and eternal. He cannot make the statue move. He tries on her dress. The fading twilight. He’s ghostly in the mirror, gray. Do I affect you at all? What do you mean, affect? I don’t know what you mean by affect. He takes it off, unexcited.

The ceiling light blossoms. It is like, when he killed someone, it would be that silent, lighting but not illuminating, blossom in his mind; afterwards. Sometimes a second later, sometimes not for a minute, or the next day: peace, like a slow ballet. But then he stops. He cannot make the statue move. When he approaches her from behind, lays an asking hand on her shoulder, only remains, just remains. It all remains.

Sometimes he is frozen. In wait, he waits, while his stomach hurts. Used to be his stomach hurt then, too. But then the peace, being driven away, the car dreaming through the obedient streets. Sometime she moves, she teases, they wrestle on the floor, he tries to laugh, “Ahhh….heh, heh,” he pleads, stiff, an oily laugh. Stiff. Used to be his feet knew which way to move, his eyes, without his help, knew what to see.

She works, she’s twenty-seven. He’s twenty-four. He used to go everywhere without luxury. He used to have justification. But it fell apart; or rather, he left justification, because it meant nothing. Maybe the government wanted him found. But now he lies on the bed. The streets bother him. He might meet Max, or Turd, or Lynn. Or maybe he’s made enemies. He doesn’t know. Enemies he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s Maureen who makes him lie on the bed. He doesn’t know if he changed his mind, or it was changed.

She didn’t respect the way he made money, she told him not to continue. I don’t like those people. Who? Them. After the first quiet night in her arms. When she discovered. He knows she doesn’t know exactly. Was that why he stopped? How did he arrive in this house? He wonders if the people he killed respected him. He wonders if they saw his movements, just a moment before, and thought, there’s an unusual young man. Maureen had a doctor. A lawyer. A newspaper man. Her picture in the paper. She’s never had a baby. The satin bed quilt won’t absorb the sweat in his hands.

He walks into the living room, perhaps to read. He doesn’t understand. Maureen reads, so he reads. Her books. Maureen lies in a thin film over the pages; their cryptic messages he takes for her soul. He searches and searches, but without depth, like a man who stares into the ocean and only sees the sky reflected. And today, he drove by the hospital where she works. Why, like a flower suddenly frozen, was she laughing in that doctors face? So he has stopped moving, can’t talk. Is that it? Has he found a nothing, where he should have been different?

They rent the house.

He hears her arrive, the staccato of her heels tacking down, what. Tacks down his apprehension. He rises, unaware that he has. He hovers. She enters the room, stops, stares at him, arms clasped around a bag. She speaks. He extracts a wet finger, Robert guiltily on his pants. Nothing, he says. He waits for another clue, but she turns, walking towards the kitchen. No No Nnph, says the swinging door. His stomach hurts. He re-enters the bedroom, to sleep. The guests will arrive soon. He imagines her contempt for him, inviting all these strangers. He enters the kitchen. Help me, his eyes say. She does not notice, although she knows. She slices onions. Then he’s ashamed.

He re-enters the bedroom. He dozes, but a violent roar, internal, wakes him. The end of a laugh. Was she laughing? He goes to take a shower, surreptitiously to investigate. The telephone. Her voice stops. He passes, his stomach pushing against his chest. He showers, dries, sweats. Voices, on the other side of the door. He stops, one leg in his pants, to listen. He cannot understand them. The stereo booms against the door. The Rolling Stones.

He fingers his glass, turning it slowly on his knee. He is sitting alone, politely watching a voluble group. A woman’s hand held in the air, long rigid fingers; high, protesting voice. Laughter. They are like the books, pretty things, complicated things. His understanding glances off their sheen. Like the book, they tell stories. But he cannot understand the story, although he understands the stories. He cannot understand what he should say. He knows stories too, but they are all – they are all — his mind shrugs, fluid. His hand, as though with memory, makes a movement. He thinks, it must be the drink, he hasn’t made that movement for so long, he hasn’t forgotten, or maybe there was no need to, and now, with the drink. He walks to the kitchen. He steps back. Maureen stares at him. He swallows, stares. Confused, this thin, supple mood.

He laughs. He thinks of going around the party: have you seen it? About 2 pounds? For my hand, I need it for my hand.

“So you’re Maureen’s boyfriend! You’re so quiet! Why don’t you mix? Come on, mix.” A woman, gaudy and perfect as a bird. She takes his arm and propels him to a group. But he stands, shy, and leaves when he can. The sweat in his hands won’t absorb into his pants. His pants catch at his knees. His belt catches awful at his fingers. He stands around, waiting for instructions. Instructions won’t catch at his pants. Lips won’t twist glass into rubber. – She is there, Maureen’s there, half sitting, half on her back on the couch. He watches her through the dancers and the smoke, the dim red light. He thinks, he will drift, casually. Her thighs shine; he imagines, remembers, her moist vagina. He will exchange a deliberate, lazy, confident word. He circles, his eyes carefully averted. Or, they glance off her. But it’s not her. In the dark, the shifting smoke, he sees a blonde, a doppelganger, suddenly, surprisingly, not her. He sees two or three guests observing him. He walks away quickly, furtively, weightless legs.

He enters the bedroom, to consume time. Maureen is sitting on the bed like a wax flower, legs crossed, arms heavy as gold. A burly man in a grey suit, maybe a doctor, sits beside her, elbows on knees. The doctor raises his head, crinkles his brow. His eyes squint through thick glasses. This is a private conversation, the doctor says. Because he doesn’t know who I am, he thinks. But he doesn’t speak, he waits helplessly. But she doesn’t speak. Then he leaves the room, privacy like hypnotism swarming over, overwhelming him.

He decides to walk to the front door. He decides to take a shower. He decides to pick up a woman. He decides everyone is watching him. He has only to say, I’ve —that’s how it was with Maureen. He said, I’ve — and then the blank, the blank that intrigued her. But she’s not intrigued any more. Her swaying doves. That he cupped in his hand. Or did she merely never say no, months ago? For an instant he understands and he doesn’t understand. How he is trapped in this suppleness. How he waits. How he cannot pick up a woman, or this party will never end, or he could walk to the front door and back again, or anything, yes, no, the 2 pounds, the café, crack! : for an instant glory, rebellion, rise in him. He sips very deliberately, but to no avail: his glass is empty again.

He decides he sees her disappearing through a doorway. No, No, Nnph. Yes. So he’s alone with her, in the kitchen. Counter studded with bottles, rye, vodka. She is flushed and excited, but not by him. Like a schoolgirl on the bus, and he feels an envy for the youth and vitality under her mildly older flesh. His eyes like mouths, sucking. He’s distracted, her attention on the swinging door where muffled comes the sound of a sudden but eternal activity. Thieves plunder the house. He knows their movements, they are quick, like dancers. Supple. He watches her eyes. How was your drive today? She says, helping him, but without conviction, without caring. And he: Fine. How was the hospital? And she: hateful again. I stole some Valiums again. And he: I’m sorry.

She looks at him, steadily. She lies in bed at night, clicking her nails. And suddenly animated, fluttering around him because he blocked her way. Saying, Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you do anything? Christ! Then she says in a new voice, hermetically sealed from the old one, I need more cigarettes, and then she starts out the swinging door, and he says, Tell him I’m your lover. Who? she says. Who is that doctor? he says. What doctor? Is he a doctor? He stumbles, apologetic. Who? she says. I’m not a doctor, he says. I have, he says, he turns, not to see her, determined; that is, unable. I’m sorry, he remembers.

It’s the hospital, she says later, apologetic. It makes me smoke. He has come to stand beside her like a married man, strollers in the park. The burly doctor pinches her in his passing, lurching. Her neck twists to the doctor’s flirting retreat, laughing, her eyes big as a cow, and charming, blinking. Robert turns also, pretend he hasn’t seen; he disappears among the dancers. Supple into the kitchen. He stares out the kitchen window.

He thinks of Lynn, who gave him his first street job. Who seemed bored by him after that. So he lived alone for a while, and then he lived with a girl who drank and stared out the window, and her teeth went grey and mossy, and then he lived alone again in a hotel room, rooms, rooms, and did his jobs, cities and flights and cities and at first it was okay in the dreaming cars, but then it was worse, and Max and Turd’s faces were strange, strangely unfamiliar, as though something else lived in them, maybe the devil, and he started staying alone, and he started reading his horoscope in the newspaper, and he was scared of the street, he didn’t know exactly why, like being scared of a shrill telephone. He thinks he hears Maureen behind him, or Lynn, but his mind is halfway out the window, he turns slowly, but anyway she is gone. He goes slowly through the swinging door. He hears her laughing, okay, okay.

She is laughing, bent double, kneeling on the carpet. The doctor  lunges in again, pinches her, tickles her, and jumps back spryly, deep, soft chuckles. Her friends stand around, hooting and clapping. He wonders what a doctor is, or a lawyer. He watches, fascinated by their bravery and ease, these perfect, egotistical beings. His woman, that man. Is their abandon a result of some subterranean cleverness? He turns so Maureen, whose breast has popped from her velvet dress, will not see him helpless. He thinks, she might scratch it on the carpet. Her head jerks back as she sits up. Her breast floats like a drunken dove. He sees her tuck it away, to modest laughter and oh’s. He starts walking. He has a desire to walk to the front door. He has a desire to walk quickly to the kitchen. He stops, poised, as though to leap or run, a statue. The party surrounds him, sudden and eternal. His head on his neck. With its voices, clinking, music. He starts walking. Pardon me. Excuse me. He searches the party vigorously, for invisibility.

They’re banging on the door. He rises from the toilet seat, stops. The door’s locked, he remembers swiftly. They’re jiggling the knob. He sits again. The light is too bright; it cannot withstand their knocking. Hey, whatsa hold up? He turns to speak, but she is not perched on the bathtub’s edge. He sees a ghost in the mirror. Behind the house there’s a field. He lowers himself onto the gravel, hands first, his toes catch on the small window’s ledge.

Because his eyes don’t care, he closes them as he walks. Because after a while he doesn’t know where he is, he flops to his knees. He curls his hands into his chest as he lies, bent, on his side. Sticks, rocks, sharp leaf stems dig into him. He lies awake, lucidly, sharply awake, and begins to shiver. He sleeps. Then wakes, and cannot sleep. Holding himself, shivering in the unmoved night, searching, hope a stranger, he remembers, just a fluke, what he had shouted out when leaving the barracks with the MPs: “I’m not fully developed yet.” It’s all he has, so he keeps repeating, through the hours, “I’m not fully developed yet.” Quietly lying rigid through the night.

Shivering, he watches the blue red dawn. His feet itch. He turns to lie so he can see the house. It rises in the early sun, whiter. Gliding cars, guns, cash registers. All clanging through his mind. He rises, walks, feeling his face jar with each step. She stands in the back doorway, in her pink quilted housecoat. One hand, white arm outstretched, cups the edge of the door behind her. He can hardly see the hand, though; the hot white wall stings his eyes.

“How are you?” he says.

“I said how are you,” he insists. He remains poised, unable to enter, to push forward. She retreats with a sleepy, thoughtful scowl. She’s left the door open. He sits in the kitchen, alone, waiting. He imagines he can hear whispering, but how can he hear whispering all the way from the bedroom? Maybe it’s the front hall. He decides merely to wait. He sees he must go a long way.

He sees he must wait forever. He’s glad there is no gun in the basement. He’s glad he’s forgotten all those telephone numbers. He thinks how he must go a long way, how he will make no progress, how he will wait anyway, and how humiliating it is, and how he will wait anyway, sucking on the waiting like a stone.

THE END.

AFTERAMBLE:

PLEASE NOTE: MUCH OF THE FOLLOWING IS POLITICAL IN NATURE!

Politics is the science of control. I was tempted to say, of human control, but control goes far beyond, for humans affect all nature’s environments, except her volcanic ones. Politics are necessary to organize people. Without politics, we would be primitive clans with primitive technology — or worse, animals — or worse, actually, for animals possess social structures within which power plays and “politics” are alive and well.

Whenever I moan about the low morals and ethics of politicians, I have to remember that all really is fair, in this zone of human endeavour. I would change that old saying: all is fair in politics and war; not in love. In love, only a bold mind succeeds; but only a fair mind preserves the success. I suspect all is fair because politics to a large degree occurs on a gut level. It’s in the innards of biological forces, driven by biological imperatives, deeply instinctual, driving forward (toward power or, benevolently, leadership) with the unstoppable force of a young tree.

That politics is a naturally visceral occupation is shown by the large role that charisma plays.
***   ***.

So, I might have gone a little overboard on Michelle Obama, who really was just being political, in an arena where all’s fair. Maybe she’s just a regular garden-variety phoney. But I want to get rid of this mean, critical streak of mine. I’ll try!
***   ***

Predicting the November 3rd US federal election results is a lot trickier than it usually would be, partly because the election will not really take place on November 3rd. By that day how many votes will already have been cast? —  50%? 20%? 70%? (The vote is cast as soon as it enters the mailbox and is irretrievable. It’s not probable, but certainly is possible, that the election outcome will already be decided by mailed votes before Nov. 3.)

Voting might take place a month or more preceding election day, if I understand cable news. This makes it difficult to use traditional astrological methods for telling a winner. I spoke of the early voting above; but we also need to watch for the late counting. Some counties in, I think, New York State, took over a month to tabulate results from a mail-in primary election. So a winner might not be announced on election day, or even days, weeks later.

This makes it unlikely that a chart cast for election day, or the aspects on election day, will foretell the results. That said, what astrology I have left, tattered and non-specific time-wise, indicates that Trump wins a second term. If so, an assassination attempt will probably involve explosives. (You can write to warn the Secret Service if you want.)

Here’s the thing: Biden has 2 solar returns. (I did 2, as Election Day kind of sits in the middle of the 2019 return’s end and the 2020 return’s beginning. This, too, makes a determination difficult — which return applies?) Anyway, the planet ruling the rising or “personality” sign in both returns, sits in the third house of communications — a weak spot. In his lunar return, the ascendant ruler sits in the sixth house, another weak spot. Venus in this lunar return is significant, because it rules Taurus, Joe’s Moon. (The moon rules the populace.) But the return’s Venus is in a degree that is “fated” to face a major wave of “ignorance, local patriotism and prejudice, all coalesced on a common front.” This hints the electorate might reject Joe’s ideas out of hand, perhaps unfairly.

Trump’s solar and lunar returns aren’t wildly better. His lunar return shows a “secondary” (i.e., birth) Jupiter in the tenth house. Jupiter in the 10th is the classic “winner’s flag.” Were this the solar return’s Jupiter, I’d declare him the winner right now. But it’s a secondary influence — still good, but weaker.

On the negative side — and this is a bit astounding — the Moon and Lunar south node (bad karma, temptation, retribution*) are both at 21 degrees Sag. in Trump’s birth chart, and at 20 and 21 degrees Sag. in the return chart. And all four are sitting smack dab on the ascendant (the chart’s rising degree, i.e., the 1st house, meaning “Trump himself”) which sits at 20 degrees Sag. The odds against this are at least 180 x 360 x 360 x 360, or about 1 in 8 or 9 billion. (I’m not a mathematician, so I might be “off” here.)

* “retribution” — Steve Bannon was arrested on fraud charges, Michael Avenatti on extortion charges, and Saddam Hussein was captured in his hidey-hole, all when the south lunar node was in their sun sign.

I’ve mentioned Trump’s birth chart Moon-South Node conjunction before, probably most obviously when I said all “J’s” are anathema to him. secret enemies who work against him — John Bolton, etc. — and now here’s Joe. And there’s that “gathering of J’s,” 2 moons, 2 south nodes and one ascendant in the lunar return. It’s hard to say what this signifies. The south node can indicate destiny, and sometimes (15% ?) dishes out rewards rather than punishment. But the s. node also tempts one to say the wrong or cruel or selfish thing, and Trump’s lunar return occurs Oct. 20, 14 days before the election. Trump might say or do some major, alienating things in the two weeks before Election Day, or be dented by bad events from the outside. The south node often signals disappointment.

On the plus side, the ruler of the lunar return’s ascendant, Jupiter, sits in the first house, a lucky political position. (Though south node can make Jupiter unlucky – or more correctly, Jupiter can expand the difficulties the south node brings.)

Trump’s solar return chart has 25 degrees Cancer rising, and the moon, which rules Cancer, is in 25 degrees Pisces — an exact trine (lucky aspect). That Moon is in the ninth, close to the tenth house of political wins. Venus and Sun are in the 11th, indicating popularity and wishes coming true. However, this solar return began in mid-June, when the Corona virus pandemic, Trump’s Achilles Heel, was in full swing. You can judge for yourself: have Trump’s prospects — and his mood — improved since mid-June? I suspect they have (and wrote so a few columns ago).

Jupiter, the political winning planet, is in one of the worst places, the 4th house, or house of endings. But again, this is his birth Jupiter, so it has only a secondary effect. On the other hand, Jupiter in the sky (i.e., the solar return Jupiter, the primary one) is smack on the very same degree as his Descendant, or the line of relationships and the public. This, again, is rare — only 1 in 360 chances of this occurring. Now, this Jupiter position could mean that the other guy, challenger Joe Biden, wins. Mercury, Gemini Trump’s ruling planet, sits smack on the U.S.A. birth degree (the accepted birth degree, as it took months to actually declare independence from Britain) — hinting that when he communicates (now to election time — this influence began in mid-June, 2020) he “speaks for” or “speaks to the heart of” America.

My guess is: Trump wins. My fear: that winning could be a bad thing for him.

Biden, warrior that he is, came out of semi-dementia, and rose to the occasion, and in a sense really cured himself. You’ve got to admire this guy’s guts.

There’s a small hint that a murderer might be lurking right behind Trump, whether he wins or loses — and might strike within mere days of the election — or before it begins.

That double Moon and double South Lunar Node on Trump’s ascendant in his Oct. 20 “election” lunar return is ominous. Usually this would signal either a) a karmic downfall, or b) entering the first, tempting gates of a future downfall. Some people, not only Democrats, will feel “negative” about him. His enemies are certain to show; but this might signal a final showdown with them — essentially, perhaps, with the “deep state.” In any case, there is something rare and significant going on. Trump’s handlers had better filter or design every word he says, late October onward.
***   ***

Last week, in discussing the Republican’s appeal to voters, I wrote that logic seldom changed any minds. I should have said, “Logic seldom moves hearts.” That’s all.
***   ***

A lady, E.E., emailed me the other day, saying she missed the old me (1980s-1990s) that I had descended from a calm world observer to become a money hungry misogynist. The truth is, I earn about 1/3 the amount I earned 20 years ago when I was a “business man” and owned a distribution firm. I have written this astrology column without pay for 7 years.

As for the misogyny, I plead ignorance. I was sexually abused from about the age of 7 to 11 by my mother’s step-father. I recently (a few years ago) discovered that my mother not only enabled but aided this destroyer of childhoods. To protect them from shame, I won’t tell you the horrible things she did to her daughter(s). Let’s just say it was far worse than anything that happened to me.

My brother, my sisters, all have had sub-par lives, and, including yours truly, have failed in the marriage department.  Such is a mother’s love.

Perhaps that mother is in heaven now (I don’t know God’s intricate rules). But she was not innocent, did not act out of ignorance — she herself had been “enjoyed” by this man, so she knew exactly what she was doing. Yet her own rape also explains why she destroyed her children. But when do anyone’s horrific experiences exonerate them from guilt for visiting the same experience on their children? According to the Bible (Deuteronomy?)  this transference of perversion from the parent to the child continues for untold generations, and perhaps never ends. However, I think it has ended in my generation, perhaps because pedophilia and incest are now — and have been since the 1980’s — part of the public conversation. Mankind slowly ascends to greater morality and deeper empathy.

I sometimes wonder why God/Karma did this to me (if God “does” anything). I came to 2 possible answers: 1) I was pretty bad in a past life, so the abuse was “God’s punishment”; and/or 2) the abuse was done to wake up my psychic abilities. (Many psychics come from abused childhoods. Trauma which destroys a child’s sense of security causes that child to go inward, even eventually to dissociate; this creates the seed of trance and far-seeing. Perhaps only strange, isolated people like myself can “see” the generally unseen. However, neither of my sisters nor my brother became psychics or fortunetellers. So maybe my theory falls flat.

I guess this (an evil mother — some weaknesses are evil) explains why I’ve been married 3 times, and am mildly afraid of women. Is that misogynist?

I suspect my criticisms of Hillary Clinton and Kamala Harris triggered the woman-hater label. But I was attacking these women’s cruelty and mendacity, not their sex.

Here’s a list of woman and men I have attacked in this blog:

WOMEN:

Hillary C.
Michelle O.
Kamala H.
Maxine W.
Nancy Pelosi
my Mother
Lisa Page (hardly mentioned her)

Any others?

MEN:

Trump
Obama
Biden
J. Roberts (judge who lies)
J. Bolton
M. Avenatti
Adam Schiff
Nadler
V. Putin
J. Trudeau
Comey
Strzok
Rosenstein
Bill Clinton
Brennan, Clapper
The (generally male) FBI
The (generally male) ranks of judges

Any others?

Excluding the bottom 2 (FBI and judges) that’s fifteen men to seven women.

I’ve attacked male Obama for lying, male Adam Schiff for despicable crimes. I attacked male Trump over his university scam and other sins. And Biden, a male, over his acting abilities and possible treason. Jerry Nadler, male grudge-holder. I’ve sunk my barbs into Avenatti, a male (crooked) lawyer, John Roberts, a Supreme Court judge who prevaricates and is male; Putin, a male, Trudeau, a male… can you find as long a list of females whom I’ve criticized? Doubtful. So this is misogyny?

On the other hand, being attacked by angry women is misandry, women victimizing men.
***   ***

I watched a clip of Hillary in 2016 while she was giving a campaign speech. When she turns to address the left-hand audience, her eyes go there a quarter to a half-second before her face/head turns. When she turns right, or to centre, it happens every time – her eyes look before she actually faces that direction. To me, this connotes wariness – she knows the face reveals truth, so she looks first, wary that someone might see her truth, yet knowing that, to some degree, she must reveal it. You have to admire her courage, battling on through an environment peopled with enemies.

I wondered if this was what every speaker did, so I watched Obama for two minutes at the DNC convention last night. His eyes actually follow his face, by a 1/4 or 1/2 second. Half the time, he closes his eyes when he turns his head, and opens them after he’s already facing the new direction, left, right, etc. I think this indicates confidence, and his self-assurance that everybody loves him, and admires him as the bringer of truth. Obama’s a Leo, he loves attention and basks in admiration. Hillary’s a Scorpio, she loves secrecy and hides her motives. Biden’s a Scorpio too.

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