I A D ♓ ♒ ♈ C O ♉ ♑ ♊ E Z ♐ ♏ ♋ C ♎♍♌ L C I R
I A D ♓ ♒ ♈ C O ♉ ♑ ♊ E Z ♐ ♏ ♋ C ♎♍♌ L C I R
Published by C h a ry b d i s P r e s s 2017 Some rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 15 14 13 12 4 3 2 1 First Printing
T h e Z o d i ac C i r c l e
is set in Gotham HTF Ultra &Thin, Perpetua, Rockwell, and Whitman, designed by Ken Lew. Zodiac Symbols are set in Linotype Astrology Pi •. Book edited and designed by Jason Blasso www.charybdispress.com
The ZODIAC CIRCLE
Aries Fire - Cardinal
♈ writer
Lianne Twohig artist
Chiara Terraneo
A chest of bellows Ignites her “Id� in one swift, glaring Woosh. - a cracked crucible of viscous, unpurified mass spills and surges through the gaps. Synapses spark and twisted keratin gyri are un-mounted and locked; the crook of one hemisphere willfully resisting its twin. She is painting and panting, Sweat and furious strokes Dashed, dragged, unloaded. Wrestled until nestled into a shared Space of colors, sound, & sensation. And the thumping in her breast slows. the vessels in her temples cool. Her pulse slips into a peaceful cadence as pigment drips from the bristles Of her indispensible tool. Then, unencumbered, With her beast at rest, She falls to sleep with the hush, the ash, and the afterglow of her dusky Pompeii nest.
Taurus Earth - Fixed
♉ writer
Felicia T. Perez artist
Elisa Zadi
Work, work, work, work, work. Where’s that bee? And where’s that honey? Where’s my God? And where’s my money? I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist. Living is easy with eyes closed. Misunderstanding all you see. I will die with both of my hands untied. Don’t confuse me with someone who gives a fuck. In your mother tongue, what’s the verb to suck? I feel like a stranger to my happiness. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here. I only wanted to one time see you laughing. Home. That’s where I want to be. Pick me up and take me there. Everybody knows that it’s now or never. Just a reflection of a reflection. Will I see you on the other side? I feel real. Somebody’s ringing the bell. Do me a favor, open the door, and let ’em in. Baby it’s hit or miss.
______________________
Rihanna, Work Roberta Flack, Compared to What Sia, Chandelier Beatles, Strawberry Fields Forever Morrissey, Irish Blood English Heart Wild Beast, Wanderlust Sharon Jones, Stranger to My Happiness Radiohead, Creep Prince, Purple Rain Talking Heads, This Must Be the Place
Gemini Air - Mutable
♊ writer
Paul Chesne artist
Tuono Pettinato
I don’t believe in astrology. In fact, I have often stated that if I could find one girl in Venice that doesn’t believe in astrology I might even go so far as to marry her. From what I have gleaned over many years of enduring people talk about this ridiculous farce which I firmly believe is scientifically disproven, Geminis are twins or have a split personality. From my experience, I can say, unequivocally, that this is absolutely true. I am introverted. Don’t like to chit chat much. I find it a struggle to meet or deal with people in regular situations. I am an extrovert. I am the life of the party. I perform in front of large groups of strangers and friends several times a week with my band and divulge my innermost thoughts to them. Things I wouldn’t tell my psychologist before I fired her. And other things, like the reasons why my psychiatrist fired me. Or why my girlfriend broke up with me -- Because I’m emotionally unavailable, of course. From what I remember in Astronomy class, the reason why Astrology is bullshit is because when they made the signs the stars were in different parts of the sky. Over the last several thousand years, the Earth’s axis has rotated in such a way so as to render this obsolete. Some astrologist chick at a party in Venice told me that they had compensated for that since then. But I didn’t believe her. And then we got in a fight. Because I vaguely recall the objective facts from high school. It’s called science.
Cancer Water - Cardinal
♋ writer
Sabina Ibarra artist
Anna Canavesi
I walk seeing all possibilities My mind’s an ocean Always reaching new depths beneath waves of crashing cacophonies Though I withdraw at times, I keep on moving Overwhelmed by my own potential Propelled by an existential sense of service And it makes me nervous when I wonder if the Earth’s rumbling Or if it’s just the quickening pace of my own footing They say my eyes have a moonstruck quality Luminously full and inviting Crescents when smiling Absorbing light that glimmers from behind my glances A star that dances from my solstice cradle Of a trifecta-born personality Somewhat unstable Makes sense that my soul’s air kindles a fire insatiable Lighting lamp lit paths along the way for others to take I look back at a distance And see the growing glow of the legacy I create.
Leo Fire - Fixed
♌ writer
Mollie Twohig artist
Yulia Knish
Do you want to join our zodiac circle? Mama Lion: Yes. Time has gone by. I know you’re tired, but where is your sign? Mama Lion: Am tired for sure but have to keep on going. Little Cub is sick at the moment so that especially rings through with major lack of zzzz’s. I will put my thinking cap on over my mane. It’s been nine months, a full human gestation period. Will you join us or not? Mama Lion: (The Lioness roars) No, and when you use the words “full human gestation period” to describe something lengthy, time consuming, and potentially arduous, make sure you have a uterus or a little cub first. Why couldn’t you do it? Mama Lion: Honestly the vision I had was of a wounded lioness trying to fend and provide for little cub but was struggling but knew she had to keep going... In the past few months there’s been many a time I have wept like this by myself thinking of how the fuck I can go on the way I have been going on by myself. The lions of the Savannah are just not “here.” They’re lounging in the sun! During those times that vision of the wounded lioness came to me but obviously was fleeting. I was unable to write it down. I needed to physically move again and do something to take care of Little Cub in real life. But yeah, I thought I’d always write something about a proud Leo but quite the opposite. I would have written about one that was struggling to find bravery because she knew she had to, but didn’t know if she had it in her. Just write it then! Here’s the deadline! You still have time! Mama Lion: There’s no way I’ll make the deadline. Just go on without me. I’m staying here with Little Cub. It’s his birthday tomorrow. One thing I learned these past two years is that my life must wait for Little Cub now. There is no time or clock for me. I’m in the wild. No tick tock. Days and nights fade into one. I just survive.
Virgo Earth - Mutable
â™? writer
Brian McDaniel artist
Silvia Rocchi
After all this went down, I got a message that said “You are the best Virgo.” What a weird thing to say to someone. It’s so absurd and dramatic that it seems like the opening line of a noir paperback. Some ill-fated woman, luring me into a tryst that will be both our undoing. Little did she know, the woman I was really after had long been dead... The sky was so black that night. It was as if Los Angeles, preoccupied with the beautiful sunshine it had planned for the next morning, had just thrown up a blank colorless backplate (dotted with a few stars just to maintain the illusion that it was actually a sky.) I strolled into the club, for the first time as a woman in public. It takes a long time to become a woman. Physically, if you want it to look decent it takes half a day. But psychologically, it takes weeks (at a minimum) to inhabit that skin. All that for just five minutes on stage might seem like a lot, but to be Joan, well, it’s worth it. When I got to the club they said “Miss Rivers, we need you to headline, and we need fifteen minutes not just five.” Typical club, they paid me for five, now they’re squeezing fifteen out of me. The lights go up. I bring the house down. Or maybe she does. Either way, I walk away with the new fan, and the strangest message.
Libra Air - Cardinal
♎ writer
Mark Patzer artist
Fernanda Uribe
How much do the stars predict the path that lays before us in the cosmic quagmire? On that path what influence do we have on its ultimate trajectory? As a Libra, the scales are branded upon our souls from the day an embryo embedded itself in the walls of our mother’s womb. When we exit the comfort of our mother’s womb, birth is supposed to make the Libra a being who is critical, with a strong sense of justice, and with a strong appreciation for beauty. All these traits that have been painted across our souls leave us with a calling that predicates doing exactly the opposite of the symbol we have been branded with. We must tip humanity with its cold heart towards justice and quench the fires of hate and injustice that blaze in every corner of the globe. We must tear off the blinders sewn onto the brows of our brothers and sisters at birth and instill a sense of wonder for the beauty that fills our microcosm of existence. How much do the stars predict the path that lays before us in the cosmic quagmire? On that path what influence do we have on its ultimate trajectory? Balance? Tipping the Scales.
Scorpio Water - Fixed
â™? writer
Jeffrey Cosgrave artist
Paolo Cioni
I… am a Scorpio. Do I love being a Scorpio? Fuck yeah I do. We’re awesome. We’re extreme and intense people. Have you met one of us? HAVE YOU?! TELL ME!!! Scorpios don’t like rules, and if we’re not given constraints, we do what we want. I’ll tab when I want. And where I want. Scorpios are very sexual beings. All of our intensities and passions are heightened in the bedroom – or kitchen – or on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Sorry Walt, we’re very sexual. Side note: I masturbated several times while trying to write this. What can I say, an ‘8’ looks like boobs…. or a booty. We’re secretive and hold our cards close, in fact I don’t even want you to know that I’m a Scorpio. Forget this whole chapter even happened. If you tell anyone, I’ll cut you. Not me personally, but the book will give you a paper cut. Think about that every time you turn the page! I actually have a book called The Secret Language of Birthdays that goes into lengthy details about what your exact birthday means. It’s pretty rad. I’m a Scorpio three, which means I love death and sex – I just hope it’s not at the same time. If you thought I was kinky before, watch this…(Jeff picks up a shovel at a grave and starts digging.)
But Jeff, why are you promoting another book in the midst of this one?
Because that’s how Scorpios roll. I told you, we’re awesome.
Sagittarius Fire - Mutable
â™? writer
Jason Blasso artist
Jorge Dos Diablos
What is the risk of a faith in finding one’s fate in the stars?* Old light reaches us like stale, ancient wisdom. Dusty tomes, calendars, and charts are misread in the present to offer proof that our ancestors could determine the scope of horror the ascendants had awaiting their descendants. Many throughout posterity believed this proof of prophecy. Perhaps people remain the same after millennia and can still see a centaur in a senseless sidereal pattern. There he goes: Chiron, the far-eyed healer, drawing his bow at the heart of Cancer below the horizon. Maybe we are on the cusp of change as the Water Bearer kneels to fill her ampulla in the primal waters trapping ichthys in the Fifth Dimension. Many still remain star-struck. As for me, I remain as divided as the universe and don’t think any of this matters or anti-matters much. Maybe I am a grand lover and a great friend who holds grudges forever and loves the color purple. Is doubt also a Sagittarian trait? I don’t know. But it’s as human as finding myth and meaning in inanimate things. So, we lie like newborns on our backs in our bassinets, straining our eyes beyond the primum mobile turning above our heads in hopes of seeing the comforting shadow of a giant move in the heavens. Does something dimly stir as the music of the spheres sings us to sleep? We hope and we pray. The cosmic joke is set. We only wait for the punchline. * An asterisk.
Capricorn Earth - Cardinal
♑ writer
Yuri Shimoda artist
Cristina Gardumi
At a Standstill Don’t look down Repeats in my head With each step closer to the top. One stolen glance Over the edge Instantly sends Heart racing Teeth chattering Knees trembling. Breath catches in throat I shiver in the shadows Glued to this precipice Incapable of moving Forward or back. My only companions: The smell of salt and Decomposing seaweed, A tiny, gray, heart-shaped pebble Before it plunges Down into the sea. The ocean’s roar echoes Off jagged rocks, Tempting me To let foamy white tendrils Reach up and wrap around my legs. Then, the wind catches A patch of dandelions From a field overhead. I greedily pull in the scent
Of their bright yellow blooms, Calling me up to brother and the other kids Frolicking carefree, Warm from the sun and A belly full of The sweetly sour of mother’s milk. I smile at the thought, Close my eyes and Grandfather stands beside me Whispering, “I’ve watched time Slice layers off this cliffside, Slip through fingers and Leap into the waves below Joining the tidal ebb and flow – Infinite, yet ultimately finite.” Laughing at the absurdity So hard, tears squirt from my eyes. Whoever heard of a mountain goat that’s afraid of heights? But he’s right, I know Life is too short. Though it seems feet not inches away With every body part still quaking, I jump to the ledge above The next, then the next. And like a song on a loop Stuck in the brain, Don’t look back.
Aquarius Air - Fixed
â™’ writer
Niall Twohig artist
Elena Mazzi
Your land is the desert. Your horoscope is written on cracked earth and dry sand. In deserts you inhabit a time of necessity. You get from points A to B not ’cause the getting is good but simply because you must. So you move on, not keeping to the hands of any clock. You have your two hands. That’s enough. In deserts the word “map” is just a word whereas “adapt” is everything. When you see that the points have shifted, you do just that. You flow with the shifting dunes till they carry you to the wellspring. You move on bearing water. Too much in fact. When you meet the crone you pour a few drops down her gravelly throat. You don’t want thanks, just as she doesn’t want pity. It’s just a decent thing to do. So you do it. Occasionally you bend to the sand like an old jackrabbit. Your two hands do their work, moved by something deep in your marrow rather than prophecies written in high heavens. When the dust blows hard and fast, you can’t divine a damn thing in the stars—not the past, present, or future. You dig a hole, press two seeds into the fallow earth. Nothing hallow about it. Those drops of water would feel nice on your throat, but you give them to the earth, fill the hole, and move on. Keep on moving, water bearer. No hope for you, but maybe hope for another age, a less deserted one.
Pisces Water - Mutable
♓ writer
Adam Ben Willens artist
Daria Palotti
Water drops on spotted fish. I’ve got the fear, greenish-blue in my gills. I’d rather be sleeping. Eyes closed tight, while the secret agents of compassion tap into my head and bleed my heart dry. Let them try. I’m sick to my stomach. I’ve seen the exact manner in which the disease spreads. They say a fish rots from the head down, but the stink emanates from the tail. A hook in the mouth; my mind elsewhere. I’ve broken the spell. The drowning man, the repossession of silver flesh, the empty coronation of King Neptune, the glorification of failure. Glistening and quick, Monday’s child cannot escape the fear. I feel too much. Or not enough. Mutable and moody, a steely dagger in the back. Frankly, I don’t believe it. I once had a wife, when I wore the face of a younger man. She tried to persuade me. Hissing and spitting and dowsing for water. I was dropped in the maze with the government man. Neither of us knew a way out. One minute past midnight, the middle of winter, I thought I was sick, but everyone said I never looked better. “These cold iron chains aren’t mine! I am the healthy one. I am the strong!“ I don’t believe in symbols or leagues. This is the moment before you awake. The hypnagogic shake. Kicking at phantoms, sealing the lid, but a little drips out as it always does. I’m supposed to be sensitive. But I would rather be alone.
The ZODIAC CIRCLE started with me writing about my sign for another publication that never got published. I liked what I wrote and wanted to see it in something. So I sent it off to my friend Niall in California for a read and told him about the idea for the Circle: twelve different signs, twelve different people, wherein each one added would put us further outside our familiar orbit and connect us to new people across the country and around the world. He liked the idea, wrote about his sign, and sent it off to his wife Lianne. She wrote her piece and sent it to our mututal friend Mark, who completed his and sent it off to Niall’s sister Mollie. It was held up here for quite a bit of time, but eventually, after some coaxing, the train started moving again. When Mollie completed her draft, she asked her friend Yuri to join. Yuri was instrumental in filling in the rest of the zodiac with her friends. At about this time, I asked my friend Fernanda to start a Zodiac Circle with artists she knew. I thought it would be interesting to pair the writers with artists to see how the words would match the image without either of them reading or seeing the other’s work. The results, as you’ve seen, are uncanny. The Circle took us from New York to California, Italy, and Mexico, and accomplished its mission by bringing us in touch with other creatives that we’d never have crossed paths with otherwise — though doubtless it could be argued that this was fated in the stars. Either way, thanks for taking this journey with us. Jason Blasso writer/editor
The ZODIAC CIRCLE RULES 1. The writer/artist that is chosen has 2 weeks to work on a piece for their zodiac sign. Any style (prose, poetry, etc.) or medium (drawing, painting, photography, etc.) is acceptable. There are no limits except that the writing must be no more than 250 words and the final image must be no larger than 8.5 x 11� and scanned and submitted at a minimum of 300 dpi. All submissions should be sent back to the editor, who’ll collect them and organize them into the final book. 2. When the writer/artist has completed their piece for their respective zodiac sign in under 2 weeks, they must select another writer/artist with a zodiac sign that hasn’t been chosen. If that person accepts, they will introduce them and link them up to the email thread. The chosen writer/artist then follows line 1 above. However, should the writer/artist not be able to find another writer/artist to join the Circle, the previous writer/artist will be responsible to search again. If this too proves unsuccessful, it will fall back to the previous writer/artist all the way back to the editor. 3. This continues until all twelve zodiac signs are completed. 4. Once completed, the final book will be produced, and we, no longer strangers, celebrate coming together on these pages, reading from our book, and looking up at the same stars.
I A D ♓ ♒ ♈ C O ♉ ♑ ♊ E Z ♐ ♏ ♋ C ♎♍♌ L C I R