BY LIV WALTON
Curated by Nicola Maye Goldberg
You will feel a flash of orange and then something new. You will feel, maybe — that it is your birthright to have tangerines in a bowl on your counter, and you will be correct. The stars have aligned above a tear in the earth and you should dress in sienna, paint your nails rust; lie with your shoulder blades against a cool plot of ground and recall that without gravity, the flame of a candle is round and blue.
We can’t say for certain, but if you were to wear blush on Friday something nice might happen to you. We can’t say for certain, but if you pause to buy lilacs at the bodega on the corner a beautiful stranger might know you. We can’t say for certain, but if you come across water you have gone the right direction.
You are in motion — the burn of your lungs, the length of your spine; you are running and itching and spilling this springtime. You will outgrow something that was once a comfort; you will replace it with a song you hum in the soft parts of yourself.
Taurus, you might always be on the strange side of tender but someone has given you a secret that tastes yellow. Have you seen the phosphorescence in August? You will be that wild light to someone who loves you.
Suggestions: write the words you need on the back of your hand. cry on an uptown train in the odd hours of morning [there is awe to be considered]. look at the photo you haven’t forgotten. the number 27 will be important.
So far you have seen every type of sunset, but you miss the way light casts blue in those slow hours before dawn. Of course there are strings, but you will know how to weave together what is wanted when it calls you. Make the motion that feels natural, then make it again with your other hand.
In general, you should pet more dogs. Place yourself in green surroundings and put down what can afford to be left behind. Midweek you will spill an important thing, but you will find it again in some unexpected way. We wish we could tell you more, but we’ve already forgotten —
Aquarius, you are numbers and numbers but the rhythm of desire speaks in so many different tongues. Be slow with yourself and sit amongst the hidden pages: a message you wrote will reveal itself in those depths. This month your horizons will shift endless and open; you will feel unmoored but not unsettled. Consider the points where you have made contact and the direction of your motions — you move to a frequency others should attune to.
We suggest you write a haiku that has no thread. We suggest that you log off of web md forever. And we suggest that, if you know the words, try to speak them. Be mindful of the bits that smolder.
The good news is that the days have been getting longer for three weeks now. The good news is that the rain has cleared, and tonight there will be sky through the top corner of your kitchen. The good news is that always and always but especially today, when they look down at you the stars say: whatever.
You will learn this year that Instagram fame is rapturous but fleeting, and you will parse the difference between types of stillness (a clue: one will tremble). You will unspool something that spills navy, and minutes will sit heavy, but you will think: moon cycle. Think: fingerprints. Think: unravel.
Virgo, you are a different touch – for you I am new, I am neat and terrible and please; all teeth. (A habit I can’t shake: the unbelievableness of wantingsomeonewantingme still jolts me back to sixteen, delirious).
For you, we suggest downhill and downtime. For you, we suggest Frank Ocean’s brand of forever. For you, we suggest leaving this one up to chance. The good news is that there’s still more to be had
Liv Walton is a Canadian writer based in New York City.