Taurus (April 20-May 20): Before my Taurus daughter, Zoe, was born five years ago, I was always trying to do too much with my life. I had high ideals, but my attempts to apply them simultaneously to a myriad of projects meant that few grew to maturity. When Zoe arrived, I found myself becoming more practical and self-disciplined. My income rose, as did my ability to live up to my promises. After years of doing lots of things I sort of enjoyed, I converted to pursuing a couple things I totally thrived on. In short, Zoe's earthy Taurus nature has helped me hit more bull's-eyes. My prediction for the next three weeks is that you'll have a similar effect on everyone you touch.
Gemini (May 21-June 20): Let's see what metaphors we can conjure up to capture the pickle you're in. The first image that occurs to me is an elevator that's stuck between floors. (Maybe you should just go ahead and push the emergency button.) You also remind me of someone who's killing time in a waiting room, reading way too many magazines about stuff you're barely interested in. (If I were you, I'd walk out NOW.) Or how about this for a comparison: It's as if you're in the rerun phase between a TV show's end-of-the-season cliffhanger and the climactic conclusion three months later. (Maybe you should jump the gun and start your own personal new fall season immediately.)
Cancer (June 21-July 22): O seeker of economic wisdom, it is with grunting heart that I reveal this inelegant truth about your past: For many years, there's been a greater likelihood that 90 percent of the electorate would turn out for a national election than that you would receive the pay you need in the job you deserve.
But O seeker, my heart sings as I prophesy a radical mutation in your financial destiny. Soon the operable percentage in the above comparison will become a mere 60 percent.
Leo (July 23-Aug. 22): If your life were a book, the title of this next chapter would be "In Search of the Primitive." By "primitive" I mean childlike (but not childish), fresh and natural and erotic (but not unconscious, self-indulgent, or lecherous), and in tune with the tonic pulse of nature (rather than the garish throb of the media). What I'm trying to say, kid, is that you have a mandate to ramble leisurely through the world with a stark-naked psyche ... to stop and explore whatever rekindles your innocent sense of wonder. As the Zen masters might say, it's time for you to reanimate your original face.
Virgo (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): Do not get thee to a nunnery, Virgo, nor to a pigeonhole or comfy little compartment or place of no return. Get thee, instead, to a big open space like Montana, where there are no speed limits and you can drive as fast as your vehicle will let you. Or get thee to a loophole where none of the previous rules apply and you can gain access to wonders that defy your pat explanations. Or get thee to a wild frontier (in cyberspace if necessary) where no one knows your name and you can pretend to be anything your imagination dreams up.
Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): Whenever I turn my thoughts to you lately, Libra, I get a psychic picture of a certain medium-dry white wine made in Montefiascone, Italy. It's called Est Est Est, which is Latin for "This is it! This is it! This is it!" I'm thinking that the reason for my association of you with this very assertive beverage is that you're about to arrive at a place or situation or mode in which it'll make perfect sense for you to exclaim, "Est! Est! Est!"
Scorpio (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): For pagan folk, this week brings one of the high holidays of the year, Lammas. In her book The Spiral Dance, Starhawk describes its meaning: "We stand now between hope and fear, in the time of waiting. In the fields, the grain is ripe but not yet harvested. We have worked hard to bring many things to fruition, but the rewards are not yet certain." Even if you're not pagan (or if you live south of the equator, where it's midwinter), Starhawk's words perfectly capture the pregnant mood of your current situation. To navigate your way to a successful harvest in a few weeks, I suggest you perform a homemade ritual in which you purge yourself of all fears of failure.
Sagittarius (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): Your invisible wings are finally ready for use. It's important to realize that though they can provide you with hours, even years, of fun, they don't work the same way as visible wings. To get the most out of all the freedom they can provide, please observe the following tips: 1) Attach them to your shoulders, not your butt; 2) don't brag about them to anyone, except maybe your imaginary friend; 3) to preserve their silvery sheen, avoid rolling in the mud or the gutter while wearing them; 4) never remove them in midflight.
Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): You know that bad luck charm left over from the lonely struggles of childhood? You're finally ready to lose it for good. You know that black magic you practiced on yourself in adolescence? It has thoroughly exhausted its power to divert you from your birthright. Think I'm exaggerating, my ripe friend? I most certainly am not. You're a walking advertisement for the only kind of freedom that money can't buy. No one, not even lawyers or politicians or ex-paramours, can stop you from dreaming up the biggest, best, most original sins ever.
Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): I feel guilty trepidation about asking you to tone down your eccentricities. I, of all people, am supposed to champion your peculiar genius, right? However, would you please not wear your favorite Day-Glo lime-green shirt and plaid overalls when you meet with the intriguing newcomers hovering on the outskirts of your world? It's not that they're closed-minded; just that they (not to mention you) would benefit from a more gradual introduction to your specialness.
Pisces (Feb. 19-March 20): If you were a car, I'd advise you to get your spark plugs replaced. If you were a telescope, I'd say, "Aren't you overdue to have your mirror polished?" If you were a politician, I'd beg you to dose yourself with truth serum. And if you were a fluffy white cloud with an ever-more-graying tinge I'd shout up, "Quit waffling and turn into a rain cloud already!" If you were a flaming idealist with barely a practical triumph listed on your resume I'd proclaim, "Time to head for the trenches!" And if you were the kind of person whose love life had begun to resemble the maudlin pop songs on the Billboard charts, I'd ask you to consider the possibility that you're being subliminally programmed, and then I'd scream, "Turn off the *&^%$# radio!