By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
SAGITTARIUS [November 22–December 21] In her irreverent song "Monster," rapper Nicki Minaj offers up a poetic sequence never before heard in the history of the planet: "Pull up in the monster . . . with a bad b-tch that came from Sri Lanka/yeah, I'm in that Tonka, color of Willy Wonka." I hope that you will soon come up with an equally revolutionary innovation in your own chosen field. All the cosmic forces will be conspiring to help you to do the equivalent of rhyming "Tonka" and "Sri Lanka" with "Willy Wonka." Please cooperate!
CAPRICORN [December 22–January 19] Time is the enemy of romantic love, said Andrew Marvell in "To His Coy Mistress." Medieval author Andreas Capellanus had a different idea, identifying marriage as the enemy of romantic love. In Richard Wagner's opera Tristan and Isolde, Tristan rails against the daylight, calling it the enemy of romantic love. And in their book Immediacy and Reflection in Kierkegaard's Thought, the editors theorize that "capitalism, which makes a fetish out of sex . . . is the enemy of romantic love." While all of those statements may be true, they're only mildly relevant for you right now. The most dangerous enemy of romantic love—or any other kind of love, for that matter—is this: not listening well. Overcome that enemy, Capricorn.
AQUARIUS [January 20–February 18] In an age when bee populations have dropped dramatically, some gardeners have found they need to pollinate their tomato plants manually. One woman I know tickles each bulb of seeds with a toothbrush. Another uses a camel-hair brush. Metaphorically speaking, Aquarius, I suspect you will have to try something similar in the coming weeks: making an intervention to facilitate a fertilizing process that doesn't quite seem to be happening naturally.
PISCES [February 19–March 20] In the coming week, your psyche may sometimes have an odd tingling sensation that resembles what happens when you hit your funny bone. Is it painful? Is it pleasurable? Maybe some of both, with the net effect being a command to wake up and play harder, love stronger, and notice more beauty. If you respond to that mandate with even a moderate amount of passion, I suspect you'll get a surprising reward: At least one of the secret laws of your own nature will reveal itself to you, rising up clear and raw in a sweet waking vision.
Homework: What name would you choose for yourself if you couldn't have the one you do now? Write: FreeWillAstrology.com