Last century, Pluto was in Libra from 1971-1984. Libra is associated with relationships, women, art, balance and the law; therefore, these areas are forced intopublic awareness and transformed when Pluto passes through this sign.


Perhaps most significant of the changes which occurred during this time was the Women’s Movement. Pluto in Libra brought to light the inequities between men and women in American society, and tore down the old, restrictive, outworn attitudes about ‘a woman’s place’. In true Plutonic style, issues of power and control were important, and the movement was plagued by extremism, fear, resistance and turmoil. Pluto’s entry into Libra saw the legalization of abortion in the U.S. (January1973), the publication of Ms. magazine (January 1972) and the expansion of the National Organization of Women (NOW) into a formidable political force. By the time Pluto left this sign, a woman had run for vice president on the Democratic ticket and women’s economic, professional, political and educational opportunities had increased dramatically. Most importantly, women’s self-confidence, and their vision of themselves and their role in society, had been transformed by this Pluto transit. Laws concerning things that affected women’s personal and professional lives, such as credit, ownership of property, equal job opportunities and pay, sexual harassment, divorce and medical care, were brought into the light and changed.

-Sky Alexander

At first I thought this was going to be all heartfelt and touching and then I read the rest of it and I was like “Oh nope it’s about Anderson. Fucking Anderson"😂😏 #sherlockholmes #sherlock #john #johnwatson #lestrade #mycroft #anderson #fuckinganderson #thewomen #ireneadler #elementary #benedictcumberbatch #martinfreeman #johnlock #mystrade #Moriarty #bbc #superwholock #supernatural #doctorwho #nerd #nerdy #talknerdytome

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Haikus (Year Four)

Everything dies,
But I’d go all in for the
Women in my life.

Saw you as a mom
And pictured freckled redheads
With my nose, playing.

You found me drooling
In a vent and read my eyes.
Scully, read my eyes.

You’re reaching for me.
Please, this can’t be my only
Picture of you. Please.

Dana, we’ve been friends
In other lives, but I’d like
Us to be more now.

Witchcraft is your spell
On me, and how badly I
Want to watch you age.

He was listening
When you walked in my office
And changed my whole life.

In Tunguska, I
Woke up strapped against the wire
Scared, and I thought of you.

At court, you turned and
I wrapped my arms around you,
Both of them. I’m home.

Dreams are answers to
Unasked questions. Do you know
You’re in all my dreams?

Forget the yellow
Rain. Let’s listen to Prince and dance
And say “te amo.”

Love means helping you
Dumpster dive through medical
Waste. Damn my long arms.

“It’s my life,” you said,
But I can’t separate mine
From yours anymore.

I brought you flowers,
You brought me news. The truth will
Save us. It has to.

Real love is to bring
Back from the dead, but also
To learn and let go.

Like Taeger, you came
Through my blindspot, and now you’re
All that I can see.

The birthday keychain
Was for you to put copies
Of my keys on it.

Pendrell died without
Ever tasting you. That won’t
Be my case. No way.

If I could go back
In time, I’d find us before
All this and kiss you.

He got close to you.
Four years, a bottle of wine.
It should’ve been me.

Skinner made a deal
With the devil. I don’t know
What this means for us.

You bleed, say you’re fine.
You and I are afraid of
The exact same thing.

Ketamine-filled holes,
Gun in my hand. You say “Let
Go,” and so I did.

They gave you cancer
So I’d believe the lie. But
I won’t watch you die.

It’s Not Misandry; It’s Revenge

The year of the hanging was the same year I went to bed each night and promised to wake up,

the kitchen covered in juice and seeds and the stomach of the cantaloupe I mistook for Tertullian’s head.

—the misogynist, the “[women] are the devil’s gateway.”

How many of them have you skinned with these words? How many men have you given footstools?

I’ve seen you, even still, lifting women’s wrists to razor blades, and then I’ve seen you point your finger at them.

My mother shames herself for the shape of her arms, finds herself quieted only by men because all of the

women live the same story.

The year of my hanging was the year I dug my throat up from the mattress and locked it back into its place.

It was the year I burned the stories of redemption and told a new one of recovery.

It was the year I mistook my molester’s head

for a cantaloupe.