There are moments in our lives that are portals. Quantum leaps we make effortlessly that shunt our reality from here to so far over there. The most recent eclipse season was such an animal, brimming with shadow and light. Often it is only with the passage of time and hindsight that it begins to make sense. We feel precisely how our worlds have tipped on their axis. We accept that nothing will ever be the same. We recalibrate.

In the cloudy backwash of last weekend's full moon, strange creatures are emerging from the depths. As though the supersonic blasts of sun and moon, frequencies and fuckery, keep conspiring to dissolve the barriers to necessary change.

More often than not, the afterglow of the full moon delivers its message. Insight arrives once its fever pitch has peaked, the lunacy subsiding so we can feel into more than its blazing gaze. Hindsight ponies up perspective unavailable in real time, whose value lies in quiet contemplation.

Vulnerability is the most likely hangover of the dreamy Libran full moon. She who invited us to a fresh union of opposites, in order to come into right relationship with all that lives outside of us. Of course that is a tall order when, like most all living through this post post-modern revolution, we are still working on internal reconciliation.

Welcome one, welcome all to the full moon hangover. How did that do nothing / say nothing / keep to yourself thing work out for you? Yeah. Me too, darklings.