Meet my Nanna, darklings. This is the inimitable Nancy and today would have been her 109th birthday. An ultra Aries journalist, shrewd operator and my very first Bohemian role model, a reporter and then a publican at The Australian Hotel where my Mum ran up and down the stairs as a kid. The stories of her heyday are legendary.

The Aries initiation point arrives like a blaze, arising from the depths of the Piscean waterworld. Its time stamp is the equinox and seasons rearrange themselves around its cardinal doorway. The zodiac refreshes and we look to its next start finish line for portents as the keys to the next solar cycle dangle from its bright beams.

One sunny late March day in 1983 in Kansas City, an astrologer called John Sandback was sitting in his parked car. In the space of four hours that afternoon he channelled 360 distinct images, each one symbolic of a particular degree of the zodiac. Evocative symbols that held keys and clues hinting at deeper celestial information.

Holding fast to hope in turbulent times is not an empty cup. It conjures far more from its enduring depths and places soft landing in our hands. Hope is not a wan promise, nor a weak vanity. It is a fierce courage that arises in response to troubling reality, holding us through and beyond it, planting seeds in our every footstep.

If your senses grow soft and stay sharp enough, you can feel yourself slipping between worlds and into wonder. The noise of our built environs, its grinding cogs of industry and inhumanity give way. The soft animal of your body, finely tuned and well eqipped to perceive magic, can intuit its rippling margins. Without warning or care you can find yourself delightfully beholden to its everyday miracles.

The far end of the zodiac is nigh, and more besides drawing inexorably towards its passing. As we navigate the dissolution inherent in the outer reaches of the last sign, so too are we bearing witness to the end of the world as we knew it.

Merc's winged heels have been busy already this wildly transformational year. Darting between the new age birthing through Aquarian sensibilities of future focused humanitarian ideals. Fishing through the olde worlde fast crumbling under Pluto's heavy hand in Capricornia. Retracing hard yards with his reset retrograde between the two and now trailing all that revision garnered as he dives into Pisces.

In a sea of performative annual feminism, women just get on with it. As we always do, quietly and without chest beating. It is how this world actually keeps spinning, no matter the wars in the world of men or the disasters that lap at our homes and caravans of care. Running the usual gauntlets and battling the same old shit, getting more than our share done for less of the spoils and hoping for throwaway thanks.

If you have been genuflecting for change, something to give or shift or lift, consider your prayers answered from the future. The vibe has shifted from grind to tangent. The balance of power has been tipped back towards the people. And all of our personal planets are now in league in the surreal terroir of Aquaria.

The very first time you hold your first book in your hands.

Revolution begins and ends in the dark corridors of heavy hearts. Out past the breaking point of loss and great griefs, beyond despairing resignation to currents and conditions. Sparked at the tiny cardiac altar when hope flickers low, craving a gust of wind or a strike of lightning to raise its flames to crackling.

The unholy trinity at play in Capricornia, as giant swells lash our world in the wake of the new moon, is nothing less than absolute transformation. Shocking and devastating in its way as it pulls the curtain all the way back on late stage humanity and demands we view its full spectrum unblinking.

The Pisces new moon is a scrying pool that keeps its secret magics hidden in the plainest sight. But you must journey to reach them, tucked in amongst the cliffs at the far end of the zodiac.

This dark moon is anything but restful, rippling with revelation in its starkest terms. The lunar ebb has been delivering a deluge that crams our wide eyes with scenes of devastation and despair, an inevitable tide that none can stem. We all know how we got here, to this existential tipping point of a world now in constant rolling crisis, whose powerbrokers remain only interested in saving themselves.

This week, in the stars and in the world, is crammed with aspects and perspectives that will draw a firm line between past and future. Between the old world still raging in its brutal efforts to survive through sheer force and the new world emerging from its smoke and ruins.

The horror and the helplessness of war is unfathomable. Here we sit in our safe houses scrolling through terror and tyrannical spite spliced disquietingly between our regular programming. It is bewildering and beyond sense or reason. Our world gone mad - again - as the revolution is televised in real time and on sickening repeat.

It was back in Pisces of 1859 that Charles Dickens penned the first instalment of what would become A Tale of Two Cities, musing on the fervent intersection of the individual with revolution.

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.