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Cancer: the art of re-en-acting out
If that sounds confusing, welcome to crabby
Cancer. Why else does he snap at your toes except that his eyes
are too crossed to see clearly and get out of your way in time?
If you had only phoned for an appointment he would have been glad
to clear the road! pleasing you, making you happy, acting in a way
that will make your world a better place, this is his raison d'etre,
in spades and with style.
So get over it already! He’s only snapping, not biting! –
yet…
Sensitive? Just a little. Insecure? As water tugged by the motion
of the moon. Unsure what is wanted and needing a script written
by the one in command? There you have it. Provide script and scene,
and the crab will climb out of the depths to perform. You want the
best husband in the world? Write out the details clearly and you
have what you wished for, better than any bottled genie could make.
You want a decent (if underpaid) employee who thinks unions pave
the way to hell? Pick a Cancer, grateful for the chance to work
at the wonderful job you describe in such moving and needy terms.
You want someone to nurture you, care for you, feed and clothe and
shelter you, pretending you will never grow up as per the favoured
Family Plan?
Rest in the claws of the Crab -- just don't go and change the script,
or you'll be bloody sorry.
The unconscious terms of acting out, for a Cancer, are that each
and every other person in the world also fulfill their
roles and stay on the same page, in the same play. It is amazing
to watch how the Crab can sidestep reality so often, frowning, muttering
in puzzlement: "But that's not in the script. Who's directing
this play, anyway?" Helpless, stranded when the tide turns,
the Crab cries to the moon for betraying him. When it is not at
all the moon's fault, since time and tide wait for no one, not even
the most abject worshipper at the altar of "what is supposed
to be".
Hollywood is filled to the tip of its bon-bin with Crabs, each snapping
at each other if not snapping up the best parts. It's easy to spot
one: gorgeous William Hurt or Princess Diana looks, smiling face,
open countenance --as long as the audience and writers are with
them and giving them the best lines. And they are good, oh so very
good, before the camera. They love that little black box that sets
them before the world in all their shining glory, and never asks
nasty questions like, "Who are you really?" When spoilsports
like David Lettermen set them up with such questions, the claws
snap and they scuttle back in the water with a "no you didn't
see me!" exit.
Cancer isn't really a liar, or a hider,
or a sneak – even though it often appears that way to those
more up-front Arian types. It's just that, rather than make the
effort to get a clue, Clueless is a better script. It will all work
out in the end, won't it? There is an end to this endless turning
of the tide, isn't there? Someone is in charge and directing things....aren't
they?
Turn off the limelight, Cancer. Dig in and find a hole and bury
your sad face before the tide retreats and isolates you again.
Then, maybe then, deep in your own hole, the light will dawn.
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