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Taurus: the art of bullying
He lowers his head as if he has horns with which
to gouge me. His fists are balled and held like hooves at the ready.
I was playing Venus, that’s why I approached him. But now
there’s smoke coming out of his nostrils – as if I wasn’t
terrified enough.
He charges and I scramble out of his way. You don't argue with the
earth coming at you in an elemental wave. And that's the end of
me.
Oh but he is a beautiful bull, standing there in his field, in the
full glory of his stud. And he loves beauty, my Venusian curves
as well as what he makes. He will admire without end his own flawless
work of art, the curve of my eye, the building he carves with his
own hands into a marvel sense of texture and style.
And he will flatten anyone who ventures to suggest he could maybe,
just maybe, make it a little....different. Or not possess me with
all the destructive power of his lust. What he desires is what will
be. And that’s the end of it.
Taurus raging at Venus is the beginning of his desire for her. Tempest
tossed is putting it mildly. Don’t just get out of the way,
get out of that universe. Lack of reason leads to chaotic catastrophe.
Venus dethroned is Kali.
Music hath power to soothe the savage beast, but Venus is not a
muse. Taurus will never perceive, his eyes are too small and dim.
Anything that moves is a threat, to be targeted and tossed. There
is no brain to reach. Only touch, Venus’ touch, can once again
soothe but not tame, for what use is a tamed bull? A loss, since
it is the very wildness of the bull which makes him such a desired
stud to produce future generations.
So perhaps both Kali and Venus must take turns at his side, sometimes
soothing, sometimes enraging, in order for Taurus to tread his way
through time.
Patient, he waits in the centre of his field, watching me. He waits
for my taunts, but now I am silent, as is my fear now that he cannot
get at me. I lower Venus’ red flag and like him, wait. I note
what a child of Venus he truly is – in stance, in beauty,
in his indifference to sun and storm, in his strength, his deep
affinity with the earth on which he stands. He tosses his head and
I am caught as I was at first and want to climb inside, to come
to him, to touch him and feel the texture of his wonder.
The bull teaches me, and in the teaching he is loved and loving.
Without me he would be only part of the earth, unknown, unseen.
The years before my arrival are what built up his anger, the pain
of bewildered lusts without a target. When the target arrives it
is not seen but only sensed. So he charges, unaware, unknowing.
In the red taunting and the dusty dance, we both learn our own beauty
and mortality – then must rest with the fence between, to
start learning again
The danger is always real. Days pass, years. And one day when I
visit his fence he is right there, pawing the ground. His nostrils
flare but he allows me to touch his head. And it is a turning point
for both of us, a daring to trust, to let go of past grudges and
angers and fears, to glimpse the other side of Venus.
Nice if you can get it. A horror if you can’t.
For I am no cow, and I am not cowed – outside of his fence.
Once I screamed and taunted and raged out my terror – that’s
over. But I will not climb back inside. I am no fool. I will admire
what he builds from out here and not be the victim of his fists
if I dare criticize. For he accepts only accolades, laurel wreaths
around his neck, and if you ask him to pause for a second to consider
just maybe....you are trampled under the hooves that shatter opposition,
shatter criticism, shatter any shred of a world in which he is not
the head of the herd.
Too often he is the bully in the barnyard, the scourge of the schoolyard.
She is the harpy of the harem, the queen of the quarry. With whip
or hand or snarl, he regains position time after time over those
who come in combat. While strength lasts, he rules. When one comes
who is stronger, he go down to the dust and dies of shame.
But once Venus is hallowed within his heart, territorial impulse
softens into craftiness of tender touch, seducing instead of impaling.
In the home, the loving bull becomes the buttress. Giving instead
of hoarding, building instead of bashing, the forms of loving are
fulfilled, for Taurus ruled by Venus is unbeatable, in bed and board
and boardroom.
For Taurus, life must be a container of glory, of beauty, of desire,
if life is to be worth living. Without that he crumbles to dust
and even his bones vanish. And that is it.
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