Mercury’s been running rampant.
Here we go again, the trickster recycling old stories, changing the names of people and places. But the Moon holds the real instinct, true knowing, sees into the mind, gets to what’s underneath. ¿Why did she stop?
Reel that sucker in, he’s been tricking the queen with his chatter, overrepresenting himself, boasting his talents. She waxes and wanes, unsure; her moods misunderstand his scatter-brained reports, flying around all over the sky. Moon forgot herself. Mercury, the manager in polyester pants, convinced her he’s the guy. He confused her with his ADHD ways.
Moon’s impersonal, collective inclination to safeguard humanity is in disarray; our barometer of security, the measure of our deepest needs; our capacity to connect with her, has been taken by unsoundly proclamations of fact.
The trickster’s been trying to override our ancient nature, externalizing our attention with his zany ways of recycling the same old information, dressed up as novelty. He’s only nervous, concerned with appearances, never really finding his position anywhere, never fully committing.
In dark stillness, all gadgets kept out, she can harness back her original power to look beyond and get to the root of this unrest, all that mercurial jumble; he so tries to hide the pain, bombarding the air with electronic verboseness, a game to confuse.
Moon can pull back the trickster to his proper place beside her. Now he had better get good: sound reporting, conscientious proofreading, and editing; he better iron out those polyester pants now, the queen is not accepting scatterbrains anymore.
Now she will examine your message; you may sit, you’ll be offered drink and snack, but do keep quiet while in her glow.
March 14, 2026
