This is the intellectual Moon, in the Southern Sign of Gemini, elevated to the zenith while the Sun struggles towards the Winter Solstice. Like a rogue adolescent, whose book-learning enables him to theorize away the conservative values of older generations, and who does not yet know the meaning of hubris, the Rogue needs to be reminded of a few things, such as myth and kin. A rogue might see an opportunity, and call it his, but it was created by others. A total eclipse should remind him whose light he shines.
But it is only we nearing the end of a life on Earth who learn his lesson, while the young celebrate their interventionist vainglory, unconscious of the gravity of their privilege. Never chased by an emu! Who cares where dogs go when they leave the dog park? Who cares who replenishes the poo bags? Kyrie eleison.
Studying the Moon’s progress during the past week as it rose later each day behind the cranes disfiguring my landscape, I discovered a strange thing. He started in Cancer in the second House. Nothing surprising there: fervent altruism in the Bardo of fearful discrimination. Likewise his Leonine sensitivity the next day when he appeared in the Bardo of perfection. By the time his perspicacious sincerity in Virgo presented itself at 4 pm on the fourth day, I was ready to stick my fingers down my throat, and I was no more sympathetic to his sensuality in Libra or his current anxiety in Scorpio. What is wrong with me? Am I losing my rogue? This Moon and I should not be antagonists.
Yet I am discovering that it is he who belongs and I who do not. Over his shoulder, as it were, he sniffs his millennial disinterest in the Bardo’s cosmic emotional cycle, for Earth hours are of no significance to him. The rebellious system of this site is finally just one more zombie measuring up his coffin, though going rogue seemed like healing at the time. He is a healer too, he claims, although 4 billion years seems a long time to be healing, and it is I who pick up the cans and coffee cups he drops over the front fence.
Who can understand why he is so contemptuous? After all, the Earth passes through the Moon’s own astral gates, differently polarized by his axis of rotation. We might be kin, if I weren’t on the wrong side of history, and my garden, with the bloom of my wounds and their astral petals, so much detritus in his path.
Once he was creator of the world, and until just now has been happy to collude with any soothsayer whose system accorded him agency to intrigue the superstitious, but the collective madness of opposition seems to me now to be all he has left. He does not own his history, you see, and so he cannot identify with the white supremacy of gravity. He does not own his gender either, and so millennia of menstrual synchronicity cannot persuade him to call chests breasts. Nevertheless, identity seems a big issue: is the butt of his jokes a clue?
Am I sad that history has caught up with me and passed me by? Of course I get lost, but no, I saw it coming, for history is not rogue. It is as the Gate of Antares, where consequence emanates from presence, and deprivation is paranoia’s fool.
I remember the sixties as opposing love to fear, but they too also went rogue on racism, sexism and homophobia. The search for love? I think I still understand that, although the turbines privilege me with a little difficulty of hearing. Perhaps it is ethical to interrogate the credentials of love, but an old man begs you, Rogue, do not topple its statue. Kyrie eleison. If you will excuse me, I have to get back to the dishes.
“Men, it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds, while they only recover their senses slowly, and one by one.…
It is happy for man that he does not know what the morrow is to bring forth; but, unaware of this great blessing, he has, in all ages of the world, presumptuously endeavoured to trace the events of unborn centuries, and anticipate the march of time. He has reduced this presumption into a study. He has divided it into sciences and systems without number, employing his whole life in the vain pursuit. Upon no subject has it been so easy to deceive the world as upon this.”
Charles Mackay, Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, Gutenberg.
You pull over on a hilltop to take in the view. You are familiar with the geography, but the panorama fills your awareness with so much that you don’t know: values, intentions and functions imposed on the landscape by people you will never meet, living and dead. There is no clarity in country. Hidden in plain sight are privacy, family, opportunity and duty. Hidden in plain sight on the side of the road where overtaking motorists exercise caution in oncoming traffic are you and your astrology, the local, global and celestial contexts you impose on the patterns you see, the labours and refuges you theorize, and your interrupted journey itself.
In a way, your journey is just like the Earth’s, from the Moon’s perspective (and the Moon’s from Earth). Not to say that you go around in circles, but that your progress, though it be powered by gravity, internal combustion or the calories from breakfast, and mapped by waypoints called a and b, is measured by changes in the background, whether in space or time. So regular are these changes that from time immemorial popular belief has been seduced by the notion that they were created for your edification and control. Is astrology guilty? Do you really belong in a herd? Do the planets?
You might be angry if you weren’t so disgusted by fear of the anguish which, enthralled as you have been by the seductive growth of mystical connections, has so surprised you. You might direct that anger at a world which questions the rectitude of your state of mind and shows no inclination to conform to your dreams, or you might work with the anguish of a full-stop in search of a backspace and apostrophe to exclaim itself grammatically. In you, and around you, a conflict is raging, and the opposing sides have not identified themselves. Are these astral gates then battle lines between polarized forces? Are these bardo emotions personal or generic? On the bright side, they may be opportunistically confirmed because you can identify with them all.
Where do names and attributes come from, brainstem or frontal cortex? You may be sure, acculturated consensus notwithstanding, that when Indigenous Australians noticed the existence of variable stars, there were some who gave them names and told stories about them, but for most people there would have been nothing remarkable about changes in the sky, since nothing in country was, or is, permanent. Country is change. Over thousands of years, the “Southern Cross” at transit climbed higher and higher in the northern sky, until about 4000 years ago above where the 300-500 years old Corroboree Tree survives in Queens Way, Melbourne, it reached the zenith, and gradually it became more comfortable to see it in the south. Do you think it turned upside down? Did it shake any power structures?
How many identities do you have? How many more must you add to the intersection you call your Self before you feel your alienation, before your intellect collapses under its own weight, the weight of change, and you know the profound emptiness of being suspended in the arbitrary web of your own absence. Unless your feet know the emptiness of the dirt between you and the stars, get back in the car. You feel only your weight in your shoes, and so you will be safer on your backside. At least the underworld of your contribution to global warming may resound with the nostalgic hits of yesteryear as you proceed to point b, taking your conscious horizon with you.
The Southern Sign of the Constellation Aries, the domicile of the Ram and the Peasant Moon, is Scorpio, not Taurus. Mass circulation of Sun Sign horoscopes has captured the global population in Northern Spring, but just how important is your need to escape? Your reading of the quoted text by Mackay, so contemptuous of the peasants, has conflated opportunism and populism. Aggression might win an advantage in the manger where Autumn is trying to snuggle among the absent newborn while Ferdinand dreams of flowers, but hibernation is an equally attractive proposition. Populists may properly be regarded as opportunistic manipulators of ignorance and cynical exploiters of fear and resentment, but populism per se is misunderstood as ignorant and smug. Populism is empowered by a desire verging on the noble, to take an opportunity to integrate, not obey, a coming to attention with regard for a peasant Self without pretension to permanence, but which might withstand the desacralizing news cycle of doom, which, as we all know, trigger by trigger, activates our incoherent and piecemeal emotional response and threatens our very existence. Ah well, that’s Autumn Country for you.
The vagabond is homeless, disconnected, a refugee from the world of the therapeutically discriminating intellect. Is he unpacking his “stuff”? Is he on the way to realizing that the enemy of a perfect world is the undeconstructed self? Shall we ask him? Are we bored enough by our pallid Nothingness to inhabit with our self-aggrandizing ‘compassion’ another’s tedious wound? Do we have the temerity to apply our triumphant empathy to the capacity to deal with the shame of eating garbage, being constantly afflicted with diarrhoea and having nowhere to do it but in our pants? Are we ready to deal with the stereotypes he has us cast in?
Now read on.
Does this look like a smiley face to you? You’re sadly deluded. The Moon is a piece of rock without legs, and its ‘head’ is all face. If that doesn’t give him away as a shady type, the one eye confirms he is ‘other’, not to be trusted, potentially evil. Of course, as compassionate people, we have long abandoned physiognomy, but our compassion is anchored to the otherness of the ‘other’. Compassion is part of our identity, and the identity of the ‘other’ is as fixed: indigenous people must remain in traditional culture, disinherited and victimized, and disabled people must remain the recipients of our largesse, defined by their disability. To expect otherwise is racist and elitist, disrespectful of their identity.
The Sign of the constellation Taurus in the southern hemisphere is Sagittarius, the sign of charisma and independence. Re-inhabit your subjectivity and respect the ‘other’ in theirs! Nobody’s identity is fixed, at birth or in an analytical, managerial mind. There is no form which is not empty. There is only time, and the dark art of becoming. And the timelessly true subject of the subject, love.
Part The Second
If you want to justify yourself–tidy yourself at the margins–spare me some change, says the vagabond, the loser, the weirdo. Pause for a dialogue in the daylight world of your power to imagine away my exile. But if you can brave it, meet me in the middle of the night, in the chaos of your fears, the world of my power to make you an infantile irrelevance.
Chapter 1. Saiph
Who is God?
These people on the streets and roads of Afghanistan know the folly of disrespecting a man who will kill you instantly with impunity. If one is uneducated in the nature of offence, as I am, and you too, then one is in mortal danger. One must shroud oneself, maintain an attitude of deference and submit to any indignity. Is it wise to leave questions about God to the Imam to decide? No, it is stupid to voice an opinion. And that is why I will be long gone from the shelter of this moai by dawn. The power of Polynesians is immense, and under the gaze of their ancestors existence itself is an impertinence. Saiph has the laughter which incites a man to be bigger than his grandfather. It is very, very dangerous.
Chapter 2. Butch
Who are you?
Why do I sing “O Sole Mio” when all the beautiful people at this beach have their earplugs in? Because this is a dream, and singing a Neapolitan song gives me an aesthetic reason to be dressed in rags. My people forgive my problem with the bottle, and the years I wasted reading the history of the world, because I entertain the tourists. They tell me a woman’s beauty is not so much degraded by wolf-whistles in Italia these days. You can wear these revealing clothes. Is it true? A woman’s beauty in Pukapuka is the secret which keeps us alive. You will all leave and take your secrets with you, and here another cyclone will come.
Chapter 3. Avior
What is life?
You boys are trouble, no? Hahaha! No, just having fun, I know. That’s all I’ve got, and I don’t know when I’ll have more, but you’re welcome! A cricket team, eh? We play baseball where I am from, but last year I was in India. There it is big, I know. Howzat! Hahaha! The world is just a big game of cricket, no? Tampering with the ball! Hahaha! Go over there to vomit, man! Hahaha!
Chapter 4. Regulus
What is death?
“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” When will the Holocaust be forgotten? When will the Twin Towers be forgotten? For ever and ever. Now get out with me and witness the moment. I am pausing the meter, see?
That you will never see again. The star is the Archangel Raphael. I thought it was him when you started raving about death. Why do you want to talk about death? Is that my “stuff”? No. “I found more bitter than death the woman who is a trap, whose heart is a snare and whose hands are like prison chains.” That’s mine. “Eh quoi! n’est-ce donc que cela? La toile était levée et j’attendais encore.”
“Finally, I got home. It was tantamount to harassment.”
“Well, at least you got to see the Archangel Raphael”
“And you might refrain from turning our Christmas party into a conversation about death?”
Would you speak of objective empathy? The objective ‘soul of America’? An objective definition of your community? Of course not! But in fact, politicians, journalists and academics make utterances every day which assume you can. We are so accustomed to the use of such terms as ‘multi-cultural’, ‘global’, ‘universal human rights’ ‘culture’ and ‘community’ that we don’t question them. It’s time we remembered that economic and political systems are powered by individual activity. Naturally, since we are saturated by relationship, we are stimulated by a sense of relativity, but our activity does not occur in a systemic context unless it first occurs in a personal space. The dismantling of personal space is a human disaster. This, and any statement which generalizes from the particular, should occasion extreme doubt.
When the Sun and Moon come together in Breamlea Scorpio, this means, as far as can be practicably obtained in an equal division of the ecliptic by twelve, that the conjunction occurs against the background of astronomically-defined Scorpius, which the Sun enters in the last month of northern hemisphere autumn, and so carries the sign of the archer Sagittarius. In the southern hemisphere it carries the sign of the last month of equinoxially-defined spring, Gemini, the sign of over-thinking, intellectual constructs and mind-games. The relativity of northern and southern seasons is a mind-game, as is the relativity of solar and lunar calendars, and the imposition of boundaries in the sky by astronomers and astrologers. Be aware of being in your head, and be cautious of letting others get in there and play with it.
The spirit of the law is disobedience, therefore do not speak of cultural relativity and universal human rights in the same breath. That is a contamination. Being is becoming. Evangelism is not proselytism; love is not therapy. If Spirit beckons to the wilderness, Ideology belongs in the marketplace, not the mosques and law-courts.
Look upon the multitude of zombies who have lost the capacity to follow signs from a ‘within’, and instead, heads reeling with post-truth shock, set their course between different analytical impossibilities. Are you in this state? Is the next chapter of your life story so predictable, because your calling is ‘within’ a shape? Is your Tree of Life fully formed? You just haven’t finished painting all the leaves? Is doubt a blight on those leaves? Emptiness a one-way ticket to boredom and death? This is a lack of faith in the perpetual becoming of the self, the nurture of a pot-bound purchase from the nursery. The ego remains in charge of consciousness in a sort of secular agnosticism.
The sane person–any being overwhelmed by the suffering of the world and alive to the real and pressing predicament of their own finitude–who seeks salvation ‘within’, creates a relationship to the world, to outward appearances, by doubting logic, moulding reality to suit desire. Such madness, if madness it is, is truly founded in a nobility, even a sanctification of suffering. The more common madness makes suffering a malady. The ego doubts the self because it doesn’t like the view out the window. Between the magical realms of body and society it finds only a wound. The madness of the therapeutic solution to suffering pathologizes passionate love as limerence and anxiety as hormonal imbalance. The madness of activism, the political solution to suffering, destroys the validity of the ‘social inclusion’ and ‘cultural property’ it glorifies in minority by stigmatizing ‘elitism’, ‘racism’ and ‘fascism’. Sanity doubts all of this, surely?
Location, location, location! That the position of the Moon against the background stars affect its influence, I doubt. I doubt too the phases of the Moon: when and where do they exist? But I do not doubt that the Moon transits, and is in every instant transiting somewhere. The Gates give me a frame of reference to our Earth’s rotation more tangibly instantaneous and real than the Moon’s elongation from the Sun. In this instance, I like the balance of the instant at which South Africa, and all who share her meridian, lead the way into the new month:
Years are marked by the slow precession of the Moon’s nodes through the constellations. This has been the year the Moon has risen above the Ecliptic in Aquarius and fallen in Leo, a sign to me that we can be such perfectionists that we are inclined to overlook new connections which are not logical, seeing their potential as messy rather than liberating. We have dealt with issues in a relativist sort of way, but we have been blind to obvious signs of ‘our’ elitism and ‘their’ resentful conformity. The geometry of difference has imploded.
A sign is not merely a piece of evidence, like another piece of an academic jigsaw puzzle, a climate statistic, or the elongation of the Moon. It is totally subjective. It is almost a gravitational force, drawing an absolute necessity from somewhere deep inside a being’s sense of itself towards growth, connection, union, realization. Eureka! Epiphany! The world of reason and the law is an exoskeletal structure, but living, breathing reality is a lingering, lurking pulsation of signs.
What are the signs at top and bottom of the chart above? They may be the scented breath of a wind from the east, a seeking of the significance of the force which draws the Moon, the Sun and wandering stars inexorably in that direction. Alternatively, they may register the ownership of the universe by the human spirit. The character of the stars can and ought to be disputed, but that they have no character is a claim made by someone watching too much TV. These signs of the labelled stars and their underworld opposites indicate a geometrical reality, not of the Solar System, but of the observer’s instant in relation to time and geography. They connect continents, hemispheres and populations by meridian to their underworld being. They are gates of subjectivity standing on opposite sides of the globe punctuating this mental month as a personal, post-truth Moon passes through going eastward.
Part The First
Where is the Bangladesh-India Border? Between ethnicities? Languages? Religions? Who inhabits an Indian enclave within a Bangladeshi enclave within an Indian enclave within a Bangladeshi region? Where does Pegasus end and Andromeda begin? Where are the astronomical attributes of Alpha Andromedae? Spectrographic printout? Somewhere in space? The time of the printout? Of the emissions? How can a constellation be defined? How can Alpheratz not be ambiguous? It appears in a flying horse as well as a chained sacrifice.
If you can imagine yourself up on the cross, “Verklaerung”* (Transfiguration) is directly above you, and flanking it are the alternative directions of spirituality: the ecstacy and heightened awareness of “Sinistra”* (Delta Centauri), and the asceticism and moral rectitude of “Destra”* (Epsilon Centauri). Which do you choose when you are a prisoner enslaved to the construction of The Wall of Tears? Which leads to survival? Whose cries do tourists in the Galapagos hear?
Young indigenous offender, what has robbed you of the enjoyment of life and set your heart among the briars of your mind? What deity has initiated you into perpetual deprivation?
Seek him in the break on Brazil’s shore. He is a natural force, a cycle, a habit; but in the Underworld, he is the memory to unlearn. Only you might crest that wave.
Gazing out into the dark sea from your module in the launch stage of Punta Pacifica, you do appear to have presence. Where will you land? Will you choose, mythical minotaur of the labyrinth of capital?
Is it by transcending the ego that you will overcome fear, anxiety and despair? Or is mindfulness a detour around your infantile defences against failure, loss and finitude?
What just happened? It will keep university-educated top-down theorists ranting for four years, but the different ways in which resistance to meritocracy, globalisation and political correctness is evolving across the globe feels like a Peasants’ Revolt. Horror of horrors! The representatives of the deplorable, ignorant, racist, sexist, violent, unemployable rednecks have the controls!
But kids, slow down here! The voices now reaching a crescendo to match yours have been audible for years, and you have ignored them. Why? Why have you not seen (until now) that the structures and systems within which you struggle and prosper are a canon of righteousness and entitlement which is not inclusive at all, but exploitative and repressive, to a large percentage of the people you only know from what you’ve read and been taught?
Whether you call them peasants, or the working-class, bogans, suburbanites or deplorables, they only differ from you in not being practised in systematic analysis. They just know what they know. They’re only saying to you that they feel secure in the world you are taking away from them, the world in which they were productive and self-sufficient, and of distinct genders with community identities. The world they have faith in has lost its power, and that feels self-evidently wrong. Isn’t that how you also feel right now?
The Full Moon of November is always in one of the agrarian constellations of the Ram and the Bull. As Spring turns to Summer it descends to Full: it is lowly relative to the burgeoning midday Sun, as the emotions are secondary to the organisation of the enormous amount of work to be done. On the other hand, from the Northern Hemisphere the midday Sun appears low and the Moon high amongst the bales laid up for Winter. These are signs readily recognized by the bottom-up thinker.
The peasant, contrary to the ignorant, subservient boor caricatured in the stereotypical ‘silent majority’, has actually taken the first step towards enlightenment: he has aligned himself with the will of God, and is at the interface between individual truth and the mystery of the Holy Spirit. In history, he is the agrarian progenitor of civilization. He has both an intimate understanding of the scheme of things, and a point of view. Primal humanity, as an historical moment or stage in individual maturation, has an inherited view and a language with which to exchange and explore it. The peasant, in the constellation of the primal sign, is on the verge of adopting a view of his own.
Some peasants share the belief, rejected by science, that Supermoons, when Full coincides with Perigee, cause earthquakes. What possible basis could there be for connecting the New Zealand earthquake of Monday morning at longitude 173.02 with this?
On the same day, a new father emerges from a maternity hospital in Argentina for a cigarette. He tries to describe to himself the sensation of holding his new-born. He thinks he should feel different, that now everything has changed.
He does not believe in God, but in the ward it was as though a new spirit had arrived, and yet he could almost feel that the spirit of his child was made out of his and his wife’s in more than a physical way, that the baby had a past made out of the lives of its parents. Strange thoughts, especially when he turns them towards his own parents. He drops the butt of his cigarette and turns to go back in, thinking that he should return to work soon. He is aware of the immensity of his wife’s accomplishment, but for the new father, there are two more ephedrine deliveries due later in the afternoon.
All of a sudden, he becomes vividly aware of his surroundings in a weird way. The pavement beneath his shoes is more than naturally solid, and is curving away from him. The trees down the lane are standing at different angles to the ground. The clouds are still and the world is turning. The city around the hospital is droning and shuddering. It seems to have its own life, but in this strange moment it is an organism with a corpuscular traffic of drivers all like him, made out of their parents.
The world seems immense and small at the same time; empty of things, it is a corpuscular network of cities made out of the movements of people in moments like his, made like him out of their parents, their needs, their appointments. What time was the baby born? Is it a boy or a girl? Wow. This is like a dream.
On the same meridian around the other side of the world, or in the Underworld of the Argentinian–“Where does the Sun go when it goes down?”–the Moon is at transit over the Swan River.
I clasp you in my arms, boy of my youth. I know you would in this moment spill your last drop of blood for whom you love and what you believe in, if you but had the courage to be what you are…a peasant.
The reader will remember that the last memory to be erased by the Lethe—the Orion Arm of the Milky Way—is of the dark beauty Saiph, hoisting her dress to urinate on the bank. This month, the Moon learns more about her as he enters her Gate. A mass demonstration will be staged in Austin, Texas at 14:30 on Wednesday, to protest about women being treated like peasants. A delegation from the Australian Lock The Gate Alliance and the Northern Rivers Hate Out Of My Hills hippie divorcees community will attend. Thousands of T-Shirts are being distributed printed with this image.
On the same meridian, directly below—on Earth as it is in Heaven, as they say—lies the mighty Godavari River at Yanam in Andhra Pradesh. Peasants have been around a long time.
On the bank, a short distance from both a bridge and a ferry uniting north and south, stands a lingam flanked by two sacred elephants. Is this just coincidence? “The union of lingam and yoni represents the “indivisible two-in-oneness of male and female, the passive space and active time from which all life originates”. “…According to Vivekananda, the explanation of the Shalagrama-Shila as a phallic emblem was an imaginary invention. Vivekananda argued that the explanation of the Shiva-Linga as a phallic emblem was brought forward by the most thoughtless, and was forthcoming in India in her most degraded times, those of the downfall of Buddhism.” Wikipedia
How long will it be before gender equality needs no demonstration? How long before gender fluidity is embraced in its intuitive, bottom-up pattern; before geographical separation and the term ‘coincidence’ are dismissed as unreal? The Moon offers a peasant’s advice: there is no eternal life or death, thank God! Stop imagining yourself as a subject of laws; think with your heart and live in your soul, and if you get separated, go to a gate; but know your shadow, and translate yourself into many languages!
Obviously, the project of Southern Hemisphere Astrology is to encourage resistance to objectivity, to create conditions for immunity from just another formal system which seduces the unwary into static, objective, received notions of identity and relationship. Astrology grew organically from observation, and still roots astronomy, at the source of its measurements, in the seasons. All I persevere to persuade those with the instinct to connect below with above is to observe, and recognize that the arcane traditions of Northern Hemisphere astrology are upside down in southern latitudes.
Observe that that the crescent of the waxing Moon is illuminated on the left, that it creeps clockwise as its phases displace it in time, that a negative sign means above, and that if you look to the south and bend over backwards far enough you can see from the Northern Hemisphere. Observe how much further the Moon moves nightly at perigee. Observe whether it is above or below a star such as Regulus or Zubenelgenubi on the ecliptic, and by the Moon’s progress know these and other prominent stars of the zodiac. Above all, observe the constellations the Moon and planets are in when astrology tells you which sign they are in, and calibrate that association so that all astrological meaning becomes at least ambiguous.
When you know where the seasons are in the sky, and when you know what seasons they are, then you’re ready and able to stand upright in the universe, in company with the people of the Pacific and the indigenous people of Australia, Africa and South America. You’re ready for the Gates.
The progress of the Moon through the gates, like its progress through the phases in psychological astrology, is only a game, in this case a geographical game, but it helps to envisage the invisible, and to give a deeper perspective of conditions as they unfold, a global ‘feel’. Bridging north and south, a Gate reminds us that everyone is walking upside down. Duality is not the root of suffering. Duality is the root of humanity. Hence:
and (because of space limitations to convey so much geographical information):
Every New Moon is a new set of conditions; every Full Moon the denouement of a story that unfolds from the attempt to give subjective meaning to those conditions, as dream orientates the events of a day, and Geworfenheit discovers itself, through and despite the pseudo-science of ethnography, as it unpacks the concept of ‘culture’. The absolutely essential ingredient in these conditions and narratives is the Sun.
And the harmonics of Moon orbit and Earth rotation are augmented by the harmonics of Earth orbit and rotation in such demonstrations as this, which will appear on Facebook as “Falling Towards Rectitude”, foreshadowing the next set of initial conditions.
Mother Courage revealed, thanks to what is visible in the sky at solar midnight when the Sun is before a Gate.