“Women’s Bodies Are So Often Under The Purview Of Men, Whether It’s Our Reproductive Organs, Our

Iris Compiet Portfolio - Instagram - Tumblr - Facebook - Twitter ‘Hades and Persephone’ Month of Love 2016, Lost in translation size 7.5″ x 12.5″ Watercolor, Acryla Gouache and colored pencil on paper ‘Persephone was gathering flowers one day on a plain in Sicily. Hades suddenly appeared, thundering across the plain in his four-horse chariot. The god swooped down upon Persephone, scooped her up with one arm, and literally and figuratively deflowered her—leaving the plain scattered with blossoms…’ Though taken violently by Hades at first apparently Persephone came to love the God of the Underworld over time… 

A Pluto in Sagittarius:

This is a generational planet. This is the part millennial - part generation Z indicator. People with this placement posses an immense amount of energy to create change, both within themselves and of course, as a collective.

They are fire-breathing dragons, protectors of the truth. These natives were born at a time in which there was still remains of the “truths” of the past, as well as the introduction of rapid changes in technology thus also rapid changes in how knowledge/wisdom/information transformed. This bred a group of people that instinctively know how to discern the real from the fiction, as they were witness to the deconstruction of former “truths” and construction of new ones. You can’t fool them because they intuitively understand the piece by piece process of how beliefs come about. This is at the very heart of the role Pluto plays in our lives, at a personal as well as global level. Transformation in the form of piecing away.

Sagittarius stands between Scorpio - a water sign, a keeper of memories, a remembrance of what came before; and Capricorn - an earth sign, a builder of the future and implementation of new orders and structures. As such, natives with Pluto and Sagittarius are the key between the then and the now, they will (and are as they enter adulthood and the workforce) be crucial players in how the human collective will shape a new, more progressive, more honest world order.

Man o Man

“I went, as a neighbor, to a house to help lay out the corpse of an old woman who had died alone; I was helping to prepare for the home wake. I entered, familiarly, not by the front door but by the kitchen door. I was shocked and repelled as I went into the kitchen by the disorderly festival going on inside: a big muscular neighbor who worked at the cigar-factory had been called in to crank the ice-cream machine, various neighbors had sent over their scullery-girls to help out and their yard-boys bearing newspaper-wrapped flowers from their yards to decorate the house and the bier: the scullery-girls were taking advantage of the occasion to dawdle around the kitchen and flirt with the yard-boys, and they were all waiting around to have a taste of the ice cream when it was finished. It all seemed to me crude and boisterous and squalid and unfeeling in the house of the dead–all that appetite, all that concupiscence.

Then I left the sexuality and gluttony of the kitchen, and went in to the death in the bedroom. The corpse of the old woman was lying exposed on the bed. My first impulse was to find a sheet to cover the corpse; I went to the cheap old pine dresser, but it was hard to get the sheet out of it because each of the three drawers was lacking a drawer-pull; she must have been too infirm to get to the store to get new glass knobs. But I got a sheet out, noticing that she had hand-embroidered a fantail border on it; she wanted to make it beautiful, even though she was so poor that she made her own sheets, and cut them as minimally as she could so as to get as many as possible out of a length of cloth. She cut them so short, in fact, that when I pulled the sheet up far enough to cover her face, it was too short to cover her feet. It was almost worse to have to look at her old calloused feet than to look at her face; somehow her feet were more dead, more mute, than her face had been.

She is dead, and the fact cannot be hidden by any sheet. What remains after death, in the cold light of reality, is life–all of that life, with its coarse muscularity and crude hunger and greedy concupiscence, that is going on in the kitchen. The only god of this world is the cold god of persistent life and appetite; and I must look steadily at this repellent but true tableau–the animal life in the kitchen, the corpse in the back bedroom. Life offers no other tableaus of reality, once we pierce beneath appearances.”