Madame Zolonga’s Guide to Cosmophobia

By Madame Zolonga

Well-meaning relatives like to give new parents little books for the baby with titles like On The Day You Were Born. You probably have one on your shelf right now.

The title would be more honest if it said The Day You Arrived because it’s clear you don’t come from Earth at all. Yes, it’s true. You don’t belong here at all. And astrology’s here to prove why. Behold, the origins of your alienation revealed!

Aries: It’s like that scene from Blazing Saddles, when the sheriff comes riding into town: there you are on your dandy Appaloosa with your spiffy, new badge, all ready to rope up the bad guys and give your life for the damsels and the demoiselles — but the damned welcoming committee can’t even pronounce your name! Whether your skin is tan, brown or pink, it’s no different. You’re always the stranger in town. Not from around these parts, anyway. It doesn’t help that you secretly always feel like this is your first rodeo and that your brain runs with its engine in the back-end, like a Volkswagen. For you, every day is another ‘birth day’ — it’s fight or flight into the bright, white light.

Taurus: You can’t have it. Whatever it is, it’s not yours. This feeling started early. You weren’t breastfed. Or if you were, and your mother (goddess bless her) tried her best to be a 24-hour milk diner, even the Ephesian Artemis couldn’t match your appetite for more. You still can’t figure out how, on a planet so prodigiously abundant, you landed on a continent called Want. Too often you feel like Adam without a Garden of Eden. You’ve got a hunch it’s because, back home, your Daddy burned it down. Rebuilding your garden, then, is your life’s work. But here be talking snakes. When you master THAT language, you’re back in business, babe.

Gemini: You ARE the information superhighway. If only you could get the rest of the world on board, they’d never need the Internet again. The reason you don’t fit in is lack of telepathy. Not your lack, you see. Theirs. Cell phones? Cable? Routers? Really? It’s like talking to the fuckin’ walls. Why don’t you just pull two steel cans from the recycling bin and string ‘em together? You landed in a backward-assed zone of the Milky Way, for sure. It’s no wonder you prefer monitoring three flat screens and your Twitter feed while you’re on the phone to your sister: it’s the only time you feel you’ve remotely achieved cruising speed.

Cancer: If a person was meant to leave their home, they should have been born with a full-body hazmat suit complete with pressurized micro-climate. Your entire system is so exquisitely, delicately balanced, it’s is a Grade B miracle you survived your first month on this crude, noisy planet. You can blame your survival on your human mother and that no-nonsense streak in her that you inherited. Sure, she might have been a little obviously stuck in her own plot, but she toughened you up. Even so, there’s a part of you who wants to embrace these messy humans, despite their crude manners. But when you see TruckNutz, Febreeze, and The Fast and Furious 8, you’re back again in lockdown where the air is clear and the fluid finely filtered.

Leo: You’re the one in the lot who’s actually glad to be here. I mean, think about it. Your last gig was a pretty hot one! But how can one person properly perform in 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit whilst dodging flaming spicules and magnetic shifts? Far better to drop in on humans and spread your special brand of life-sustaining sunshine over everyone you meet. The problem is your sizzle isn’t always appreciated. You inherited a serious case of “kill or be killed,” and while that works at a certain distance (preferably on a Jumbotron screen), up close it’s far more dangerous. Always working the room for threat assessments is no way to secure your future among humans. Mere humans are no match for your current firepower, and your days as a white dwarf are but a distant promise. No need to fret now. And besides, dwarves are cool.

Virgo: Valiant Virgo! You so try to accommodate this Earth arrangement, but most days it’s exhausting. You arrived with a mission, a glorious vision — like Saint John on Patmos, and about as apocalyptic. Unfortunately, you’ve got a rep like poor ol’ John on his mountaintop: people think you’re smokin’ something, or at the very least high on your own inner evangelical zeal, so you don’t get many takers for your particular cult. Instead you’re forced to sublimate your cosmic vision into a million daily micro-tasks. However, you’re discovering the purity of your standards is no match for the scale of the problems here. How long does it take to move a mountain with a teaspoon in your hand? This gig’s impossible!

Libra: Cosmically, you’re rooted in a place so dour and unforgiving it’s no wonder you decided to try Earth on for size. It’s a small planet by comparison, but we have pretty things here. And the colors are lovely. If only you could get some cooperation! At every turn it seems you’re hindered and thwarted from your improvement schemes. (And Earth could be so much better, truly. Have you shared your plan to reunite Australia with the west coast of Africa?) It’s the impulsive upstarts and crude, self-serving Neanderthals around here who don’t appreciate your foresight. This place is so juvenile. Why did you come here, anyway? Oh…right.

Scorpio: You’re commonly cast as the sex fiend, and though that’s more myth than reality, you’re fine with it. Sex easily distracts humans, and you need a good front for your operation here. Might as well throw them a little smolder, a little flame of passion, and like Milk Bones to the doggies, the humans here sit up and beg. The truth is this is a reconnaissance mission for you. Unlike other ETs, you have no interest in kidnapping humans, though you’re not above a certain kind of ‘probing’ when you’ve found a willing suppliant. You twiddle with our brains just to see how much we’re willing to put out. What are you here to find, anyway? A clue is on your calling card: Department of Just Us. Perhaps wisely, it’s unreadable to humans. But the picture of the flaming sword is a big hint.

Sagittarius: Gregarious you! You’re willing to try anything once, even a trip to Earth. Like any avid traveler, you know some adventures are more challenging than others. Lost luggage, bad coffee, funny toilets — they’re all in the bargain of discovery. Forgiveness is the lingua franca of your people. But, day-umm. Who speaks that language here? Your phrasebook is not encouraging, either. It’s all “fuck this shit” and “you and what army?” and “over my dead body.” For all the attractions of this place, the grotesque lack of harmony on the planet is what keeps your one hand on the sangria carafe and the other hand clicking through the Orbitz site. If you can keep moving, you won’t have to worry so much about the locals. When’s your flight outta here, anyway?

Capricorn: Little warrior from nearby, you arrived here no stranger to life on the bivouac circuit. Lean times and “making do” are in your genes. Stalwart is your middle name! However, you were hoping that, with your superior survival skills, a little working holiday on Earth would garner sure recognition of your natural leadership. What a mess the place is! But the potential for perfection inspires you like no other project. The humans here are clearly in need of systemic restructuring. Why is it, then, that you’re constantly fleeing from nursing bras and potlucks, or impeded by the minutiae of requisitions from craft services? You know soldiers have to come from somewhere, but these body fluids and emotional appeals seriously cramp your style. You’ll conquer gravity before you leave, but until humans can deliver you a competent and reliable staff of 20 from a 3D printer, you’ll save your scratch for the next bus to Tau Ceti.

Aquarius: For you, Home is actually a verdant, lush paradise of plenty, and Earth is just a way-station. You only popped in for a bit because it looked familiar. You’re curious that way. Sadly, this planet is far from paradise. But gravity and other attractions kept you here longer than you planned. This is why astrologers say your calves and ankles keep you skipping around — you’re always trying to launch yourself out of here. This also explains a lot about why you’re so distant. Objective is your preferred term, but seriously, if you get involved with humans, how will you ever leave? Instead you prefer -isms. Humanism, for instance. Or plantism. Let’s focus on ideals. Since you’re stuck here for now, you might as well fight for Earth’s paradise potential. It keeps the homesickness at bay.

Pisces: You were never meant for this Earth and you know it. You’ve always known it. You’d tell everyone you’re originally from the Fomalhaut System, but you wouldn’t want to give your people away. Besides, who would believe you? Instead you wander as a lonely star, slipping in and out of a hundred thousand etheric bodies, mingling with everyone and yet touching no one. The rocks speak to you; the trees do, too. But damned if anyone cares to know here. So you cling to the surety of little things, like etymologies, and cell structures. People like particulars, and particulars give you focus. But inevitably, like Baja cliff divers, you find yourself plunging back into the deep end. Until the Mothership returns for you, you’ll have to remember that Earth martyrs, though never forgotten, don’t get to be millionaires. It’s w/h/ine or win — you pick!