posted September 17, 2014 09:52 PM            

Our story appropriately begins with a story, given that one of my trades is fiction writing. Perhaps it was the day -- one such anniversary of Charles Dodgson, AKA Lewis Carroll's, birth with whom I happen to share a distant matrilineal bloodline. But I'm not sure if that's what inspired the conversation had with my astrophysics lab partner and fellow fiction writer that morning at breakfast. I was a training criminal profiler then, 19 years old, and foolishly fearless. I had the background knowledge and a head for the worst monsters to terrorise mankind. We were contemplating fantasy engagement -- the means by which a signature multiple offender (serial killer) envisions a particular context in which a homicide is committed. He thought favourite tales of childhood would be particularly chilling. It all rather began with the words, 'what about Alice in Wonderland?' And, as if in unison, our eyes ignited as the idea sparked and caught fire between us.

'The Hatter!'

(We were both versed enough in Dodgson's original work, 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland', to know that the Mad Hatter was a modern invention, largely a creation of Disney for the 1951 animated feature. Dodgson's was merely and only The Hatter. And, the chapter in which he was introduced, 'A Mad Tea Party', wasn't even a part of the initial rough version -- 'Alice's Adventures Under-Ground'. He would only appear in the 'Wonderland' revision, complete with John Tenniel's now-iconic illustrations, in 1865.)

The jaunt back to my apartment was an illuminating, productive one. Just six months prior, I'd had a spontaneous past-life regression of sorts brought on by Pink Floyd's 'High Hopes', from their album 'The Division Bell'. Arguably, he would tell me, the final song of the Floyd. A powerful, heartfelt farewell. A song of nostalgia and great pain. We called what emerged as a result of my hearing it my 'Blue Sky Memory', in which I was a young federal agent, similar to myself, yet also different in certain ways, who died on the asphalt of a parking lot on a clear blue day. Her (or, my) final thoughts being that she -- or, I -- had been betrayed. But she -- I -- died not knowing who, or how, or even why. Just that someone was right -- and I should have heeded his warning -- and I was wrong, and dying for my error in judgement. That 'High Hopes' played on my always-randomised MP3 player this particular misty, wintry morning did not escape my attention. Rather, I stopped dead in my tracks, as the usual feelings of dread, longing, confusion and rage hit.

But this time it was different. Today, I was writing a story; the one burning in my brain and on my soul. Today, I would take the first step -- along a long road, and on down the causeway -- in search of answers.

Running. Before time took my dreams away.

---
--- ---
--- --- ---
--- ---
---

'Do you believe in dreams -- in childhood witticism? I am the Hatter. No, I do not have some stark identity complex in which I believe I am a fictional character; I am the fiction -- and the reality. Do you propose that I am a figment of your imagination? While it is true I've yet to unravel the nigh overwhelming mysteries of life, I can assure you that I am, indeed, here. Living. Reality is what we make of it, Alice, and you're just in time for mine. Welcome back.'

---
--- ---
---

Such would be the complex introduction of Dr Penderan 'The Mad Hatter Murderer' Fauste to my young investigator, Riley Wingate, beginning that cold January day.

Much as Rowling said of first 'meeting' Harry in her momentary dozing on the tube, so did Fauste appear to me in one-fell-swoop:

A manner so polite as to be nearly chilling in its borderline-lacking humanity. Eyes of ice blue that paradoxically burnt with an unexpressed fire, and golden blonde hair, a touch careless but meticulously maintained. The man was somehow monster and machine, with any vulnerabilities long-since abandoned, his brilliant deduction almost frightening in accuracy. His smile was never warm here, but predacious. His voice was a smooth yet agile, mellifluous marriage of Oxonian and American -- as if he was 'not quite' from exactly anywhere. He'd been rotting in a dungeon cell much like Harris' Dr Hannibal Lecter, a seed from which he unconsciously sprung. Several years, it would seem, later revealed to be much longer. Clearly intrigued by news of his copycat's killings and the involvement of the FBI, but more so with the investigator put to the case, given her 'near obsessive' research of his crimes a decade prior; the sheer hatred which she held for him.

In a word, Alice. The warped funhouse mirror self-insert of our author, dear reader, only a few years removed from her own adolescence and many demons with which to wrestle. Practically Victorian in her approach, much like Fauste, and rather Sherlockian in personality -- much like her creator.

But you're not here for a bizarrely organic alternate-reality matrix of The Silence of the Lambs. And neither am I. So let's get to it, hey?

--- --- ---

// THE ASTROLOGY //

--- --- ---

posted September 18, 2014 03:52 AM            

The FMC is arguably one of the most important and influential tools in the interpersonal astrologer's toolkit; with it, we're able to understand that initial spark -- the very first time the introduction is made; that eyes lock, that destinies become entwined. Progressions, while hardly my forte or stock-in-trade (I'd say I have an average knowledge of the techniques used) can be incredibly revealing at the time of meeting, which the deft hand can see immediately. While that isn't my particular knack, I can perceive the basics.

So any who'd like to try their hand, please do. The more the merrier!

I'm going to start out with this one, which, believe it or not, is the INCORRECT DATE. I've kept it here in order to compare to the CORRECT one, which I'll post soon.