A Quick Look at Bolsonaro

SUN 30th degree of Pisces

Sabian Symbol = The Great Stoneface

“The Power of Vision”


Focus on: Keeping to your vision. Believing in something and pursuing it. Sticking to your guns.

Watch our for: Emulating the greatness of others at the expense of being yourself. Casting expectations in stone, and thereby being rigid. Basing belief on fear or false gods.

Given the moon symbol (below), and Bolsonaro’s long history as military captain and congressman, there is now the sense of his time having come. Given this is the last Symbol of the 360, there is something ultimate about it too.

Given he recently held up Winston Churchill’s Memoirs of the Second World War as a personal bible, one wonders in what image he molds himself. War fans and UK patriots will forgive me if my take on Churchill encompasses alternative views to e.g. the Gary Oldman movie, and questions whether, for instance, the bombing of Dresden was in fact a war crime, not to mention an assortment of atrocities in India.


MOON 24th degree of Aquarius

Sabian: A Man Turning His Back on His Passions and Teaching from Experience

“Giving Something Back”

Second round of the presidential election in Brazil

Focus on: Advancement through self-sacrifice. Recognising the hollowness of selfish goals. Service.

Watch out for: Merely playing at the above. Allowing personal hangups or pet projects to escalate into political affairs.

Pluto opposition Moon suggests that his ascent to power is partly fuelled by a deep seated (m)other wound, which may be his unraveling in the end. One wonders to what extent these passions (daemonic energies) still run the show.


NORTH NODE 2nd degree Capricorn

Three Stained Glass Windows, One Damaged by Bombardment

“Restoring the Whole”


Focus on: The presence of the divine, or spirit in life, a holistic view, and how this is all too easily corrupted or shattered.

Watch out for: Using strength to dominate. Despising the weaknesses of others, which is a projection of your own. Guilt and therefore destructiveness of self and others.

The image here is of a damaged trinity. Given the moon reading, one is again tempted to suspect deep personal wounds, which, unexamined, fuel outwards projections. Given his notorious attitudes and behaviour towards women, one is tempted to pick the feminine as being the wounded aspect––though it may just as well be the (un)holy child.


SOUTH NODE 2nd degree Cancer

A Man Suspended Over a Vast Level Place

“On Hold”


Focus On: Seeing all things as equal. Seeing from on high. Wide vision therefore wise decisions.

Watch out for: Lack of groundedness. Feeling “out of it” or of not being accepted, when it is rather you who do not accept it.

Being early in Cancer, which is all about watery feelings requiring protection by a shell of some sort, this symbol suggests that these emotions are out of touch, that something has not landed yet. Equally, that the shell has not yet formed. It begs the question of how the man got up there in the first place, and what will bring him down and when. Forgiveness of self and mother?

Bolsonaro’s nodal axis is indeed the classic ride out from the 4th house of Cancerian home and family into the 10th house of the big bad Capricornian world.

Given the caution of his moon symbol, and Mother Nature as extension of personal (m)other, we can only hope that the vast level plain of the south node is not a razed Amazon forest. That dire fate, Bolsonaro has campaigned, lies in his hands.


SATURN 21st degree of Scorpio

A Soldier Derelict in Duty

“A Question of Conscience”


Focus on: An uncompromising response to inner values. Being true to one’s conscience, even if it goes against the general grain. Finding ways to do what has to be done.

Watch out for: Performing soldierly duty at any cost. Kill or be killed. Giving up when the going gets tough.

As we are on the cusp of the next degree and therefore symbol, Hunters Starting Out for Ducks, the kill or be killed daemon seems most relevant. Research into JB’s history, particularly military exploits and failures, could be revelatory.

He has publicly and loudly declared that the military regimes of 60s and 70s Brazil did not go far enough in their murder and torture of dissidents. Is this the dereliction of duty he now feels compelled to address?

While it’s easy to judge Bolsonaro as a fascist, even a Hitler, if we wish to understand his intolerance towards the Amazon and its people (amongst other vulnerable sections) we must consider, as did Hitler, that he bears deep convictions of being right. We also recall Tony Blair avowing the same in the Iraq Enquiry.

Bolsonaro, Blair and Hitler, being possessed of (or by) such powerful daemonic energies, thereby create a powerful karmic wake. Trump too, though I doubt he believes he is right.

Taking a Matrix-like view, we can imagine them as powerful programs on some predestined course. Might we consider, imagine, speculate, contemplate what the inner life of these avatars might be like? All three can be accused of playing God in their actions to address the greater good at the expense of a great many. Indeed, is it God playing them, or something else?

Ultimately even the Devil is in the service of God/Spirit/Source (albeit in as roundabout a way as its is possible to imagine!)

Ancient traditions are universal in their reference to a Flood or cataclysm, which wipes the slate clean. Be it Inti, the Andean solar deity, who weeps at the chaos and corruption of his creation; be it Amateru, the Shinto equivalent, who retreats into a cave; be it Jesus, who “dies” on the world cross and is interred in a cave…

Are Trump, Blair, Bolsonaro and others still to come avatars of destruction, of Shiva, the Jajal, the karmic broom wagon at the end of this era? Who or what will roll back the rock? Who or what will emerge at the dawn of the new day?

© Nizami Thirteen, greatly indebted to Lyn Birkbeck’s Astrological Oracle.

If you would like to look into your own karmic astrology, contact me here.


Wrecks It

I write as someone of indeterminate social status, race, religion, ethnic background, occupation, political and cultural leaning, even gender. In other words as someone of indeterminate identity, someone who ticks “Other” all the way down the sheet.

And the sheets are being issued because the battle lines are being drawn. Are you English? Are you Scottish? Are you British? Are you white? Are you working class? Are you middle class? Elitist? Socialist? Do you play golf? Do you like Trump? Barnsley? What school did you go to? Dulwich College?…Whatever and whichever, who are you?

Whatever I am–and all I can say at this point is that that is what I am–people will project identity onto me. From the armed police who flinch into action at Heathrow, to the Victorian-facial-haired post cricket match men out front of posh Sussex pubs on Sunday, to the England-tattooed builders and plumbers down the down-market pubs on the same Sunday I look Moroccan, Algerian, Libyan, Saudi–a beardless neo-jihadi who need only whisper something into an iPhone to initiate Zilzal. And if I was I probably fucking would.

And thereby fall foul of the challenge of these times, rock n rolling with the back and forth on social media. Sharing stuff off YouTube, where the smartphone has become  a gun. Richard Dawkins destroys Muslim nonsense. Tommy Robinson owned by Muslim lions. Zionists confronted in Luton. Cameron/Corbyn/Boris owned. Only Blair is never owned. Perhaps, like Hitler, he will finally own himself.

I digress! To identify with this stuff is to tangle with the age old lines of the Lord of the Flies. It is to feel constricted, enraged, abused. It is to feel the inflammation of ancestral wounds that are and are not ours. The sins of the fathers. Some lines are deeper sunk into our being than others. Genetic lines tend to run the deepest.

Being of massively mixed genes I cannot identify on grounds of race. I have looked into the Mixed Race identity and found it far too narrow, being for instance heavily colonised by Anglo-Afro-Caribbean (or whatever the hell the term is) identity. As I said already, I happen to look sort of Moroccan, or perhaps Brazilian. If I got fluent in the culture of Morcocco or Brazil, had a wife and children there, I could perhaps become Moroccan or Brazilian.

But would I want to? Is there not some sort of pretence involved there? Would I not be disowning my identity-free self? Would I not in fact be owned?

This mutable self is not all bad. With enough work on my inner self perhaps I could be many things. Sort of Amazonian. Sort of Andean. Inca, Berber, Aryan, Reptilian, Brahmin (no particular order here ;-)). A sort of Rasputin or Mesmer perhaps. There are as many advantages to this as the disadvantages. I have had my face held in deep affection by an Israeli masseur, formerly a captain in the IDF, and told I looked “so Israeli”. I have been resolutely ignored in Malaysian department stores because they thought I was Saudi. Perhaps my favourite vignette is one from school-leaving days. Back of a car with my fifth-rate public school mates and we drive past a beat-up old Datsun stuffed with hijabs and aloo-faced kids. My mates erupt into predictable tooting and shouting.

When I protested, the response was an affectionate “Fuck off, Nizzie. You’re one of us.” Sometimes I feel, there it all is. It’s all in there. I am all in there. But that too would be to fall down the slippery slope.

I slipped a bit the other day–out in my camouflage (ironic!) jacket and dark glasses, ready to go with any England-tattooed Brexiteer who offered more than a passing glance. The universe responded like the referendum–50:50. One blonde Yorskshire woman at the civic amenity site was remarkably pleasant. Anther bloke with tattoos and Victorian facial hair was ready to go. I would have probably been owned.

I had a go on someone’s Facebook wall. Fortunately they are a wise old soul and didn’t rise to my bait. Only said, in far fewer words, what I am owning up to here.

So. The hell with Brexit. Don’t get owned.




Urbs Not War

Urbs Not War

Just-about Reanimated Stallone as Bread Mafia Boss in Warburton’s Ad

Arriving in (class) war-torn Bethnal Green yesterday afternoon, possibly the warmest on record for April, I was struck in the face by a billboard ad featuring a just-about reanimated Sylvester Stallone and a host of other hand-gun-toting ghouls standing in a Blackwater-style phalanx beneath heavy metal typography. The product? War(burtons) bread.

Global Machine Culture.Wheat

The latest outdoor media instalment from Campaign award-winning agency WRCS would appear to be pitched at ornery inner city folks raised on that peculiar subterranean-yet-mainstream diet of violence–now worked into the degenerate and desecrated grain formerly known as wheat. A bastardisation concocted by Global Machine Culture [GMC], wheat has become the edible monoculture version of Agent Smith, viral shadow of the Matrix.

Whether the “grain” used in Warburton’s “bread” is GM or not is pretty much irrelevant. Fracking, corporate tax evasion, Blairism–take your pick from a plethora of parallels–you can bet your bottom dollar that chemical corners have been cut. GMC is certainly betting its bottom dollar on it. Am I saying Warburtons “bread”–let’s call it “edible product” is harmful to your health? Let’s not go there. GMC already has the “scientific” answers ready to roll on surface-to-media missiles that crop-dust public discussion with enumerated bullshit. Is GMC harmful to the environment? If you can answer no to that, I’d love to see your arguments in the comments box below.

But this is not so much a “green” as a “green psychology” article–if you like, a “deep eco” more than an “eco” piece.

Ecology: The branch of science concerned with the relationships between organisms and their environments.
Oxford Dictionary

Sure, it’s tongue-in-cheek, concocted by “clever”, middle class executives and “creatives” in the rather sexier environs of 60 Great Portland Street, leveraging the already tongue-in-cheek Stallone movie “The Expendables”. But what is the relationship between the residents of Bethnal Green and the award-winning Warburtons “Family” campaign? Or the Britain’s Got Talent-watching, edible-product-toasting masses who lap up the TV commercial in the ad breaks? Does thegame for a laugh messaging not rest on cultural channels of violence? Is “family” not tongue-twisted to mean “mafia”, i.e. glamourised gang culture? Is it only coincidence that WRCS’s other clients include the Army, Navy, Airforce, Artemis (The Profit Hunters) and–on balance–that benign old giant, HMRC?

Respect the Bread Warburtons ad by BBH

Perhaps it’s unfair to piss on WRCS’s award dinner chips. They’re not alone in this war business. How about BBH’s ad on the right?

Of course, it’s all tongue-in-cheek, game for a laugh, simply a reflection of modern, urban society. But whose tongue is in whose cheek? WRCS’s in Stallone’s? The clever folks at WRCS might say I’m patronising the working class, who understand the joke just fine.

Maybe we can go further then, with rape, racism, ISIS beheadings and Israeli F16s worked up in a tongue-in-cheek commercial for underarm spray, say.

Met Police Serious Crime Figures for Tower Hamlets

Met Police Serious Crime Figures for Tower Hamlets

According to the Metropolitan Police, Violence Against the Person in Tower Hamlets has risen 21% in the last 12 months, keeping up with the London-wide trend of nearly 30%.

Grab a free rag off the floor of the tube if you want examples. To be fair, the same rags print articles (juxtapose ads for Warburtons and other edible product) about 10-year old boys frazzled on hardcore porn, teenage girls bullied into anal sex, bartered between local mafias like objects in Grand Theft Auto. (What is this reporting really? Assimilation? Social lip service?)

In this light is there really any defence for depictions of violence, no matter how clever or tongue-in-cheek, in the billboard overhanging your local station, high street, park or playground? Are inner city children really that urbane and ironic? Do we want them to be?

What’s your response? Maybe like the protagonist of Charlie Booker’s Black Mirror: 15 Million Credits, the bit where he stands in front of the Cowell-esque panel and sums up his blistering polemic with the words: FUCK YOU!

It’s tempting to leave it there, to openly encourage that these billboards be defaced, torn down, burnt. I’m supposed to play the game, push my tongue into some clever, Great Portland Street cheek, let it all wash over me. Take the cash and shut the fuck up. For many years I tried to do just that. But I couldn’t, not really.

Increasingly, I don’t think you can either. Not really.