Disclaimer: I love all zodiac signs. Thank you.
Aries: The Cold War bunker energy of Josten Library. With Neilson out of the running and all of the space pods in Young occupied, Josten is a final resort, with its dark-brown brick, endless hallways of theatre offices and practice spaces and that one swirly staircase near the vending machines. Where is the actual library? What floor am I on? Where am I? Who am I? Then, you find the library part of the complex. Finally. The color combinations startle you to the core. Red, orange andpurple? You’re scared but invigorated. Like Aries, Josten is not afraid to be bold and outrageous. Aries are the baby of the zodiac; my non-existent sense of direction, space and time in Josten makes me feel like a newborn.
Taurus: Eating bourgeois almond butter in Gillett. Every person needs almond butter. Like Tauruses, almond butter is smooth, beautiful and thoroughly grounded. It is also a food, and Tauruses loves food and anything that grounds them in the material realm! Tauruses have a taste for the finer things in life — wine, Chanel, pure Egyptian cotton. Whatever person purchased the organic, non-GMO almond butter for Gillett also has impeccable taste. Sometimes, Tauruses can be stubborn like almond butter: It sticks to your teeth and makes you feel weird, but then you chase it away with some seltzer and it’s fine again. Almond butter is also rich. Oh, the sweet indulgence I feel as I scoop some out onto a plate, alone in the empty dining hall at 3 p.m. The epitome of luxury.
Gemini: Going to other campuses but accumulating mild regret. Let’s be real, okay? Smith is wonderful, but sometimes I need to leave. Like, I must exit Northampton and live the indie girl, PVTA-riding lifestyle of my dreams immediately or else I’ll explode. My mind’s eye is ablaze with rose-colored images of Hampshire’s Eric Carle Museum. The UMass tower buildings make my heart flutter. Mount Holyoke’s library takes my breath away. My brain says, “I need dynamism, I need change, I need lively intellectual discussions — some beautiful Gemini qualities.” Essentially split, my soul rejects these fantasies and says, “Why don’t you just take a nap and not spend 2 hours on the PVTA for no reason?” And I think, “No… I need… the Amherst College… library…” Rolling down Route 9 through heavenly Hadley, I remember Smith in a distant haze. I’m a new girl now. As two-faced as it gets, I enter the Amherst library and quietly pretend I go there. As time progresses, a sense of mild regret accumulates. I realize — wait… I didn’t need to travel all the way here for this. There’s nothing happening here. I could have just walked to Haymarket.
Cancer: The honking geese on Paradise Pond. I don’t know much about geese, or whether this experience is seasonal in nature, but every morning in February and March it seemed like the honking of geese gently stirred me from my slumber. Although it’s all very romantic and pastoral, their honks invaded the domestic sphere of my dorm room, ruled by home-oriented Cancer. Like Cancers, geese are comforting, familiar and rejoice in floating in water (water, in this case, alludes to Cancerian emotional turmoil). In this analogy, Paradise Pond is a locus of emotional, feminine, watery energy, and Cancers are the geese floating around, honking at will, dipping underwater, flapping around. The ducks who always hang out with the geese are Pisces. I know this.
Leo: The Neilson pit. Although this may be controversial, Leos likes to be the center of attention. Leos are the sun, and everything revolves around the sun. The Neilson rubble is the sun, and every person who comes on campus must revolve around it. We are Neilson’s planets. Though Leos are often more beautiful than the Neilson rubble, the pit catches eyes. Whether you’re walking to class, walking to your dorm or walking basically anywhere else on campus, the scaffolding and the crane with the American flag hanging from it are so bold, so dazzling you can’t help but stare!
Virgo: Getting asked at Chapin for your dining swipe. Just like Virgos, the people of Chapin would like to keep things in order. Follow the rules. Work hard to find your ID. You go to Smith, goddamnit. All of us have realized in terror that getting a pre-wrapped sandwich requires you to find your ID among the twelve items in your pocket. Then, when you try and swipe, there’s always the irrational fear that the card won’t go through. It will though, and it’s all okay.
Libra: Retrieving mail. Like the fair, pleasure-seeking, aesthetically dedicated Libras, the basement of the Campus Center houses neat, functional and trendy mail lockers which open so gently when you put in your reference number. On special days, when your package is in the behind-the-scenes mailroom, you can socialize with the mail workers who are reminiscent of the breezy and social Libras. But the moment when you sign your name too big on the iPhone and you have to decide how you can possibly fit your unit number — do you scribble it over your signed name? Do you clear the whole thing? Have a fresh start? Give up? That panic-inducing indecision — that’s Libra. Just hand the phone back and be on your way.
Scorpio: The Smith Confessional. Emulating Scorpio, the Confessional is secretive, mysterious and often dark. Its darkness is intensified by its power to stir controversy, persuade and alter mindsets. When you hear someone in passing talking about the Smith Confessional, you become simultaneously intrigued, scared and excited. It’s sometimes hard to know a Scorpio. It’s also hard to know what is happening on the confessional. Mystery is divine, though, and so is the endless questioning, self-analysis and contemplation. Lean in.
Sagittarius: Snow emergency parking. This is niche because this applies only to those who have cars. When the parking ban email hits your inbox, you know you’re getting your exercise for the day. The streets around the Quad gradually empty, and you know it’s time for your own reckoning. Hop in. It’s an adventure, which Sagittariuses love. And, in Sagittarian form, this is an independent journey. Why would your friends want to come all the way to the stables in the dead of winter with you when there’s pub food at Emerson? You find a parking space in the snowy world of the stable fields. You say goodbye. Although Sagittariuses love to party, they know when playtime is over. Walking through the ice-slush-of-a-path back to campus, you pull out your phone. Document this view of the lights on the water on Snapchat. Put four heart eye emojis. Everyone will love it. Everyone loves you.
Capricorn: Lazarus Center Emails. Your phone buzzes. You have a notification. Another shockingly depressing New York Times headline? A pity favorite for a bad tweet? Oh my god, no, it’s… an email! Is it that professor you emailed for an extension? Of course it’s not. Laziness never wins, you buffoon. Look, the Gmail app waits for you. You press it. What is new? The Lazarus Career Center has sent you another email. Oh. Why? You’re so tired of email. And existing in a corporeal form. You’re tired? Drink some coffee. Like Capricorn, these emails remind you that working hard is a necessary burden of late capitalism. When you go to the Lazarus Center and fix your goddamn resume, you can do anything. So. Streamline your unformatted jumble of extracurriculars. Do your work. Call your mom. Go to bed early so that you can destroy your competition in the long run. Stop spending your money on mochi from Dòbra Tea every other day and start investing in stocks. Be an economics major. High five Mark Zuckerberg in the spirit realm. Dunk on Bill Gates. The world is your oyster.
Aquarius: The Hillyer Atrium. Like Aquarius, the Hillyer Atrium is rebellious, airy and cold (to some). Liminal space. Straight lines. The atmosphere is always a little bit damp, but Aquarius ‘is’ the water bearer. The doors of Hillyer also don’t open the way doors usually open. Rebellion. Contrarian. Finessing the system. I lose my sense of time and reality in the Hillyer Atrium. Distances in that room do not correspond with the laws of the universe. What is happening in there? What color is anything in there? Time is an illusion. In the Hillyer Atrium, we are all one. The high ceilings and the constant bustle of foot traffic make for apt Aquarian analytical people-watching. Even though you’ve never actually looked at the gigantic sculpture of that person among the tables, you always knew he was a friend. He was there standing beside you when no one else was.
Pisces: Thinking about Sylvia Plath. Sometimes in the morning, walking through the mist near Haven-Wesley, I think about her. Like Pisces, these moments of remembrance are often transcendent. At random moments, I remember she went here: eating a banana in Lamont, running into Seelye late for class. One late night, stumbling from a gluten-free-bread-eating experience in Tyler, I immersed myself in the spooky mystery of Green Street. I walked on the path near Young, under the street lamps. In a carb haze, I was like, “Did Sylvia Plath walk here? I’m walking where she walked… Damn.” Her mythos on this campus, in particular, is reminiscent of the creative, spiritual and timeless energy of Pisces. Write down your dreams. Write some poetry.
