Eris is the Goddess of Chaos, Strife and Discord.  She moves extremely slowly through our skies.  She has been in Aries for all of our lives.  She's the one we often don't want to invite to the party, because she cannot speak without raising excitement, and not all excitement is "positive".

In relationship to Pluto trine Mercury, we are plunging the depths of past structural dynamics from a singular chaotic perspective, not yet heard, but not the only one.
 
In the myths,  
Eris drops a golden apple, into a fray,
and war breaks loose among the Gods.

It's a good time to reflect upon, what is
relevant for you, beyond Good and Evil,
and how it has become so.

Mercury plays operator

M: Hello, this is the Operator,
   how can I help you?"
E: Patch me through to Pluto,
   I've got some words
   for him.
M: Sorry Eris, he won't take
   calls from you, but
   you can leave a message..."

Eris leaves a message…

I didn't know I was abused
until I was crying, and shaking 
at my brother's house,
because I didn't want to 
speak to my father on the phone,  
"I can't face him alone, 
he'll just twist my words, 
and bully me, and then I'll cry
and I always lose, when I'm crying." 
My brother said he'd be on the call 
with me, but my father said no.
He wanted me cornered, in a room
with a therapist he trusted.
"You need help.
You have been sick
for a long time.  
It has always been something
wrong with you.  We tip-toe
around it.  Come home.  
And let us get you the help 
you need," said the man, 
who has never introspected 
in his life.  And to that, 
I still say, respectfully, 
"Fuck you, Daddy."  

To the man 
who programmed insecure 
attachment, into me.
To a mother who never
really liked having to
compete with me.
You have created 
a theme on repeat.  
My whole life 
long, shall we review 
the damage done?  Drawing
older men, to me, one by one.  
Because they think
I'm "magick".  Because they think
I'm a "mystery".  Because 
unreal is the only
thing you let me be.
I don't need your fucking
therapist to know that,
but maybe you should read
my poems with one,
and unpack your own shit.
Let me tell you,
about the first time
it happened...

I learned I wasn't free
to write, when my favorite 
teacher, asked me to report
to him, if I ever saw

my best friend, write in her own
format, again.  They decided
she had OCD.  All my girlfriends
were always playing, with their

handwriting.  He held me
after class, in the 6th grade,
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
I said I didn't see 

anything wrong with it,
and that was the Truth.  
I promised her I'd never say 
a thing, but, I shook my head,
 
"yes," to protect us.  We are safer, 
if he thinks he has 
an informant he can trust.  
I just wanted to make it through

middle school absurdity, 
and make it home,
and get through that.
My mother was receiving 

chemotherapy treatments, 
and our house was a tense ball 
of stress, and unspoken 
phantoms of Death.

I liked his class:  Reading,
Writing, Workshop.  I liked
his attention.  A man
who looked like my father,

with a strong New York accent.
Name a Connecticut darling
who didn't want to please him.
It was something I could do,

since I was never good 
enough, for Daddy.  I hadn't 
held a boy's hand yet,
and I wouldn't get my period

for another 3 years.  
He was around 30.  He would
call me out, if I experimented,
wearing make-up, to school.

I'd wipe the shadow from my lids,
as I denied it, and he
let me.  "See?  Nothing."
He had a daughter, just born,

named Allie.  He met my father
at a game of poker,
at another little girl's house.
Neither of them told me much

about it, but I asked
questions.  I thought 
my mother was dying,
and my parents didn't really
 
like me, because I wasn't good
at pretending everything was OK,
at home.  But at school, I became 
good, at spacing out, and coming back 

with the perfect
answer.  My teacher tried,
more than once, to catch me
at it.  A thin grin

spread across his lips,
each time he realized,
he couldn't.  I was reading
all the books.  I could recite

their dialogues, just drop me
in at the right cue.  He held me
after class.  "Eris, 
what's wrong?"  We both knew

I was lying, when I smiled
sadly, and said, "Nothing,"
but how else were we
supposed to move through it?

What was he going to do?  
Give me a hug?  That was not
appropriate.  If the tears
started falling, they'd never 

stop, and nobody else asked me,
but him.  At 11, I wrote a coming
-of-age story, for his class,
about a daughter who wanted to cut

down a dead tree, a father 
who doesn't, and a moonlit night, 
where they individually stay 
awake, watching it dance,

sharing the rite of coffee 
in the morning, but never speaking
about it.  I wrote it on a bus-ride 
home.  It was the first time,

I experienced a "download."
I didn't know where it came from
or how to make something like it
again.  Call it my Golden Apple.

We all had to write
coming-of-age stories,
but I hadn't come of age yet,
I was just familiar with Death.

I had not revealed my own 
mystery, to myself.
At the end of the year,
he gave me his email

and a plastic spiral,
dangling from his ceiling.  
Just me.  "Choose one,"
he told me, "You

have taught me, more
than you can ever know."
"But what have I taught you?"
I asked him.  "That's for

me to know, and you to think 
about," he replied.  So I took 
the pearly white one.
And went home, feeling like

Harry Potter, trapped
at the Dursley's, for the Summer.
He asked me to keep him
up to date, on what I was

reading.  I was always
reading.  It was my greatest
relief.  I think it's safe 
to say I thought about it,

long enough.  I think 
it's safe,
to say we know Now, 
what you meant, 

"Daddy".