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Article 38 - Pluto Pathology (Part 1) - Sex, Death, and Power:
 A Scorpio Triumvirate - 12,000 Words.

By Glenn Perry.

(An earlier version, "Pluto Pathology: The Dark Side of Human Sexuality," appeared in Llewellyn's Sexuality in the Horoscope, 1994, edited by Noel Tyl, and was subsequently revised and reprinted in Essays in Psychological Astrology, 1998, by Glenn Perry.)

  As ruler of Scorpio, Pluto symbolizes a process of death and renewal. By implication, whatever Pluto aspects by hard angle is fodder for transformation. Pluto tends to abduct this function into the underworld and render it dark and forbidding. The dark lord symbolizes what scares us, and whatever scares us has power. It scares us because it is strange, and it has power because we cannot control it; thus we fear it might violate our boundaries and destroy us. Jung called this dreaded entity of the unconscious the shadow, for it symbolizes that part of the psyche the person cannot see.

  Because one cannot assimilate the shadow and stay the same, it is associated with death. To integrate the feared thing is to die. For this to occur, however, the shadow must be rendered visible by being projected outward and encountered in the form of someone to whom we are attracted. In other words, fear tends to become eroticized and embodied in the person of the beloved. There the shadow lurks unsuspectedly. Eventually, however, it precipitates a crisis in the relationship. It is only by penetrating the shadow and integrating it into consciousness that one can eliminate fear, take back the power that was lost, and restore integrity to the soul. This process of healing and empowerment is implicitly sexual. For by making love to what we fear, we die and are reborn in a new, more powerful form. This is why sex, death, and power are inseparable.

  In Part I of this article, I would like to establish a basis for understanding how problems with sexual intimacy are often reflected in hard aspects between Pluto and Venus. Individuals with this aspect do not necessarily suffer from sexual dysfunctions, though that is certainly one variant of the aspect. Rather, an unintegrated Venus-Pluto is likely to reflect distress and impairment in matters pertaining to pleasure and intimacy - both of which are ruled by Venus. To the extent that these needs are readily satisfied, the individual is able to enjoy his/her body and feel comfortable in relationships. However, if Pluto abducts Venus into the underworld, then it is precisely one's capacity for pleasure and intimacy that constitutes the shadow. Initially, this may manifest as a childhood trauma that wounds the child in reference to his/her body and need for secure attachment, e.g., the child might have been betrayed, violated, abused, or molested. Later, the native's adult relationships become the vehicle through which the initial wounding is reenacted and, hopefully, healed. In the remainder of this article, we will explore how this occurs.

Taurus and the Need for Sensual Gratification.

  I want to make it clear that when I talk about a zodiacal sign, I am referring to its archetypal quality; that is, a sign represents some universal principle that is evident both in the world of nature and in the nature of humans. A sign, then, is a singular aspect of the human psyche, and every psyche has all twelve signs operating to varying degrees of emphasis and functionality.

  Although traditional astrology associates Scorpio with the sex drive, a good place to start in our efforts to understand sexuality is with Taurus. Scorpio and Taurus are complementary opposites in that one fulfills the other. To understand Scorpio you must first understand Taurus. Individuals who have Taurus prominent in their charts are exemplars of the Taurus archetype in all of us. Like other zodiacal signs, the principle that Taurus represents can be inferred from behavior that is classically Taurean. Any textbook will give you the usual description: Taureans are sensuous, attractive, materialistic, concrete, calm, stable, placid, conservative, slow and steady, resistive to change, and possessive. By analyzing these and other Taurean descriptors we can reduce Taurus down to a basic principle, or psychological need. Taurus represents the need for safety and sensual gratification. Ultimately, there is no Taurean behavior that cannot be understood in the context of this need.

  It may not be immediately apparent that the need for safety and the need for sensual gratification are two faces of the same principle. This becomes more obvious when we look at Taurus from a developmental perspective. I associate zodiacal signs with distinct developmental periods of the human life cycle. Aries would be approximately the first 18 months, and Taurus would cover the next two-and-one-half years. Research in child development indicates that when infants reach about 18 months of age they experience a crisis of sorts; that is, they go through a transition from one perceptual framework to another. Prior to 18 months, infants experience little, if any, separation between themselves and the outside world. The world, in effect, is their oyster and infants view themselves as omnipotent. All they have to do is scream or cry and their every need is satisfied. There is no need to exercise any self-control over bodily functions because they are not particularly aware of having a body. An infant's orientation in space and time is limited to "me, here, now." Astrologers can readily see the Aries temperament in this description. At 18 months, however, the infant suddenly awakens to the disturbing realization that there is an objective world peopled with objects that have an existence entirely separate from the infant and that are not always subject to the infant's control. Piaget (1926) termed this the capacity for "object permanence," meaning the ability to conceptualize that there are entities who have a reality of their own and that continue to exist even when one cannot see, hear, or feel them.

  Since the environment is now perceived to have its own autonomy, it is no longer predictable; it can change, it can frustrate, it can intrude, mother can leave and not come back! Out of this awakening to the autonomy of the natural world is born the urgent need to feel that one's own existence is secure. Predictably, infants become very insecure at this stage. They are inordinately sensitive to any changes in the environment and require constant reassurance that mother is still there, that she still loves them, and that the world is not going to suddenly disappear. For an astrologer, it is not difficult to see traces of Taurean behavior in this. Greene (1993), for example, asserts that the famous Taurean loyalty in relationship is based not on abstract moral promises or social codes, but rather on the need to render permanent any situation that provides pleasure, satisfaction, and a sense of security (p. 72).

  While the infant's realization that he is not omnipotent is disturbing, it need not be overwhelming if the environment is sufficiently stable, predictable, and safe. To help with the transition to this new world-view, toddlers form intense attachments to what Winnicott (1960) called "transitional objects." This is usually some possession, like a teddy bear or a favorite blanket, that provides a soothing function for the child and allows him to maintain an illusory sense of control over the objective world. In effect, the concept of ownership is born at this stage. Children form various attachments to toys, pets, and things that are distinctly their own. In this we see the origin of the Taurean tendency to acquire and possess objects.

  If development proceeds without major trauma and if the mother is sufficiently available and responsive to her child's need for love and reassurance, the child will eventually develop what Hartman (1952) termed "object constancy." This occurs at about three years when the child's internalized mental representation of mother is sufficiently stable and permanent that it can be evoked by the child in the absence of the actual mothering person. With the achievement of object constancy, the child is able to draw upon the mental representation of mother in a way that allows for self-soothing and self-comforting, just as if the mother were present. In an important sense, the mother is present, constantly inside. She becomes the ground of the child's love of self. And it is precisely this capacity for self-love that enables the self-concept to remain stable even in the face of mildly frightening or frustrating experiences. That is, the child is able to hold on to a positive self-image despite momentary experiences of pain because he or she has internalized a loving function that previously was provided by the mother. Prior to this, infants are totally identified with whatever they are experiencing in the moment. If it is a "bad" feeling, then the infant becomes the "bad" self. In effect, an infant cannot have an experience without becoming the experience. With the child's emergent capacity for object constancy and self-love, however, he is able to have experiences (just as he can have possessions) without losing his sense of self. Taurus, then, is this capacity for self-love that allows for a stable and secure sense of identity over time. It is a kind of homeostatic mechanism, its primary function being to maintain a self-image that is constant and grounded.

  An important corollary to the infant's discovery of an external world is his dawning awareness of his own body. He learns, for example, that his body is separate and distinct from other bodies. It can be made to do things, and to hold and possess things, all of which yield a considerable amount of pleasurable sensation. It is precisely the child's capacity to pleasure himself that helps to provide him with a sense of security. To be in physical contact with the teddy bear, or the ice cream cone, or the bar of soap - anything that can be touched and used for sensual gratification - reassures the child that the world is safe and that he is an embodied self that is real, solid, and continuous over time. The development of body awareness also allows the child to learn bladder and bowel control. Thus toilet training occurs at this age. Again, the capacity to retain (feces and urine) and to possess are distinctly Taurean processes.

  A child's uninhibited delight in physical pleasures is paralleled in myths surrounding the goddess Venus, planetary ruler of Taurus. According to Greene (1993), an appropriate term for Venus is "harlot," as the word suggests sexual license and abandon. The temple harlot in ancient times was never a prostitute in the modern sense of the term, but was trained to be a mortal vessel for the divine joy and ecstasy of the goddess. "By becoming an embodiment of the divine object of desire and source of pleasure, the temple harlot served as a kind of generator of the creative life force in men, and far from being demeaned by the role, she acquired power and importance through the value placed upon it" (p. 72). Aphrodite (the corollary to Venus in Greek mythology) is herself the best example of the unbridled, spontaneous sensuality that is characteristic of Taurus. Although married to Hephaistos, she is perennially unfaithful to him, giving herself to any god or hero she desires. If a particular god or hero wants Aphrodite, she is unaffected, for it is her gratification alone that matters. Aphrodite is not capable of being vulnerable, which is a prerequisite for genuine loving. In fact, she does not so much love as lust. Periodically seized by erotic longing, Aphrodite enchants and seduces her lovers without regard for the consequences. As Greene put it: "She certainly suffers no insecurities, but expresses absolute power of attraction not because of what she has to offer . . . but because of who she is. She does nothing to be loved, because she is the essence of the beloved" (p. 734).

  In this regard, Venus is self-possessed, her love and pleasure coming from within herself rather than from a god or hero who possesses her. So Venus really symbolizes a quality of absolute self-love and uninhibited sensual pleasure. She can enjoy her body and that of her lover but does not depend on another for her security. It is not even that Venus necessarily symbolizes sexual pleasure, all myths to the contrary. Sex in this context may be regarded as a metaphor for the sensual delights that Venus embodies. Again, the essence of Taurus is comfort, pleasure, physical gratification. Venus merely symbolizes how the person goes about wanting things and enjoying them. As ruler of Taurus, Venus is opposed to suffering and vulnerability, which is Scorpio's province. The Taurus goal is merely to content oneself and be happy. Venus is the capacity to indulge oneself in food and drink, in a sensuous massage, a walk in the woods, or lying nude in the sun listening to Mozart. So what does Venus want? "Whatever makes me happy," she would reply.

  Sometimes Venus (and the 2nd house) is associated with "values," but this part of human nature has nothing to do with values in the traditional sense of the term, i.e., one's ethics or moral values. It is, instead, the value one places on happiness and whatever affords that happiness. We might call it "material values." This gets back to the idea of valuing whatever gives one pleasure or provides security. The function of Venus is to value and honor whatever it is that one wants in order to feel "good." So Venus rules the process of acquiring things, having experiences, or attracting people because of the pleasure and security they afford (which is, in effect, their value).

  If Venus/Taurus is integrated and functional, there is no rush, no anxiety about being loved, because love is a state of mind that is internally generated. One glides into relationship at a relaxed pace unquickened by anxiety. As Greene stated, "She does nothing to be loved, because she is the essence of the beloved." As the partners get to know one another, a basis of trust is established, a Taurean stronghold built to contain the tensions that are inevitably to arise later. This grounding of the relationship in mutual trust takes time and commitment and is ultimately rooted in the self-security of the individuals involved. It is precisely the Taurean instinct that assures that relationships do not proceed too fast. Taurus requires a slow, cautious approach that enables the individual to take time in learning about the other. This aspect of our nature needs to know that the beloved is safe, stable, and reliable.

  It is the capacity for object constancy and its corollary, self-love, that renders Taurus so lovable. The partner is not burdened with any responsibility to provide love, because the Taurus-integrated person already has it. We see this embodied in the relaxed, calm, serene presence of Sun-sign Taureans who seem to exude sensuality through every pore. Taurus is voluptuousness wanting to be violated, it is touchable, attractive, earthy, beautiful, and therefore desirable. If Scorpio is the lover knocking on the door, Taurus is the one who invites him in. If Scorpio is the plow and the seed, Taurus is the fertile field waiting to be plowed. It cannot be overstated that Taurus is first and foremost committed to the pleasure of one's own body. With Jupiter in Taurus on the Ascendant, Mae West put it best when she purred, "Too much of a good thing can be wonderful."

  I have taken some time here to outline the principle of Taurus because it is the foundation of what will later develop into the capacity for sexual enjoyment. Taurus, in effect, is the ground of our being, the source of a stable and secure sense of self - an embodied self - that is firmly rooted in self-love. This is not to imply that safety and security should be the final goal of love, for these will never provide for psychological growth and cannot be sustained indefinitely anyway. The point is, an individual must first be grounded in the pleasurable sensations of her own body before she can welcome the experience of sharing this pleasure with someone else. She has to feel safe and secure within her own boundaries before she can willingly allow those boundaries to be penetrated. To "give it up," to be taken, to penetrate and be penetrated, to risk being wounded, to voluntarily relinquish control and merge in ecstatic union with the beloved: this is Scorpio. But if the base security of Taurus is missing or damaged because of a premature or forced violation of the body, then the individual will experience tremendous difficulty feeling safe enough to tolerate the experience of sex.

Scorpio and the Process of Transformation.

  Again, when I talk about Scorpio I am talking about an archetype that is embodied in every human being. Individuals with Scorpio prominent in their charts are merely exemplars of what Scorpio represents in all of us. Like Taurus, the psychological need of Scorpio can be inferred from behaviors that are typical of this sign. We note the penetrating stare, the deep, smoldering sexuality, the air of mystery, the passionate intensity. Scorpio is powerful, provocative, and willing to die for its convictions. It tends to be crisis-oriented in that it is innately attracted to conditions of emergency or transition brought about by irreversible change. There is likewise an attraction to the hidden, the forbidden, and the dangerous. At its best, Scorpio exposes wrongdoing, roots out evil, and heals wounds of every sort. Considering all of the above, it seems that there are three core themes at the heart of Scorpio. These are (1) transformation - death and rebirth, healing, regeneration, renewal, reform; (2) power - integrity, intensity, coherence of intention, potency, concentrated force; and (3) sex - fusion, merger, penetration and assimilation, unification, and the like. Astrologers will readily agree that these themes are typically associated with Scorpio. I would say, then, that Scorpio represents the associated needs for sex, power, and transformation. What may not be clear is how these three processes are interrelated and interdependent.

  To say that Scorpio represents the need for transformation is to imply something that needs to be transformed, thus a wound or injury. Transformation further implies a movement, or evolution, from the simple to the complex. In chemistry, if two substances are put together and there is any kind of reaction, both are transformed into a third substance that incorporates the two into a new whole. Likewise, if there is an injury to the body, such as a diseased or dysfunctional organ, this constitutes a division that compromises the integrity of the organism. To heal the division is to eliminate what does not belong and restore the organ to its proper function - that is, integrate it back into the whole. Transformation, then, is a whole-making process that involves processes of elimination and integration.

  On a psychological level, the process is the same. Almost everyone has some aspect of his or her psyche where they feel wounded, vulnerable, and afraid. Different models refer to this by various names - complex, shadow, pathogenic belief, trauma, neurosis, the daimonic, the bad self, and the bad object are but a few. Almost invariably, these wounded parts of the psyche reside in the unconscious, repressed or dissociated from conscious awareness. Generally the wound is bound up with some particular need that has been deemed too dangerous or painful to express. This could be the need for autonomy, dependency needs, competitive strivings, intimacy, the search for meaning, or the need for sensual gratification. Somewhere the individual learned that to experience this part of one's nature was likely to cause oneself or others pain. So it remains hidden below the surface of consciousness. And Scorpio, we know, is associated with whatever is hidden or lurking below the surface of things. Scorpio's attraction to the dark side derives from the impulse to heal. The healing process, however, invariably involves a certain amount of pain and suffering for the individual who is wounded. To go into the dark places, to remember the trauma or the loss or the insult, is to confront that part of oneself that is full of fear and shame. Negative attitudes have to be broken down and eliminated, painful effects integrated, and the repressed function restored to its rightful place in the overall psychic economy. All of this is classically Scorpionic.

  What, we may ask, is the result of all this suffering and healing? The answer is power. Whatever one fears has power. It has power because it drains energy that would otherwise be available to the person. Herman (1992), for example, writes that all traumatic experiences share a common similarity of denial and disempowerment. To lift the denial and resolve the fear is to take back the power that has been lost. Consider what happens when one is afraid. There is a contraction of the self, a repression that requires a significant expenditure of energy to keep the repressed in place. Jung (1960) called these compacted areas "psychic complexes," which he defined as a magnetic vortex of emotionally-charged contents and associated ideas clustered around a central core. A complex constitutes an image of a certain psychic situation, e.g., the enjoyment of one's body (Venus/Taurus), that is incompatible with the habitual conscious attitude. The individual, for example, may compensate his fear of bodily pleasure by developing the attitude, "I don't need to be touched or loved - keep away." The Venus/Taurus impulse is repressed and behaves, in Jung's words, "like an animated foreign body in the sphere of consciousness" (p. 96). While the complex can be suppressed with an effort of will, it tends to assert itself with a vengeance at first opportunity - perhaps when the individual is stressed, tired, or disinhibited from drugs or alcohol. With a Venus/Taurus complex, this "return of the repressed" might result in inappropriate touching, overindulgence in food or drink, compulsive shopping, and the like. Since Pluto rules Scorpio, we might expect to see this complex symbolized by a Pluto- square-Venus aspect.

  Because these dark areas of the psyche are not consciously recognized, they tend to get projected and identified as residing in someone or something outside the self. In myth and literature, this is symbolized by any entity that embodies evil, e.g., a monster, dragon, devil, demon, or vampire. As symbols of transformation, monsters are Scorpio archetypes. Their common characteristics reveal the essential mechanism of the complex. Monsters are chaos beasts lurking at the interstices of order and inhabiting regions of the unknown. Though the forms and types of monsters are numberless, a single principle underlies a majority of them: a monster is out of place, conforming to no class or violating existing classes. Monsters are mutations, embodiments of new and unfamiliar states. Take dragons, for example. Perhaps the most widespread monster in myth and folklore, the dragon is said to be born through a mixture of species, and its form is always an unlikely compound of apparently disparate and uncombinable parts - the body of a serpent with the scales of a fish; feet, wings, and occasionally the head of a bird; the forelimbs of a lion, the ears of a bull, horns of a stag, and so on. Combinations are legion. Likewise, the devil is a hybrid creature - cloven hooves, tail, pointed ears, scales, claws, fangs, and snout. Because monsters embody our fear of transformation, a monster's form merely requires that it be strange. It is, in effect, a symbol of what the individual dreads will happen should he be possessed by the complex that resides in his own unconscious, i.e., he will be transformed into something foreign and monstrous.

  A common characteristic of monsters and devils is that they can transform themselves into anyone or anything. And so can the sexual offender. Witness the mild-mannered, soft-spoken Jeffrey Dahmer, or David Koresh, or any of the thousands of rapists, child molesters, and sexual deviants who masquerade as your friendly neighbor, baby-sitter, or local priest that too late reveal themselves to be yet another variant of the sex drive gone berserk. Devils/monsters almost invariably have a sexual component. The vampire with his erotic blood lust, the dragon to whom must be sacrificed a virgin, and the devil who seduces virgins are obvious examples, all of which represent the eroticization of fear.

  Rollo May (1969) points out that it is precisely the repressed instinctual life that constitutes the complex, or what he calls the daimonic. "The daimonic is any natural function which has the power to take over the whole person" (p. 123). Because the power of the daimonic is bound up with certain memories and needs that are abhorrent to the individual, it can be destructive to the conscious personality in the same way that a monster appears destructive. When this power goes awry and one element usurps control over the total personality, we have daimon possession. Jung referred to this as "enantiodromia." If one side of a pair of opposites becomes excessively predominant in the personality, it is likely to turn into its contrary, e.g., priests turn into child molesters. Enantiodromia helps us to understand how daimon possession occurs. In a desperate effort to repress the complex, the individual overcompensates in the opposite direction by identifying with qualities and attributes that are opposed to the nature of the impulse he fears. Sooner or later, however, the repressed life asserts itself and the conscious personality is abducted into the underworld of the psyche.

  Obviously, the daimonic is not an actual entity but refers to a fundamental, archetypal function of human experience that I associate with Scorpio and its planetary ruler, Pluto. The deteriorated form of this concept, consisting of the belief that we are taken over by demons flying around equipped with horns, is a projection of inner experience outward, reified into objective reality. May (1969) argues that such a conception is specifically damaging to our experience of love and will: "For the destructive activities of the daimonic are only the reverse side of its constructive motivation" (p. 124). In the daimonic lies one's vitality, the capacity to consciously open to the power of Eros and be transformed. If one represses the daimonic, he or she becomes an accomplice on the side of the destructive possession. To dissolve the power of the daimonic, says May, one must "identify with that which haunts you, not in order to fight it off, but to take it into your self; for it must represent some rejected element in you" (p. 133). To do this is to take back the power that has been projected outward and so restore to oneself the function of what was heretofore repressed. This is empowerment.

  The myth of Hercules slaying the Hydra illustrates this principle quite nicely. As one of his twelve labors, Hercules is sent to slay the Lernean Hydra, a serpent-like beast who inhabits a dark cave in a swamp. The nasty Hydra has been preying upon the folk of the countryside. A particularly deadly creature, it has nine snake heads, each of which is equipped with poisonous fangs. The problem is that no one can kill the Hydra by cutting off its heads, for each severed head sprouts three new ones in return. Hercules makes the mistake of trying to club the Hydra into unconsciousness and then cut off its heads. But this only compounds his difficulty because by attempting to "cut off" the problem, it only grows worse. The heads proliferate and Hercules is about finished. Suddenly he remembers that Hydras cannot tolerate light. So he drops down to his knees, seizes the Hydra by its legs, and thrusts it up into the sunlight, whereupon it shrivels up and begins to die.

  The meaning of this myth is fairly obvious. The serpent, of course, is a primary symbol of Scorpio. Likewise, Scorpio rules dangerous, hidden places like caves. The Hydra is the daimon or complex that is dangerous precisely because it is repressed into the cave of the unconscious. It preys upon the personality by seeking to subvert and destroy the conscious identity. It can temporarily be suppressed, that is, clubbed into submission, but it cannot be permanently "cut off." Attempts to repress it only cause it to reassert itself with a vengeance (repression, after all, is what started the problem in the first place). The complex proliferates with every effort to sever it from conscious awareness. The only way the problem can be resolved is by humbling oneself, as Hercules did by dropping to his knees, and holding the dark and inferior element of the complex up to the light of consciousness. Once this is done, the complex can be integrated into the personality so that it no longer poses a threat. By such a heroic act the individual is empowered and transformed. An increase in power accompanies transformation because with the assimilation of the complex there is no longer a split in the personality. The energy that was previously bound up in the complex becomes available so that there is a greater coherence of intention, increased unity and integrity, and thus more concentrated force of personality.

  Trauma research has shown that when an organism is faced with an overwhelming external threat against which there is no possibility of escape, there is a tendency to "freeze" or "play dead" - that is, to inhibit or suspend all reaction that would normally be appropriate (Browne, 1990; Herman, 1992). The capacity to suspend or inhibit an overwhelmingly threatening experience serves the purpose of blocking the threat of internal destabilization. Accordingly, whenever an individual is faced with an overwhelming experience that is sensed as potentially disintegrating, there is the ability to suspend it and freeze it in an unassimilated, inchoate form and maintain it in that state indefinitely. This may occur with a singular traumatic experience, like rape or abandonment, or in response to a chronic condition such as growing up with an alcoholic or abusive parent.

  The psyche seems to know that to fully experience the meaning of the threatening encounter would destroy its core organization. So it is cut off, delayed, dissociated. Also cut off is whatever part of the psyche is associated with the traumatic experience. A child who has been molested, for example, may cut off her connection to her body and need for sensual gratification (Venus/Taurus). This whole area is avoided because it tends to reactivate the original traumatic experience. As such, it constitutes a "dead zone" or void in the personality. Just as you cannot cut off the head of a Hydra, however, so too the original trauma does not go away, but instead produces the panic attacks, agitation, nightmares, fatigue, emotional blunting, and other clinical phenomena that are associated with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Just as the Hydra bursts forth from the cave to prey upon innocent folk, so the daimon bursts forth from the unconscious in the form of intrusive flashbacks that disrupt conscious functioning. Ultimately, the only way to heal the wound is to consciously work it through. Generally speaking, this requires giving up control, surrendering to feelings that emerge as the complex is encountered, opening to and embracing the meaning of the experience, eliminating negative attitudes and defenses that were developed to ward off the pain of the original trauma, and integrating the contents of the trauma into consciousness and long-term memory. This is holding the Hydra up to the sunlight. And, as we shall see, it is not dissimilar to what happens during sex.

Sex as a Vehicle and a Metaphor for Transformation.

  We have seen how the insidious effects of trauma are caused by the psychological aftershocks of the experience. Such shocks ultimately take up residence in the murky swamps and dark caves of the unconscious, where Hydras are born. Regardless of the nature of the original trauma, whether physical abuse, excessive shaming, or threat of loss of a parent's love, a child's psyche will tend first to repress the experience, and then eroticize it. Sexual turn-ons are rooted in Plutonian processes that have their genesis on a psychological level; that is, patterns of sexual arousal are inextricably linked to old wounds and conflicts. One's core erotic theme is an internal blueprint for arousal that transforms crucial challenges and difficulties - unfinished emotional business from childhood - into sexual excitation (Morin, 1995; Stoller, 1975).

  It is well known that anything forbidden can become a factor in sexual arousal. This is due to the fact that whatever is forbidden is associated with danger, i.e., it has the power to destroy one's health, security, reputation, self-esteem, or life itself. Repressed psychic functions are bound by an implicit belief that if we express this part, we could be annihilated. Recall Herman's (1992) contention: trauma disempowers. Accordingly, forbidden parts of the self are projected into objects, which are subsequently feared. There are two ways to restore power: (1) by dominating the feared object - the equivalent of sexual penetration, or (2) by submission to and incorporation of what is feared - the equivalent of being penetrated. A primary purpose of sexual union, in other words, is the resolution of fear and the restoration of power. The goal is to recapitulate the original traumatic experience but this time in a sexual context that converts fear into power, pain into pleasure, and hate into love. By either penetrating, or submitting to, the forbidden object, one triumphs over fear and gains back the power that was lost. When one merges with the dreaded object there is an experience of control because now it is part of oneself again. In short, passion transforms fear into power.

  Before detailing how sex is both a vehicle and a metaphor for psychological processes of transformation, let us first examine the origins of sex. It may come as a surprise that sexuality was not always a part of life. Neither was death. Sex and death began together. Billions of years before the emergence of plant and animal life there were single-celled organisms - prokaryotes —- that could reproduce themselves through cellular division, a process called mitosis. These single-celled organisms were made possible by the spontaneous emergence of a self-replicating molecule known as DNA. Because prokaryotes could divide and reproduce themselves, they were semi-immortal. In reproduction by asexual cell division, there is no natural death, only forced death. Prokaryotes do not die. The dividing cells do not age and will continue to divide if environmental conditions are favorable.

  Eventually, however, the prokaryotes overpopulated the planet and stagnated because they depleted the environment of the necessary nutrients for their continued survival. Thus life faced its first crisis. So the prokaryotes mutated into a new form by producing a molecule called chlorophyll. It was the self-manufacture of chlorophyll that enabled prokaryotes to capture solar energy to make their own food, a process known as photosynthesis. But photosynthesis produced the planet's first pollutant, oxygen, which accumulated in the atmosphere to the point that it became deadly to the prokaryotes. This was life's second crisis. So the prokaryotes mutated into yet another form that allowed for the metabolizing of oxygen. This new structure was radically unlike the first because it involved the joining together of prokaryotes to create a totally new form of life - oxygen metabolizing organisms! With this evolutionary innovation, sex and death began their reign.

  These new cellular organisms, called eucaryotes, were too complex to divide, so they had to develop a new way to reproduce. Two tiny creatures called paramecia were reputedly the first organisms to mate, the Adam and Eve of the cellular world. As they approached one another, their cell membranes opened and their nuclei moved into a close embrace. Each paramecium exchanged half its genetic material with the other. Then they separated, revitalized. Out of this simple chemical cooperation of primitive bacterial cells we can glimpse the early melding of the rudiments of sex and love. The ultimate result of genetic exchange was the diversity of plant and animal life, or multicellular organisms. Genetic exchange allowed single-celled creatures to transform themselves into a multiplicity of new organisms. Sex inaugurated phylogenetic evolution. But once organisms developed the capacity for sexual reproduction, they were no longer immortal and death became a normal event in the life cycle. So sex and death are historical events that entered the process together. The price life paid for the evolution of species (phylogeny) was the devolution of ontogeny, i.e., decay toward death of the individual organism. In Jantsch's (1980) words, "Sexuality can only represent one side of a principle the other side of which is death" (p. 125).

  From the above we can draw an important lesson about Scorpio. Each time there was a crisis, it was resolved by the innovation of some new evolutionary development. Life survived by transforming itself, whenever necessary, into a more complex form. When single-celled prokaryotes were poisoning the environment with their own waste, oxygen, they fused together to create oxygen metabolizing multicellular organisms. By developing the capacity to take in rather than eject out oxygen, they embraced the very thing that threatened to annihilate them. It is a paradox that seems to be at the heart of Scorpio. Only by integrating the threatening agent were prokaryotes able to evolve into a new life form and survive. In doing so they developed the capacity for sexual reproduction. Sexuality brought about an extraordinary acceleration of evolution and the proliferation of many new life forms, yet it required the death of the individual organism. So from the beginning, sex, death, and transformation were inseparable.

  To appreciate how sex can be a metaphor for psychological processes of transformation, it will be useful to briefly review what takes place during human heterosexual intercourse. To begin, there is a certain amount of foreplay, which I would associate with the Taurus component of the act. This involves some tactile stimulation - sensual touching, kissing, and caressing - as well as certain sights, sounds, and smells that contribute to erotic stimulation. All of these are in the service of pleasuring one another's body and establishing a proper mood. Most people require a certain minimum of affection and trust before they can engage in a satisfying sexual encounter. Taurus, of course, represents this need for affection and trust (safety).

  Foreplay eventually leads to penetration, which constitutes the beginning of the Scorpio phase. As the lovers merge together in mutual embrace, we see a parallel with unicellular organisms joining together to create a more complex, multicellular being. Boundaries dissolve as the lovers begin to melt into one another. This involves a letting go, a voluntary relinquishing of control so that something deeper takes over and moves through the lovers. If Taurus is the urge to retain, Scorpio is the urge to release. As tension mounts, there is a blurring of perceptual ability so that the lovers are not fully conscious of their own sensations and physiological responses. They build momentum through pelvic thrusts and rhythmic undulations, a prelude and analog to the culminating vibratory contractions of penis and vagina. With the approach of orgasm the musculature of the body is taut from head to toe. The two bodies begin to vibrate together so that they are no longer experienced as material things, separate and distinct, but subsumed in a dancing, pulsating wave form that envelopes both lovers. With orgasm there is a kind of unitive consciousness as the lovers die to their separate selves and become melded together as one being. Psychoanalytic theory has long maintained that coitus and death are emotionally connected, which is why, perhaps, the French call the orgasm, la petite mort, or "the little death."

  It is paradoxical that at the peak of sexual gratification the lovers do not seem to be experiencing pleasure. Recall that Taurus rules pleasure, whereas its opposite, pain, is ruled by Scorpio. Thus at the climax of sexual excitement one may bite and scratch, the face contort into a grimace, the body strain and become rigid, the mouth gasp for breath, the eyes bulge and stare vacantly, or shut tightly, the hands grasp, the whole body twitch uncontrollably, and the voice let loose with a muffled cry or loud scream. Far from pleasure, all of this would suggest intense suffering and torment, as if one is being wounded. And yet the orgasm is one of the most intense and profoundly satisfying sensations that a human being can experience.

  With ejaculation ("throwing out") there is an explosive discharge of accumulated neuromuscular tensions. The male is completely out of control and helpless to stop it. The forcible ejection of spermatic fluid into the woman's vaginal canal is one of intense pleasure associated with orgasmic throbs and the sensation of spermatic flow. The vagina is not a passive receptacle for the penis but an active participant in coitus. Sexual sophisticates have sung the praises of the vagina that eagerly admits, envelopes, and brings the penis to a climax. Following ejaculation the sperm swim excitedly into the uterus and up the fallopian tube toward the ovum, the female egg. If all goes well, a single sperm will penetrate the egg, resulting in fertilization. The sperm adds its 23 chromosomes to the 23 in the egg, providing the necessary complement of 46 for the new human being. In sum, the sperm penetrates the egg, the egg assimilates the sperm, and transformation results. Here again, we see the hallmark of the Scorpio process: penetration, assimilation, transformation. Just as more complex, multicellular organisms evolved from the fusion of unicellular types, so the human child is a mixture of the genetic endowments of the male and female lovers. One could argue that with every human birth there is at least the potential, if not the expressed purpose, for an evolutionary advancement of the species.

  I have described sexual intercourse and conception at some length because I believe it is an important analog to what happens in processes of psychological transformation. To further establish the basis for this idea, let us examine briefly how our two lovers come to fall in love, and why.

  There is reason to believe that people do not fall in love by chance, but in accordance with a specific unconscious plan (Blinder, 1989; Dicks, 1967; Hendrix, 1988; Jung, 1953). The plan seems to be that individuals work out with partners the unconscious conflicts and wounds that derived from earlier important relationships. For this to be effective, it is necessary to (1) select someone who has similar character traits and attitudes as one's parents; and (2) resolve with them whatever unfinished business remains with these parents. The partner, in effect, functions as a surrogate for the healing of old wounds.

  Jung (1953) provides a useful model for how this process operates. He theorized that the human psyche contained unconscious, autonomous psychic contents representing contrasexual elements of the personality. The anima was the psychic representation of the "inner female" in a man, and the animus personified the "inner male" in the woman. According to Jung, the projection of one's anima or animus onto an individual of the opposite sex is responsible for the phenomenon of falling in love. The particular quality of our relationship with the opposite sex is determined, says Jung, by the degree to which we have integrated the anima or animus. For integration and healing to occur, however, it is necessary to first meet the anima/animus in projected form. Otherwise these figures remain locked in the unconscious and are not released to create the struggles that bring the potential for a widening of consciousness. In this regard, projections are necessary, for they serve the purpose of bringing the unconscious into view. To integrate the anima/animus part is to develop a wider and deeper conscious perspective.

  The anima/animus can be "dark" or "light," and most likely contains aspects of both. The dark anima, for instance, is commonly depicted in film and literature as a femme fatale or "fatal attraction" that, for various reasons, proves destructive to the participants. In many respects, the anima/animus image functions like a complex. It is an erotically-charged image of a psychic situation that is split off from the conscious identity and must be integrated if healing/wholeness is to occur. Animosity in close personal relationships is likely to indicate a particularly problematic or dark anima/animus figure. Specific characteristics of the anima/animus serve as compensations for masculine and feminine conscious attitudes, respectively. When a man's conscious attitude is carried to a negative extreme, e.g., the "macho male," it will tend to produce a corresponding negative attitude through the unconscious. For example, women may then be imaged as weak and needy. Conversely, if a woman's conscious attitude is carried to a negative extreme, e.g., "the helpless female," it produces a corresponding negative unconscious attitude, and men may be imaged as aggressive and controlling. These dark images of anima/animus figures will then be reflected in confusion and discord suffered in relationships with members of the opposite sex.

  Jung's concept of the anima/animus is similar to the concept of the "internal object" in object relations theory. An internal object is a mental representation, or image, of an actual person that formed from the person's experience with an important figure in childhood, e.g., the mother or father. An internal object exists in relation to a self-representation around some specific need, such as the need for safety and security. Dicks (1967) noted that spouses with marital problems seem to unconsciously test each other against the role models of earlier love objects about whom they had ambivalent feelings. The hope, or fantasy, is that the spouse will be different from the problematic parent(s). Tensions and misunderstandings occur when "the other fails to play the role of a spouse after the manner of a preconceived model or figure in their fantasy world" (p. 50). Dicks asserts that marital problems are a consequence of mutual projection. Each spouse is perceived as being, to some degree, like one's parent.

  Tensions between marriage partners can result from the disappointment that the partner, after all, plays the marital role like the frustrating parent figure, similarity to whom was denied during courtship. This often collusive discovery leads to modification of the subject's own role behavior in the direction of regression toward more childish responses to the partner (p. 62).

  The above suggests that marriage is a primary field of manifestation of unresolved earlier object relations. Under ideal conditions, each partner can absorb the regressive needs and problems of the spouse. If these are heightened above tolerable limits, however, there can be an outbreak of stress-related symptoms. "Even at this level," says Dicks (1967), "marriage can be seen to act as a natural therapeutic relationship, the partners to some extent suffering themselves to be treated by each other as scapegoats" (p. 66).

  An example should suffice to illustrate this. Imagine a boy who has Moon conjunct Pluto, with both planets squaring Venus. Because the relationship between the boy's parents is riddled with conflict, the mother has appropriated the boy to satisfy her unfulfilled needs for intimacy and companionship. Accordingly, his relationship with his mother is characterized by suffocating control. She is alternately intrusive, manipulative, and seductive. What's worse, she acts hurt or scornful whenever the boy shows interest in a girl his own age. Because of the unnatural closeness between the boy and his mother, the father is jealous. His relationship with his son is strained and distant. Not surprisingly, such a boy may grow up feeling as if his need for love and affection (Venus) is dangerous (Pluto). If he expresses affection to his mother, he feels trapped. She needs him too much. Also, his father becomes angry. But if he expresses affection to a girl his own age, he feels guilty, as it threatens and injures his mother. Again, the father is of no help because he resents his son and is not a viable role model for how to be intimate with a woman.

  We can speculate that the boy has internalized an image of women as needy, controlling, and devouring. As an adult, he would like to find someone who is the opposite of his mother, a strong and independent woman who respects his need for space, yet who loves him just as passionately as his mother did. In other words, he wants to split off the "bad" qualities of mother/woman and keep the "good" ones. His anima fantasy figure compensates for the bad object that has been internalized; it represents only the "light" side of a complex figure. Suppose our man finds a woman who seems to embody the qualities he is seeking. Dicks (1967) would call this "marriage by contrast," or "counter-identification." The idealized partner is chosen in reference to the suffocating, dangerous side of the original object. As Dicks put it, "The idealized love object is still the same love-object with its badness removed by splitting or denial" (p. 62).

  From an astrological perspective, this constitutes a splitting of the Taurus/Scorpio polarity as suggested by the Venus-Pluto square. The pleasurable Venusian qualities of the anima are retained, whereas the painful Plutonian dimension is eliminated. In regard to the phenomenon of "splitting," it is interesting to note that Taurus and Scorpio rule joint processes of retention and elimination. Taurus rules the mouth and throat, which correspond to processes of taking in and retaining. Conversely, Scorpio rules the anus and genitals, which correspond to processes of ejection and elimination. Since Venus and Pluto rule Taurus and Scorpio, respectively, it is my hypothesis that difficult aspects between these two planets may be indicative of splitting. The defense of splitting is well known in clinical literature. It is universally present in infants who have not yet achieved object constancy (Taurus). Infants initially experience both self and others in terms of a radical split, "all good" or "all bad," until maturation allows for more sophisticated discrimination. Scharff (1992) describes this process of splitting in terms remarkably similar to the physiological processes ruled by Taurus and Scorpio:

"If an experience is good it is introjected in a psychological mode equivalent to sucking and swallowing. If it is bad it is projected outside into the object in a psychological mode equivalent to spitting out. These alternating modes create potential categories of good/bad, inside/outside, and me/not me. The infant tends to usurp the object's pleasurable qualities and claim them as part of the self and to disown painful qualities and attribute those to the object" (p. 73).

  Generally speaking, positive nurturing experiences are conceptualized as "good" object (mother) and "good" self, while negative experiences are organized as "bad" object and "bad" self. In healthy infant development, the child gradually recognizes that both good and bad aspects of experience are parts of the same person. Other people are neither idealized as "all good," or denigrated as "all bad," but are seen as a mixture of both good and bad parts. The child realizes that this is true for himself as well, allowing for an integrated self-concept and a capacity for ambivalent feelings toward both self and other. When self-object experiences are significantly discrepant, however, synthesizing them is a task too monumental for the infantile ego. The split in the relationship with the object, and thus in the self, arises from the disparity of experience that is too extensive and overwhelming for the child to form into an integrated, single, self-object representation. Consequently, there remains a split in the way both self and others are perceived.

  If the child identifies with the good object only, this becomes the basis for later attempts to establish symbiotic relationships with idealized others, alongside a paranoid view of the now separated-out bad mother-world. The bad-self is repressed into the unconscious, and the corresponding bad-object takes up residence in what is perceived as a hostile and threatening environment. This often leads to choosing a partner who initially seems to be the fulfillment of one's fantasies, but quickly turns into one's nightmare. Ironically, the very characteristics of the partner that were the major source of attraction are the same ones that lead to struggle. Again, this is because of the splitting of the light and dark sides of the anima/animus figure. Recall that the anima/animus is an unconscious aspect of the subject's personality that gets projected. Once the partner is unconsciously perceived as embodying "lost" parts of the self, s/he is first idealized and then subsequently devalued for the same quality! In other words, there is a persecution, in the partner, of repressed self-parts that have been projected onto the partner, even though it seemed to be this "oppositeness" to the ego's conscious self-image that was originally an important part of the attraction.

  Jung elaborated on this pull of complementariness in human relationships, which allows for the possibility of cross-fertilization and growth. Complementariness in relationship represents the same movement toward wholeness, or unity as expressed in sexuality. Just as a sperm fertilizes the egg, so one partner's psychological issues may fertilize the other's, leading to psychological transformation. "It is as if each partner was aiming at the restoration of a complete personality through their union" (Dicks, 1967, p. 64). This process follows a recognizable sequence. First there is mutual attraction, followed by polarization, and culminating (hopefully) in reconciliation.

  To provide an example of this process, let us return once again to our friend with the Moon-Pluto conjunction squaring Venus. Pluto has abducted his Venus and dragged it down into the underworld of his psyche, where it remains imprisoned. This is our psychic complex, the deadly Hydra in the cave. He unconsciously believes that his need for pleasure and intimacy constitutes a "dark and inferior" element of his personality that must be eliminated. He cannot surrender to his need for intimacy with a woman for fear that (1) it will hurt his mother and he will feel guilty (Venus square Moon); and (2) the woman will try to possess and devour him just as his mother did (Venus square Pluto). Accordingly, his conscious personality compensates the repressed Venus by appearing somewhat arrogant, cold, and invulnerable. Unaware of this conflict, he meets a woman and falls in love despite himself. At first glance all he sees is the light side of Venus, which he is projecting: she is extremely attractive, kind, and affectionate. She loves and adores him. During courtship, the Hydra slumbers quietly in the cave of unconsciousness so that he does not yet see the "dark" Plutonized Venus he has likewise projected.

  Eventually, however, the Hydra awakens and our friend begins to notice that his sweet wife is also possessive, needy, and controlling. This is the dark/Pluto side of the Venus complex - the negative anima, or "bad-object." He defends himself against the hated bad-object by withdrawing, spending long hours away at work, and generally avoiding his wife. Predictably, she begins to nag and complain about his lack of availability. He responds by withdrawing further. The pattern escalates and confirms his worst fears that he is about to be devoured. Ultimately he loses all sexual interest in the relationship. His wife spends most of her time with the children while he reverts to his secret, sexual addiction involving excessive masturbation, pornographic literature, and frequent liaisons with prostitutes. With the latter, he acts out sadomasochistic fantasies of domination and submission.

  What is happening here and how can it be resolved? While this example may seem extreme, it is actually derived from the case history of a famous person whom I will identify in Part II of this article. The process begins with the husband projecting his Venus complex into his wife. He utilizes "splitting" during the courtship phase and sees her in an idealized way as the "all-good" object - pure, unadulterated Venus. Soon, however, the dark side presents itself and he begins to see her as the needy, suffocating mother/woman, or "all-bad" object. In effect, he is trying to eliminate in himself this fearful image of a devouring need, so he projects it into his wife. She receives the projection and because of her own vulnerabilities begins to identify with it. She becomes needy, possessive, and controlling. Their complementary polarities become rigidly polarized so that the differences that once beguiled and bewitched now become sources of aggravated conflict. They begin to emphasize and exaggerate these differences in ways that feel punishing and antagonistic. They forget what it was that drew them together and lose contact with their earlier feelings of attraction. He withdraws and she pursues at an ever more frantic pace. As this rhythmic pattern escalates, both spouses become increasingly rigid and their mutual pain builds toward an inevitable climax. Ultimately there is a huge explosion as both partners release their pent-up feelings and toxic emotions. Mutual hostilities may even be punctuated with a resounding "Fuck you!" Following this release, there is usually an attempt at reconciliation as the two work it through and try to resolve their differences. In the sharing of their pain, and in the attempt to understand its basis and origins, there is a potential for healing. If all goes well, a single insight will penetrate one partner's defenses, resulting in psychic fertilization. And this, in turn, may lead to psychological transformation.

  It does not take too much imagination to see the above description as an analog to what happens during sexual intercourse. The courtship phase corresponds to the Taurus foreplay stage preceding coitus. The man's projection of his psychic wound into the woman correlates with vaginal penetration by the penis, or the beginning of the Scorpio/Pluto stage. Her receiving and identifying with the projected part simulates the opening of the vagina and incorporation of the penis. Just as there is a rhythmic movement that builds toward a climax in sexual intercourse, so there is an interactional rhythm that builds to peak intensity in the relationship. Whereas in coitus there is a blurring of physical boundaries, in projection there is a blurring of psychic boundaries. Right before orgasm the musculature of the body becomes taut and rigid; so too the partners become tense and rigid just before a fight. In sexual excitement there is "a point of no return" after which orgasm is inevitable. Likewise, in marital conflict, once the interactional problem escalates out of control, a confrontation is unavoidable. Just as there is actual emotional pain associated with marital confrontations, so there is apparent pain associated with sexual orgasm. In both instances, there is a discharge of tensions. A period of resolution follows orgasm and confrontation, respectively, during which there is at least the potential for transformation. In the sexual arena, this period is associated with the spermatic journey into the woman’s interior that may result in conception. In the emotional arena, there is a process of introspection that may result in new "conceptions" regarding psychological wounds and vulnerabilities.

  The likelihood of marital confrontation resulting in psychological transformation is probably as rare as sexual intercourse resulting in pregnancy. Yet, new life - transformation - is the ultimate outcome of both processes because at root they are the same. With every crisis the couple reaches a bifurcation point where they can go in one of two directions. Interestingly, the Chinese figure for "crisis" is comprised of two symbols, one meaning "danger" and the other "opportunity." Just so, with every relationship crisis there is danger that the relationship might end but also the opportunity for it to change.

  The process that leads to change is one of projective identification. The term "projective identification" was originally coined by Melanie Klein (1946) to denote the unconscious process of projecting parts of the self into another person and then dealing with the person as though she were characterized by those parts of the self. In the above example, the projected part was the man's Venus, or need for sensual gratification. Terrified of this need, he tries to get rid of it by projecting it into his wife. His "devouring Venus" is then identified as residing in the wife, that is, she is experienced as embodying that part of himself, whether she happens to be like that or not. Generally, the person being projected into is to some degree "taken over" by the projection without quite knowing it. This is called "introjective identification" and is invariably painful. If, however, she can recognize that she is being perceived in a distorted fashion and is being induced to play the role of the devouring lover, she can choose to respond differently. She can "contain" the projection by allowing herself to experience it and by striving to understand it. Suppose the wife turns to her husband and gently initiates a conversation by saying, "You seem to be afraid that I am going to need you so much that you will lose yourself in the relationship." She then proceeds to share with her husband the pain of her experience, and likewise invites him to tell her about his pain. She does not defend herself, nor react with blame, criticism, or advice. She merely contains him and makes it safe for him to be vulnerable. If he, too, is able to do this, then the repressed contents of the unconscious in both partners will rise to the surface to be released and transformed.

  Of course, the obverse can occur, too, with the wife projecting onto the husband. Suppose, for example, it is the woman who has Venus square Pluto. Having been sexually molested by her stepfather, she perceives men as dangerous, licentious philanderers who violate and betray women. Accordingly, her need for intimacy (Venus) is repressed and projected onto her husband, who carries it with a vengeance. Sensing her unconscious hostility, he eventually grows tired of her distancing maneuvers and seeks his pleasure elsewhere. His affairs, of course, only serve to confirm what she suspected - that men are untrustworthy defilers of women. If, however, her husband can contain her projection and invite her to talk about it (rather than identifying with the projection and acting it out), then there is the possibility of healing.

  The planet that seems singularly related to projective identification is Pluto. We know that Pluto has to do with processes of elimination. In a simple biological sense, what gets eliminated is whatever the body cannot assimilate, i.e., its waste products - especially feces and urine. To retain these would be poisonous and ultimately destructive. Thus Pluto symbolizes the impulse to eliminate or release whatever is foreign or destructive to the overall integrity of the system. In an analogous sense, there are psychological processes of elimination, too. Any thought, feeling, idea, or impulse that the consciousness of the system deems dangerous and destructive to itself will get eliminated. It is precisely the planets to which Pluto is in hard aspect that symbolize psychological functions that the individual tries to eliminate. But where do these functions go? Where can they go? One cannot destroy their existence entirely. So they are located outside the self. They are disavowed, expelled, ejected, dismissed, deported, banished, discharged, vomited, spit out, excreted, ejaculated - these are all Plutonian words.

  In object relations theory, projective identification has phallic connotations, whereas introjective identification has vaginal connotations. "Just as the phallus requires the vagina to take it in for purposes of pleasure, bonding, and procreation, and the vagina has to have a penis to encompass in spontaneous, automatic rhythms, so do the processes of introjective and projective identification go together" (Scharff, 1992, p. 289). Some authors attest that influence upon the object in projective identification occurs only if there is an unusually permeable boundary between the projector and the recipient of the projection. This permeability may be in a specific area, such as a complementarity between projector and projectee around the function of Venus. In our first example, the man denies his need for affection while the woman exaggerates hers. Both are wounded in the same area and are naturally attracted due to complementarity. Accordingly, the man projects his Venus into the woman and she receives and contains it for him. She is naturally permeable to his projection.

  When we talk about permeability of boundaries in relation to projection, we are, again, citing an analogy to the anus, urethra, vagina, and penis, all of which are permeable membranes, or openings, which allow for material to pass out of or into the body. Some authors have even cited the similarity between a wound, which is an opening in the membrane of an organism, an avulsion or puncture, and the vulva - the external parts of the female genitals - which is similar in appearance to a wound and which also is repeatedly punctured, i.e., by a penis. An avulsion is a tearing asunder, or forcible separation. This, of course, is precisely what occurs when the hymen (maidenhead) is broken during first intercourse. There is tearing, pain, and bleeding. So, in a very real sense, the vagina is an area of wounding. To copulate is, originally at least, also to wound. No doubt this is the origin of the word "vulva," which is derived from the Latin vulnerare, meaning "to wound," and vulnus, meaning "wound." To be permeable to a projection, then, is analogous to being penetrated sexually. Both processes require one to be vulnerable, which quite literally means "capable of being wounded."

  In summary, sexual intercourse and projective identification appear to be analogous processes. In sexual intercourse, the male ejaculates his essence (sperm) into the woman, who mixes it with her own essence (egg). The genetic material of the one is combined with the genetic material of the other. The woman contains these contents for a period of time (nine months), then reintroduces the original content (sperm) of the man, but in a transformed form, a baby. The child is the transformation of the original projection. This new entity is, hopefully, a more balanced and integrated blend of the best of the two parents. Likewise, in projective identification, the projector ejects that part of himself that needs to be transformed. The receiver of this projection "introjects" its contents and, hopefully, is able to contain and transform them by mixing them with her own awareness. They are then reintroduced to the projector in a form that allows for integration to occur. This also happens in reverse with the wife projecting into the husband. The ultimate result is the transformation of both participants, who become more balanced and integrated versions of their former selves.


  The point of this rather long description of sex and projective identification is simply this: whatever wounds exist psychologically in a person are likely to find their way into that person's sex life. This is because fear, or wounding, tends to become eroticized. Corollary psychological functions, such as the need for pleasure and intimacy (Venus), are associated with shame and danger and then subsequently charged with erotic energy, for this is nature's way of tricking us into integrating what we fear. First we project it, then we have sex with it. The erotic is inherently paradoxical, for anything that frightens us may - under different circumstances, or with greater and lesser intensity - also turn us on. In their book, Hidden Bedroom Partners, Garwood and Hajcak (1987) make this point the cornerstone of their work. "Much of our sexual behavior is motivated by repressed, nonsexual needs which surface and seek satisfaction during sex" (p. 7). It is not simply that sex and projective identification are analogous processes, they are the same process occurring on different levels. Sex is both a metaphor for transformation and also a vehicle for it. Projective identification symbolically implies that if a man is to heal his wounds, he has to "make love" to that which is most hated in himself. The same applies to woman. The hated part is experienced first in projected form as the dark side of the anima/animus, but ultimately it must be reintegrated back into the self. This process occurs by means of sexual attraction. Recall the statement by Dicks (1967) that "marriage can be seen to act as a natural therapeutic relationship . . . . It is as if each partner was aiming at the restoration of a complete personality through their union" (pp. 64-66). Unknowingly, the person becomes erotically bound to the very thing he rejects in himself. To make love to someone who embodies this part is to reintegrate it through identification with the beloved, leading to renewal and empowerment of the self. This constitutes a kind of death and rebirth. So with sex there is potential death, transformation, and empowerment. Again, this is the essence of Scorpio.

  Part II will cover the genesis, development, and resolution of specific types of problems that are symbolized by hard aspects between Pluto and Venus.

  (Note to web readers: Part II appeared in the April/May 1999 issue of The Mountain Astrologer, and is available for purchase. We will not be posting part II on the Internet. To get part II, see the back issues section of our web site, or call (800) 287-4828 to order with VISA/MC.)


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  D.W. Winnicott (1960, 1975), "The Theory of the Parent-Infant Relationship," in The Maturational    Processes and the Facilitating Environment, London: Hogart Press, pp. 73-81.

© 1999 Glenn Perry - all rights reserved

  Glenn Perry, Ph.D., is a licensed psychotherapist in private practice in San Rafael, California. A professional astrologer since 1974, he is director of The Association for Astrological Psychology and former editor-publisher of The Journal of AstroPsychology. In addition to private practice, Glenn lectures and conducts workshops throughout the world on the application of astrology to the fields of counseling and psychotherapy. He has written three books, including Essays in Psychological Astrology, and is an adjunct professor at the California Institute of Integral Studies where he teaches astrology to graduate students in psychology. Glenn also offers a mentorship program, which is a personalized course in natal chart interpretation from a depth psychological perspective.

Article Courtesy of:  The Mountain astrologer

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