Hello Halloweenians, We are well and truly in Scorpio season when we dig for deeper, uncomfortable truths rather that settling for the bromides of social niceties and compromise so prevalent in Libra season. With that in mind, my November horoscopes for RUSSH magazine have just gone up. The big news is that Mars, ruling planet to Scorpio, the Big Sting, goes into its sign tonight on Halloween eve—expect full freak mode, as Mars will be jonesing for mischief and erotic explorations deep in Scorpio’s dark funhouse. On November 5th, Venus also enters into Capricorn for an extended 5 month hiatus due to a long, rare retrograde beginning in December. Venus goes retrograde every 18 months, but hasn’t done so in Capricorn since December 2013. Think back to this period, what was going on for you? Similar themes are likely to come up over the next few months. As some of you may know, I’m Irish by birth, and so I will also be celebrating Samhain, the Celtic holiday for Halloween. Samhain’s traditional associations are with goddesses who help us pass from this world to the next. On Halloween night when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest, and witches of all types commune with their dead, it is a great time to practice some magick. Growing up on Halloween night, my family home was always brightly lit. Candles in the windows and down the garden making the hearth home for the good dead who wish to visit. FYI: The witching hour is between 3 and 4 am tonight. Set your clock, stay awake, light a candle, and beckon your ancestors over for a chat about the olden days. A final note on Halloween/Samhain—the original Jack-o-Lanterns weren’t made of pumpkins but turnips and there is something truly uncanny about their menacing faces, lit up at night (Google it, if you dare). And so, with that in mind, I wish you all a magical Samhain, full of dark Scorpio fun, witching hours, and alienating turnip-faced Jack-o-Lanterns swinging eerily from fenceposts on old abandoned roads that lead to long ago forgotten houses in whose backyards ancestors lay under crumbling tombstones, their names effaced by time, if not their bones below. Yours, Clarisse