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    LECHEROUS LIBRA...

    Go Back  The Jittery Journeys of July 2004  Go Forward
    Cheerio, my little twerps of the posterior persuasion! Last month we left you taking holy orders in a distant monastery where it will be your duty to care for the sad, the tragic, the miscreant, the lost, the afflicted and an endless variety of small animals. Well, my tiny addlepates! Who could be better fitted for the task than you, with your virtually endless self-knowledge on the agonies of failure and suffering. After all, is not lugubrious Saturn eating his gruesome way through the raft of hollow achievements described by your solar tenth house of profession, status and authority? Is not cranky Chiron tearing out the heart of your solar fourth house of home, family and emotion in the loathsome and all but unspeakable sign of Capricorn, the morbid and hideous goat that symbolizes the agonizing torture of your depraved and misbegotten childhood?

    Ah well! Enough of these pleasantries! Let us proceed with the vile and bitter prognostications for joyless July. This may cheer us up somewhat despite the ever-present shadow of a benighted universe ruled by insane gods, home to myself and several lower life forms, one of which I believe is referred to as the human race. A Full Moon comes in loathsome Capricorn and you make your vows. Marauding Mars clashes with idiot Uranus and you’re immediately put to work on behalf of those less fortunate than yourselves (sniggers of disbelief waft through the confines of Heaven). Mischievous Mercury moves into lacklustre Leo and you’re forced to actually minister personally to these unfortunates by doing things for them.

    Great gods alive and dead, what’s the matter with the poor! They dress badly, smell appalling and seem pathologically unable to discuss new trends in modern cinema. Unspeakable planets then join forces to clash with the Lunar Nodes and you go into crisis, little nitwits! The elitist tendencies of your natural arrogance hit, head on, the wall of that grand desire for justice and equality that all the books on astrology claim is the domain of your odious sign. You end up a quivering mess, tiny scales folk! And all because of someone else’s drama rather than your own!

    You begin to feel ashamed of the twin horrors of self-indulgent decadence and self-inflicted misery that have marked the course of your useless life. As Mercury and Mars clash with nasty Neptune, you decide you will selflessly devote your life to advising the poor on fashion sense, hygiene and trends in modern cinema. The New Moon comes in neurotic Cancer and you resolve to go forward with a new ‘caring’ attitude and an enlightened vocation.

    Vamping Venus clashes with jolly Jupiter and you pray for guidance to put you on the path, as well as beginning to dress (ugh!) in a manner you feel will be an example to the poor but everyone else knows to be the mark of your essentially idiotic nature. The great Sol Invicti enters loathsome Leo and you give a lecture on fashion trends in contemporary Swedish cinema. You focus on the work of the iconic but largely despised figure of Ingmar Iceberg and her daughters Ice Pick and Pack Ice. Nobody comes, of course, but you take comfort in the usual self-deception about others not being evolved enough to understand.

    Vamping Venus clashes with underworld Pluto and you have a blazing row with head nun at the monastery. This gentle creature is reduced to a raving harpy by your refusal to accept that discussing fashion and giving a lecture on cinema is tantamount to a betrayal of your vow of silence. As mischievous Mercury moves into Virgo and your solar twelfth house, a horde of furious nuns throws you into the monastery dungeon where you’re left in solitary confinement while they think of a suitable punishment for the breaking of this sacred trust. As miserable Saturn and jolly Jupiter grind the gears of Heaven by assailing underworld Pluto, you sit alone in the dark, bewailing your fate, moaning and thrashing till a Full Moon comes in idiot Aquarius.

    There and then you decide you’re sick of all this religious crap, bang on the door to be let out and threaten to lecture continuously on Swedish cinema unless they consent to your demands for freedom and the release from your vows. They do and you leave! Click here next month for more exciting adventures in the world of posturing and posterior fashion!

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