Ho to you, my empty vessels that make the loudest noise! It is I, bard of bafflement, arrogant auspex and doctor of doom! Asperitus! Replete with this month's dosage of vile and bitter prognostication!
Last time we left, you were in a lunatic asylum in Halifax, and going by the name of St Cretin, psychic detective. You were popular (among the lunatics), had made a fortune in the illicit sale of prescription drugs and were about to produce a musical masterwork for the staff and inmates. This was to be entitled DISCO NUNS GO TO HALIFAX. Once written, you were certain it would prove to be your ticket out of the asylum from whence you would fly (literally) to foreign climes to continue your trade as a psychic detective, partnered by an elderly artist with a Picasso complex.
But therein lies the rub as we consider the words 'once written' in their true and proper sense. You had a serious case of writers' block and were at sixes and sevens as manic March came to an end. And now it's awful April, replete with all of the predictably vile and bitter prognostications that I shall now recount.
Lugubrious Saturn grinds aging bones, creaking knees and wrinkled skin into forward motion and your brain (unsuitable at best) still cannot provide the words of wisdom or titillating entertainment, as you require inspiration from an outside source. As vamping Venus slithers lasciviously into wretched Pisces, you hire a hack via the internet (there are so many of them these days) and have the play ghost-written. The idiot creature urges you to try the 'cut up' technique, excising by the use of scissors random words and phrases from other works then throwing them together to achieve the appearance if not the sense of meaningful sentences. This technique was faddishly popular in the sixties, as was almost everything briefly. However, as marauding Mars assaults the naughty bits of dark Pluto, the underworld god, you apply the method with success, as it appeals to your idiot nature to play with paper and scissors. In no time at all, you have something that, in your own mind at least, passes for a script.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, my tiny airhead nitwits, the Full Moon comes in lackwit Libra and you're inspired (gosh, you're so unpredictable) to rush the show into production and stage it as an Easter parade. Egad! After all, if people nowadays believe a Jewish carpenter had a virgin for a mother and god for a father, why wouldn't they believe dancing nuns arriving in Halifax in platform shoes is entertaining? Especially in light of the fact that both stories have a cast of lunatics. Marauding Mars barrels into slimy Cancer whilst mischievous Mercury performs the same ghastly service in addlebrained Aries! You and your cheerful loonies lurch into a live and eccentric performance, part scripted, part improvised. And all the time you have yourself earmarked for the stunning final scene where you, playing the messiah in a cloak of eagle feathers, will fly through the roof of the loony bin to freedom in a foreign land. For it's a whimsy (ah whimsy!) that's taken you since cranky Chiron moved to your idiot sign! And the whimsy is that you are not human (entirely possible) but are, in fact, a giant bird. Hmm!
Ghastly planets cavort in fantastical fornication and fearsome farting on the highway of Heaven as the great Sol Invicti clatters into cloddish Taurus. You take the stage, robed and feathered like a shaman of old. The audience gasps. Most satisfying! So, you reveal your true nature for all to see. 'I am Wind Eagle, visitor from the skies and a feathered friend to all humanity,' you proudly announce to the astonished assemblage which, it must be said, were expecting a more conventional crucifixion and resurrection with crosses, nails, tombs, winding cloths and such. But then, by my sainted aunt, you stretch your wings and flap them in a most majestic manner, befitting one whose natural grandeur is above the thresh and flail of mortal human affairs. Gadzooks!
The New Moon comes in the leaden sign of the Bull! Vamping Venus exposes her private parts to dark Pluto as the great Sol Invicti thrashes cranky Chiron. Do you rise above it all, my nitwit ninnies. Do you fly through the roof to your new home in foreign climes? Will you truly be Wind Eagle, putting aside the last shreds of the persona of St Cretin, psychic detective that cling to your feathered cloak? If you wish to know the answer to these questions, and indeed many others even more absurd, kindly click here next month and read the drivel that you find therein. It's entirely possible I will have awoken in time (or nearly so) to write it. In the meantime, ave atque vale, my frightful little persons!