Odds bodkins, my tiny sheepish things! I am yet again aghast at how quickly each month passes, necessitating a further disgorging of prognostications, vile and bitter, in your general direction. How unpleasant to have to take you and your ghastly doings into account! And, on that note, I'd like to begin with a tiny digression.
When Thomas Hobbes made a comment in passing about his aunt Leviathan being 'nasty, British and short', little did he know this phrase was to become one of the more famous misquotes in the history of English literature. Although it has been variously applied to Richard III, Posh Spice and Winston Churchill, it is more often quoted as 'nasty, brutish and short' and applied to the condition of life in general for the common person. What is now forgotten is that the aunt of Thomas Hobbes was, in fact, an Aries and his phrase, apart from the reference to the shopkeeper extraction, is the perfect description of the type and may be gleefully quoted by eager students of the starry art!
Anyway, on with the show! Last time, you were abed in the family manse, tucked in safely, with the car keys confiscated, sleeping soundly until awoken by the bleating of sheep. So, in the seething nastiness of jaundiced July (which is the current month), what will we find? Attend to the word of the oracle of bitter truth (that's me) and be informed, my ovine nitwits! Things begin, as they often do, with the farting of ghastly planets in nasty aspect. In this instance, there is a New Moon in neurotic Cancer that clashes with your own dear god of war, marauding Mars. You leap from your bed to discover once and for all the meaning of this nocturnal bleating. After all, did you not leave your sheep forever behind you in Arcadia, the failed rural paradise that goes right at the end of the long list of all your other failures? You have set aside the path of Ovinity and will no more fleece the public with its idiot pursuits. You seize the doorknob in your fiery palm!
But what's this? By all the gods, your mother has locked you in, just as in the days of childhood when you had tantrums that threatened to destroy the furniture, dismember the pets and demolish the walls! How dare she! You're not like that now, are you, my obnoxious little ovines! And to prove it, as marauding Mars conjoins in disgusting fashion with the Lunar North Node and grapples with the great Sol Invicti, you kick down the door and race into the night. Once outside, what do you find? It is with the burning print of shame stamped upon your cheeks that you discover a flock of jealous siblings and nasty neighbours that have gathered in the yard to mock you by bleating like sheep.
And, horror upon horror, your own mater, whom you thought truly loved you, appears at the back door and joins the ovine chorus. Pater is doubtless in a drunken stupor in the shed, snoring a comatose contribution to this assassination of your sterling but much maligned character. Gadzooks, rambunctious types! What will you do?
Well, I'll tell you! Just as you're about to begin crying, smashing things and hitting the smaller folk who don't appear to have large friends, a roistering racket erupts in Heaven. Aargh! It's grim Saturn, grinding his ancient bones and drawing attention to his ghastly passage (eek) into lackwit Leo. By all the gods alive and dead, I don't believe it! The mantle of grim authority falls from the starry climes above and wraps itself about your shoulders. You stand, blazing with fiery power so unlike the childish flash of your appalling temper. Holy light fills you. That characteristically weak chin remolds itself into a forbidding mountainside. The Full Moon sheds chill necrotic light in lugubrious Capricorn and your solar tenth house, clashing with Mars, the god of war.
So do you roar your fury to the Heavens, shaking the very firmament on which you stand and testing the claims of the industrial strength incontinence undergarments worn by several elderly neighbours. Mischievous Mercury then moves to perverse reverse motion and you stand there, screaming the wrath of a giant Gulliver, assailed by the irritating citizenry of Lilliput. Vamping Venus moves to anal Virgo and you, with calm dignity, return to your room, repair the door, clean the floor, wash the linen, make the bed, pack your things and so depart, leaving the gawking crowd of mockers still transfixed by your crushing tirade. Marauding Mars moves into cloddish Taurus, clashing with sober Saturn and you set out, there and then, on your travels, alone, independent and ruler of your fate! Click here next time and learn of your bold adventures, my ovine things. Hail and farewell, rambunctious!