What ho, my winsome, woolly woebegones! We left you last time striding into the night, your characteristically weak chin all but ennobled by the radiance that issued from a grim and fierce countenance upon whose every feature was writ the legend 'master of one's destiny'. 'Do as thou wilt' shall be the whole of the law for you, plucky little ovines.
The trail of this grandiose departure was littered with frozen figures that made a tableau of astonished relatives, neighbours and siblings that you had transfixed with a mighty cry of rage. Such ululating was visited upon them in answer to the mockery of their specious, nocturnal bleating that had awoken you from a gentle sleep. Even your mater, the very viper in bosom of your family, was among them. So, you have cut your ties to the wharf of home and family and now set forth to sail upon the seas of noble independence to seek your fortune in a mystical quest. Huzzah for your coming of age, ram type things!
And so, what does the cup of prognostication, vile and bitter, hold for you in awful August? Drink deep and see, my fleecy chums! Narcotic Neptune and mischievous Mercury find you humming whimsical ditties and musing as you stroll along on your mystical quest. Cranky Chiron enters grim Capricorn and you meet a hermit by the roadside. A commonplace in such a journey! He grips your sweaty hand in his gnarled one, reads your palm and says you will soon have everything you want but lack the one thing that you need. When you ask what that thing is, he laughs insanely, makes an abstruse remark about hedgehogs and disappears into the dark forest beyond the road.
You shrug off this odd encounter, as indeed you do with any meaningful visitation. The New Moon in lackwit Leo finds you strolling still, whistling a jaunty air and daydreaming of bright futures. As the great Sol Invicti falls to the concupiscent embrace of narcotic Neptune, you are inspired. By all the gods, you are, my tiny ovines! You will be a Ram of destiny, a roistering writer, a lord of language, a whimsical wordsmith casting pearls before the swine that run rampant in the mud of a benighted world ruled by insane gods! The swine, of course, are the general public when considered en masse or in the herd form.
Vamping Venus clashes with dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, and you decide you will build a hut in the wild wood and be a rustic scribe. Another crack at the bucolic business but this time without the sheep! You will hew wood, harvest nuts and berries and seek the Sylvan muse to write a magnum opus such as none has writ before or ever will again. Mischievous Mercury, marauding Mars, jolly Jupiter and the loony South Node cavort in the planetary folderol that brings this misbegotten scheme into daylight so, doubtless, the result will be the usual tripe and failure, served cold and burned.
But your thoughts are not of the doom your idiot sign cannot escape. Nay! For a comely woodland person appears, ripe to serve your pastoral proclivities (as it were) as you yet again seek out fame eternal by means of magnificent achievement. Thus, as you are horizontally engaged, speculation on the outcome of your effort touches not the lascivious Ram.
But what's this? By my little brown bottle, say not so! You sit (sated) in your cottage, poised to inscribe the enduring scribbles you have dreamt of scribbling when a ghastly thing occurs. Mischievous Mercury moves forward and you realize you have nothing whatever to say. Eek! Perhaps you have writer's block. Or it may be you have a complete absence of talent or brains or both, as most of us would proffer. Of course, such inadequacies are not always a disadvantage in the modern era, given the prevalence of obtuse illiteracy masquerading as virtual penmanship. But you are distraught, my tiny things. You wander distractedly in the woods, in the time-honoured manner of seekers after inspiration. At the Full Moon in idiot Aquarius, you try to sublimate your deep-seated fears about your literary skill (or lack of it) in a surge of sexual activity. Marauding Mars in Taurus gives a certain charm to your fiery yet mechanical prowess, as the words 'come here' reduce the complexities of foreplay to an instant.
As the great Sol Invicti grinds into anal Virgo (so to speak), each day you sit at your desk, wielding the impotent pen. Each night you fly to the fleshpots of the forest (marauding Mars niggling narcotic Neptune), filling the literary void with flagrant pleasures as you play with quill and inkwell of another kind, in a rough arboreal setting. By the gods, is there no end to rambunctious desire? And yet, against the odds, inspiration comes, in that single moment of pleasure, made sad by its brevity yet granted to the beasts to render their suffering somewhat less than unendurable. In an explosion of seminal delight (eek), you awaken to the philosophy you now know is yours and yours alone. Your quest is answered, little loonies! You will be a hedonist and write the magnum opus on hedonism! You will call your forest SHAG-RI-LA and summon those who wish to learn of the path of pleasure to suffer in the iron grip of your ram's desires. You race to the desk and write. What drivel will flow from your eager quill? Click here next time and see. Ave, rambunctious!