Tally ho, my little yoicks! Greetings and salutations to the two-faced spoke that turns and turns with all the others in the wheel of Heaven! Last time, we left you bereft in a deserted monastery, hemmed in by high and snowclad hills. You had conversations with flowers, a febrile condition, itching private parts, ghostly hauntings and finally a vision of the sublime. Egad! What jolly japes and willy-nilly nonsense do the insane gods have in store for you this month? Why, let us essay the daunting journey into the malign miasma of the vile and bitter prognostications for maudlin May and so discover!
Hark to me, my tiny air sign twits! I am Asperitus, terrible to behold and even more terrible to listen to, as you have no doubt gathered during the concourse of our intercourse! The great Sol Invicti clashes with jolly Jupiter and you are overjoyed and yet affrighted Heaven has chosen you for this designated visitation. The event may make the annals of a religious organization or be approved of by the latest thing in papacy, Pope Benedict The Optical Illusion! And, speaking of optical illusions, soft hands reach to soothe your fevered brow and itching genitalia. Eek! That's not very heavenly! Or perhaps it is! It all depends on the perspective you adopt. And that one that you're adopting does not bear describing in polite society!
The gentle healing administered by this visionary etheric form seems to possess you, body and soul. Mischievous Mercury then clashes with lugubrious Saturn and you weep uncontrollably, so moved are you by the touch upon your skin. You lament that you have spent your entire life in pursuit of the twin chimeras of money and success while that spark or certain something that speaks of spirit has been absent from your life. Egad! You've been spiritually barren, my airhead nitwits! But that's all about to change! Or is it?
The New Moon comes in loathsome Taurus, clashing with nasty Neptune, and you surrender deeply to spectral force that holds you in tender embrace. The itching goes from your genitalia and is replaced by an entirely different sensation. Vamping Venus enters your odious sign and you rise up, beautified yourself by the visionary light that surrounds you. You race to the rose garden as instructed and it seems as if the very roses there clothe you in a garment of their shining petals. You feel removed from the troubles you have known and even grateful for your solitude in this mountain fastness. Perhaps there was a greater plan at work, little twits! The day the plane crash brought you here!
Ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds, especially marauding Mars (recently slithered into Pisces) as he feeds greedily on a diet of groping with jolly Jupiter and wrestling with Uranus, the idiot god. And, as we now know all too well, cosmic flatulence brings winds of change unto this benighted earth. The great Sol Invicti clatters into your noxious sign as mischievous Mercury conjoins in unseemly fashion with nasty Neptune. The visionary figure speaks, urging you to discover the mystic rose in your heart (a welcome relief to know you have one). If you do so, you will pass from the confines on this monastery and find true peace in the world. For a moment, all this seems possible and the very rose you seek seems to shine in the air before you. You cleave to the bosom of the ethereal one, feeling as if it is the vision that is real while you are a but a pale imitation of life (there could be merit in a debate on that topic).
But as a Full Moon comes in silly Sagittarius, the shining figure pushes you gently back and says 'nay!' There is a suitable pause, resonant with that irritating tinkling that passes for music in manifestations such as these. 'Find the mystic rose within!' is the last injunction and the vision fades. Gadzooks! You've been abandoned on the brink of enlightenment! A 'coitus interruptus' of the spirit! Mischievous Mercury enters your sign and you babble incoherently, struck by inconsolable grief! But vamping Venus wrestling with Pluto, dark god of the underworld, hammers home the sense of loneliness you feel. You must find the mystic rose within or perish on the hard stone of these cold and empty corridors.
Will you do it? Will you triumph in adversity? And, more importantly, will I find a prescription strong enough to allow me to return next month and write more of this drivel? We shall see, my gruesome and garrulous air sign twits! We shall see! Till then, ave!