Hola, my tiny two-faced things! I have a letter here. It begins with the words 'my dear idiot'. It must be for you! Just a moment! I'll read ahead and see what it's about. Egad! It's terrible news, I'm afraid! “My dear idiot, it begins,” as we already know. “This is to inform you (so the missive says) that another dose of vile and bitter prognostication is on the way. In this instance, it will pertain to the month of jaded June and will be written by Asperitus, oracle of bitter truth.”
Great gods alive and dead! That's me, isn't it! Oh well! I suppose there's nothing for it then! I'll have to carry out this karmic behest. Pin your ears back, my whey-brained little ning-nongs! Attend me with the best 'intelligent' look your empty heads can muster. It is I! Pompous prognosticator, hideous haruspex and doctor of doom! Swallow the bitter pill, facile nitwits!
Last time, we left you in a deserted monastery, located on a remote mountain, somewhere among a lot of other remote mountains. After being robbed and then abandoned by a gaggle of silkworm worshippers, you were left to contemplate a lonely and dismal fate, dwelling upon the nature of your earlier sins as you wandered the snowclad tracks or wept alone on the cold stone floors (sigh). Among the other symptoms of this incarceration, you developed itching genitalia. But then the light of spirit suddenly shone in your pitiful life, reminding you (as spiritual visions tend to do) of all the materialistic nastiness and moral profligacy that had been the measure of your days.
Thus you became almost grateful for your plight. The light then became a heavenly vision, an illuminated figure that beguiled and uplifted you. You were overcome by remorse and moved to genuinely change. Nauseating, I know! And unlikely to be true! Nonetheless, it's how this mind-numbing drivel has gone thus far.
The vision tinkled musically in a suitably visionary manner, healing your itching genitalia and drawing you to the beauty of the rose garden there. Through the agency of sublime embrace, the visionary figure enjoined you to find the mystic rose within yourself but then abandoned you, just as you were on the verge of achieving enlightenment or something very like it now your genitals were healed. Thus you were left distraught, on a cold stone floor once again.
And that's where we find you as the month begins. Marauding Mars clashes with dark Pluto, underworld god, and you are filled with rage and fearsome fury at every lover who has ever failed to appreciate you (Pluto in your solar seventh house)! You rant and rail and smash things in a manner uncharacteristic of your dissembling, lily-livered sign. With that done, you rage at every authority figure that has stood over you! Teachers, of course! Bosses! And as for your parents! Eek!
The feelings you give vent to about those who gave birth to you could not be uttered in polite society. And yet with each expletive, the ghosts that once dwelt in darkest corners of your tiny psyche loom before you here in the mountain fastness. As vamping Venus enters neurotic Cancer, these spectres take on voice as well as form and lecture about the money you have wasted. As jolly Jupiter moves forward, they rail at you about your profligate lifestyle and your romantic inclinations, both decadent and ambivalent. Your mother in particular is critical of your slovenly habits. A tendency to leave your bed unmade and your room untidy!
As a New Moon gibbers in your lunatic sign, hard-pressed by a ghastly aspect to Pluto, dark god of the underworld, we find you, shrieking your fury as you seek to rend asunder the rough garment of fear, guilt and anxiety they have woven for you to wear. In the froth of the most fearsome irritation you have known, you slay with the very power of your psychic rage these spectral carping critics that once were mummy and daddy, thus liberating yourself from the ties that bind! Egad! My little loonies! Are you free at last? Wild winds whip through the mountains and along the cold stone floors. The very roses in the garden seem to bow their heads. You look upon the litter, left in the wake of your fury and decide for the first time on your own behalf to clean your room.
Ye gods and little fishes! That must mean something has changed! We shall see. Of course, all these events are determined by the farting of ghastly planets in the Heavens. Jolly Jupiter breaks wind in unseemly concourse with Uranus, the idiot god. Vamping Venus trumpets in a most exaggerated fashion, quite suitable to intercourse with the aforementioned giant one. And, to add to this symphony of cosmic windiness, marauding Mars enters arrogant Aries, clashing with mischievous Mercury in neurotic Cancer. And, my little chumps, that's when a most surprising thing occurs! The monks you thought had abandoned you and embezzled your money arrive back at the monastery, greeting you as an old friend and eager to pass on the latest they have learned on the matter of silkworms and their coming day of liberation. The great Sol Invicti now grinds into neurotic Cancer, visiting yet another gruesome solstice on an over-burdened world.
This brings the ghastly Full Moon in the miserable sign of Capricorn and your solar eighth house. It seems you were not deserted after all. And the money you had thought stolen had only been moved to a trust account in a new charitable foundation, set up in accordance with your wishes. Thus it was your own accounts were empty. All this, the abbot courteously informs you, was explained in a note left on your bed on the morning of their departure. A note that you did not find because, as usual, you never made the bed upon arising! Perhaps your mother was right! And with that note came the instructions about operating the power and the phone. The monks had travelled forth to do good in the world, leaving you to enjoy serenity and solitude such as they had known and you yourself had expressed a desire to embrace.
Gadzooks, my little nitwits! It's lucky you were so exhausted from your angry ranting and spectral slaying that you did not speak first on their return. Otherwise, what a fool you would have looked! As ghastly planets move to Leo, the monastery is again abuzz with stimulating talk on the matter of silkworms, in particular, and all living things in general. Ah! Sigh! How uplifting for us all! If I can force myself to stay awake, with pins under my nails perhaps, I may listen in on the enlivening banter of the irredeemably humane. But in among the delightful badinage, strange and bitter memories lurk, memories of rage, of smashed crockery, of spectral slayings and, above all, the 'as yet' unfulfilled injunction from the visionary figure to find your inner mystic rose. What did it all mean? Egad, what's this?
Great gods alive and dead, it's a gloomy knock on the door of Heaven. Lugubrious Saturn is set to change his state and you might be the worse for it. And just when it seemed things had begun to improve. Oh well! How sad! Never mind! You'll have to click here next month and see what nasty fate is ready to unfold and thus engulf you yet again. In the meantime, hail and farewell, my frightful airhead persons!