Salutations, my two-faced twerps! By all things sainted and tainted, you're on an idiotic path at the moment as you embrace the teachings of one Nhils Carborundum, Swedish philosopher and inventor of the nail file. And while the embrace of the teachings liberated you from a prison of one kind, it catapaulted you into prison of another kind, that of solitude, a ghastly place to which you are entirely unaccustomed.
But that's all about to end! In fact, it probably has already! It's simply that you don't know about it yet as I'm late with the forecast. This is the month of malodorous May. And these are the vile and bitter prognostications that pertain thereto. Hear them and tremble, O tiny lack-brained things of agile limb!
You're incarcerated in a darkened room till vamping Venus slithers lasciviously into addlepate Aries. Whereupon, a large number of enthusiastic persons, many with red hair, red clothing or a distinctive blush to their maidenly cheeks, bursts into the confines of your isolation, singing songs of welcome and joyful celebration. Following directly behind, as jolly Jupiter gropes the great Sol Invicti, is a fair-skinned but gloomy looking individual whose eyes flash with occult brilliance and the kind of cultivated despair that only the wise or the clinically depressed may know. The lowering creature says naught but a redheaded underling welcomes. The underling speaks cheerfully, one might almost say chirpingly, of the requirements asked of those that dwell in Camp Carborundum, your new location.
As dampening planets squish and slosh through a grand trine in water signs, you're informed that you must surrender your money and possessions (eek) whilst working at menial tasks (egad) under the authority of the camp structure (gadzooks). By my sainted aunt, wretched specimens! You've never been that good at doing as you're told. And yet, one look in the master's eyes and, as the Full Moon comes in gloomy Scorpio, you're working in the office at Camp Carborundum, having consented to the regime. Yet still the master has not spoken with you, though it has been his powerful will and abrasive summons that called you from prison in New Orleans and onto the path that you now tread.
Marauding Mars parts the weakening thighs of narcotic Neptune and you're given a crash course in Swedish and also pertinent instructions on nail file technique and the correct application of the rasp. You still maintain a strict regime of Swedish Yoga whilst cavorting and intoning in lilac chiffon and lavender lace. However, as everyone does the same (except the silent master), it matters not a jot. By my sainted aunt, what's this! Mischievous Mercury and the great Sol Invicti lay bare their private parts for the thrusting of dark Pluto, underworld god, and dastardly doings are done in the otherworld of your sleep. Nocturnally, you dream wild and orgiastic dreams of sexual encounters with a powerful figure whose identity you cannot scry due to the roil of fantastic shadows that hide the face from you.
Disturbing? Yes! But exciting too! And, life during daytime takes a sudden lift with a change that's as good as a holiday! The busy messenger and the vain and selfish Sun god roll into your wretched sign and your work in the office is so highly acclaimed that you're promoted up the rasp (a Camp Carborundum saying). Soon, you're running things in the helter-skelter, frantic fashion you prefer. And, as marauding Mars assails the private parts of vamping Venus, you begin several affairs to keep limber in the real world each day till you return to your nocturnal intercourse with the shadow lover of your dreams.
But what's this? Ye gods and little fishes! It's a startling development, little loonies! It seems your grasp of the application of the rasp is so astute that you're asked to deliver a lecture on the Principles of Abrasion, a topic much favoured by the master, Nhils Carborundum. Now there's a chance to impress!
A New Moon comes in your odious sign and you prepare thoroughly (an unfamiliar word), determined to acquit yourself well and thus earn praise from the great one. Mischievous Mercury gropes the nether regions of dark Pluto and you stand and deliver before watchful eyes! You feel you're at your scintillating best, cavorting and throwing yourself about with that smug, clever look you get.
But what's this? The master reclines, eyes closed, as you finish. Eek! Have you failed in the appointed task? Was the rasp of your wit too weak to abrade the barriers between you and him you so admire? The audience as a whole seems impressed but the one you wish to move seems as impassive as stone until his eyelids flutter eerily and he awakens. What will his verdict be upon your speech? As I'm overcome with ennui and screaming boredom, you'll have to click here next time and see! For the nonce, ave, my tiny twerps!