By my sainted aunt, little piscine types! We left you last time in a parlous and distracted state, as you were having yet another identity crisis. Egad! If you had one of those for every single part of you there is, we should be here until the year turns and turns again, listening to tales of tragedy. Fortunately, my attention span is brief so we definitely will not be committed to such an unspeakably dull and nauseating course. Nonetheless, we cannot ignore your wretched plight, not only due to the offchance it may deteriorate further but also because there are vile and bitter prognostications to deliver.
In this instance, it is manic March they pertain to. I am certain of this due to the three knots in my handkerchief. Attend me now, aquatic loons! Imbibe the ghastly drink from the devil's cup! By all the gods alive and dead, it's a mess as things begin. Mischievous Mercury slips a quick one into dark Pluto, underworld lord, before moving into perverse reverse. Thus the tantrum you were having, inspired by your delusion of being someone remotely important in the scheme of things, becomes incandescent rage. You scream, froth, rage, weep, fall over your feet and perform a variety of other embarrassing acts, indistinguishable from your normal behaviour except by their intensity and frequency. You abuse all in authority (Mercury square Pluto) and you confound psychiatric experts with your outrageous display (Jupiter square Neptune).
Thus, as vamping Venus slithers into idiot Aquarius, you're torn from the film set and taken into care in an asylum run by foreign consultants that qualified in Moscow, Helsinki or Salzburg. As marauding Mars assails the private parts of Uranus, the idiot god, you thrash about your tiny cell, raving that you're a headstand guru or a buccaneer or the Dolphin of France or a mediaeval princess with a bladder problem. Such fantasies convince the medical experts of the rightness of your incarceration. A Full Moon comes in aggravating Virgo, bringing a Lunar Eclipse to your solar seventh house, and you're being studied by the most irritating, opinionated set of twerps since the gathering of lunatics at the Council at Nicaea in 325 AD. And who'd give them credence, I ask you!
Nonetheless, these carping scientists hold you in their power, my tiny turnips! And there's nothing you like better than being helpless in the grip of powerful things. And so it is you are thrashed and assailed in a variety of ways, some of them quite pleasant actually, by a bullying team of do-gooders that want you to give up your ridiculous pretensions about being talented or important. The great Sol Invicti clatters into addlepate Aries, visiting yet another Equinox on an over-burdened world. Thus, they try to teach you basic values and the importance of money, largely by hitting you on the head. As this only brings further confusion to your already extreme state of disarray, you start screaming and shouting once again, inspired in the broader sense by the indecent acts committed by Uranus, the idiot god, and mischievous Mercury as the roguish little tike starts to move forward again.
But what's this? Quelle horreur! It's a horror too horrible to contemplate! But I'll tell you about it anyway! It's the New Moon! Eek! In odious Aries! Aargh! Bringing a Solar Eclipse to your second house of money, resources and values! Suddenly, you realize you own nothing, have nothing and thus are nothing! Hmm! How awkward! And how suitably tragic! However, as I'm tired and driven to the depths of despair with creeping ennui, I shall have to take my rest, with a little brown bottle and my rather special silver tube. If you want to read any more of this depressing rubbish, kindly click here next month and I may well have written some. In the meantime, ave atque vale, tiny piscatorial nightmares!