Salutations, silly centaurs! I trust you will enjoy the saucy sibilance of such a satirical sentiment as this! What's that I hear you say? You will? Good! For it's the only thing you will enjoy in the ghastly month to come! That's that month of savage September, as I am reliably informed by the staff here in Heaven. And these are the vile and bitter prognostications that pertain thereto.
We left you last time in awful August, in something of a pickle as I recall, a pickle such as would leave a strong person jarred for life, so I don't know what it will do to a weakling like yourself. We had better discover that by getting on with the business at hand, I suppose, seeing I'm late with the forecast, having overslept due to a resurgence of the ennui from which I congenitally suffer. I'll fill you in on what's happened so far.
You will no doubt recall (if you've been keeping up with the forecasts) that you're on trial before the Akashic Council on charges of mindless optimism, excessive enthusiasm, personal indulgence and profligacy, and telling awful jokes in difficult situations. And, in addition to that, you were feeling dizzy and unwell as the curtain was rung down on the final act of last month's fiasco. As savage September ground into gear, vamping Venus groped the private parts of jolly Jupiter, in a disgusting and unseemly manner. Thus did tender, caring persons of comely appearance fly to your aid in the time of your travail, the Akashic court priding itself on matters of fair treatment in all things and with all persons, even useless wastrels such as yourself.
A New Moon came in anal Virgo and you were taken to a house of recuperation, a temporary home where you might recover so as to be upstanding in court and answer the charges laid against your person. In your absence, as mischievous Mercury ground his way into that same anal sign, the court authorities discussed your case with considerable interest and from all angles, one acting as a devil's advocate and constructing a defence on your behalf. Despite appearances to the contrary, this must have been a highly imaginative creature, methinks! Thus we are returned to present day events! Vamping Venus enters gloomy Scorpio and you are under the careful ministration of the insightful staff in the House of Sorrows (that's a hospital in case your education hasn't stretched beyond the tv guide). And there it is that (as we have come to expect) hideous heavenly matters take a hand in the affairs of those poor creatures that dwell in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods. That's you, by the way!
Ghastly planets befoul the cosmic winds with odiferous farting, chief amongst the offenders begin marauding Mars as he thrusts his rudest bits into the private parts of jolly Jupiter and dark Pluto (eek). This forms a grim configuration known to astrologers of yore as a yod! It's the Finger of God, my centaur ninnies! And it's pointed right at you, wreaking havoc in your sign, in that of loathsome Libra and also in your nasty and critical little sixth house of work, health and daily routines, where Mars himself resides for the nonce. Eek! The sixth house is a ghastly domain of smug criticism and neurotic self-doubt, and also home to 'anal intensive' workaholics, wretched misanthropes and unspeakable hypochondriacs!
By my sainted aunt, it's bad from hereon in, my tiny tikes! Suddenly you're dragged into a deeper state of consciousness, called by the dark god, Pluto into the lowest depths, the very bowels indeed, of the grim domain we call the subconscious mind. It's considered a triumph of self-investigation to arrive there. In your case, arrival in the conscious mind may be a more remarkable feat! Nonetheless, mischievous Mercury grapples with dark Pluto and carping voices try to call you back from this brink. Yet vamping Venus clashes with miserable Saturn and you sink deeper into an inner solitude, on a desperate search for the idols of both optimism and pessimism where you have worshipped in recent days, wondering in which of them you truly believe. Your body is wracked with rage and frustration as the physical instincts try to get you up and doing in tune with the urgent behest of marauding Mars. Yet Pluto holds you in his iron grip, imprisoned in the inner world of your darkest leanings. And all the while, jolly Jupiter races through the gamut of hopes and dreams that you have had, filling you with images of the success and failure you have known on your endless (seemingly) journey towards fulfillment.
Gadzooks, tiny imbeciles! This all sounds very worthy and noble! Ministering hands try to restore you as the Full Moon blazes in tear-stained Pisces and you lie, nerve-wracked and thrashing on a bed of woe in the House of Sorrows. And what's this? Great Caesar's ghost, as if the current round of indignities is not enough, more are set to arrive. The great Sol Invicti grinds his way into loathsome Libra and your solar eleventh house foisting another Equinox upon an already over-burdened world. A chorus of disembodied spirits, devoted to serving humanity, arrives at your bedside. They begin to discuss you in the calm, saccharine tones that those who wish to do good in the world always adopt, tones that cause normal people to reach for earplugs or an M16. It's as if you're in some Greek Tragedy and this is the chorus of spirits, commenting upon the action from a moral point of view. As vamping Venus then indecently interferes with narcotic Neptune, the hum and hubbub at your bedside creates a curtain of incomprehensible noise that sends you deeper into an altered state. And there, as you subside helplessly towards the dark bottom (eek) of the well of all that is you, a distant voice seems to call from below.
Egad! How unnerving! Who might this be? And what do they want? As I'm feeling tired and yet again overcome by ennui, I shall have to rest. Do click here next month, silly centaurs. If I have recovered sufficient of my shattered sensibilities, I shall write more of this senseless drivel. In the meantime, hail and farewell, brainless questing beasts!