Gadzooks, my bullish twerps! It seems I must address you yet again on the matter of your inane and wretched lives! Last time, we left you amidst a swirl of wild magic in a cavernous maze. You were contemplating collective nouns and seeking the Minotaur, the beastly part of your inner self. One collective noun you could usefully contemplate as we walk the sad and sorry halls of jaundiced July is a 'bedlam of loonies'. For that's what you will find in your subterranean haunts, winsome boofheads! Open wide your cloddish gobs as I, Asperitus, demon doctor, proffer the long spoon wherein is contained the grim elixir of prognostication, vile and bitter. Take your medicine, my tiny chumps! You're in the labyrinth of cretins. Eek!
However, I must explain that since the gods were not interested in sending you to Crete (the correct residential address for the Minotaur) and, if truth be known, couldn't afford to, they thus provided you with idiots instead of Cretans with whom to enjoy this monstrous and mystical initiation. Are you with me? Hmm! I doubt it but we'll press ahead anyway.
We begin with the New Moon in neurotic Cancer, spraying with a stygian darkness the belligerent fire of Mars, the war god. Thus you receive hideous communications that assail your bullish ears as you glance about distractedly, wondering which way to go. Nasty little voices call you nasty little names like 'fatty' and 'no neck' and 'cloth ears'. Gadzooks, my bullish types! They seem to have your measure. That's certain! Nasty ectoplasmic fingers poke you in your soft middle and generous girth. You're aghast at such ghostly doings and flee from the spooky attention. Predictably, the affect desired by the phantom pokers is thus achieved. Soon, you are hopelessly lost in this labyrinthine complex of stygian gloom, without even a shop where you can buy your lunch (one of your favourite almond croissants and a latte would really set you up to face the Minotaur). As you stumble about in the dark, banging into things (much like your daytime life really), you begin to wonder what your inner self, this Minotaur creature, will look like. This idle musing is then interrupted by a glimmer of light that comes as mischievous Mercury and vamping Venus hobnob with narcotic Neptune. You suddenly see before you images of your father and your mother.
But what's this? Gadzooks, little bovine types! They seem to grow horns and massive shoulders and then begin to bellow. Eek! They charge at you but then vanish into the gloom (that's a stygian gloom, by the way). A stunning realization penetrates your brain, without the aid of trepanning! The Minotaur must be the psychic embodiment of all the pain you've suffered at the hands of parents who never understood your obsession with sensual gratification and your need for personal complacency. You must find this awful creature and destroy it. Now!
A hideous din erupts in the Heavens! Shriek and double shriek, little bulls! It's grim Saturn, with the creak of ancient knees and the grind of ancient bones, he calls your attention to his passage (eek) into lackwit Leo and your solar fourth house. Waves of emotion crash onto the shores of your mind as you're seized by depression of the darkest kind. It's probably stygian depression, given your surroundings. You fall into a deep well of feeling, wailing about the childhood hurts that have filled your life with misery and the pervasive mood of failure you cannot seem to escape. Hmm! It must be a 'wailing well' you're in! As a Full Moon comes in grim Capricorn, clashing with the body of marauding Mars, you raise your bullish head into the dark (it's stygian dark, remember) and roar your rage so loudly that dust rains down upon you and the very rocks themselves shatter in the sonic blast. You're a raging Bull, charging about the tunnels, crashing into the walls, carving tunnels and doorways where there were none before. The great Sol Invicti moves to Leo and conjoins in ghastly fashion with lugubrious Saturn and depression grips you once again. As mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse motion, you collapse to the floor and begin moaning and bewailing your miserable state, too empty of all feeling to move. You sing snatches of childhood songs and tell yourself amusing but somewhat pathetic anecdotes of midnight feasts and dark doings with your netherworld equipment beneath the covers. Vamping Venus moves to anal Virgo and you find yourself recounting the stories of failed relationships, torn apart in the end by your obsessive desire for pleasure, sought only to mask the deep pain you always tried to hide. Your mind-numbing adherence to dull routine may also have contributed to the malaise of disenchantment. The ghosts of mummy and daddy, complete with horns and massive shoulders, once again loom large in the gloom (that's a stygian gloom, by the way) before you. A storm of cosmic flatulence erupts as Mars, god of war and belligerent psychotics, clatters into your cloddish sign and hurtles into the gross embrace of grim Saturn. Fierce rage burns high again. You hurl yourself at the confining walls of the labyrinth. As vamping Venus clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, another stunning realization racks your already overloaded brain.
Though the shades of your parents appear before you, you realize that it's you who are the Minotaur, my tiny bullish types. This mythic creature is your inner Bull, just like it says in one of those unspeakable 'New Age' handbooks on personal growth. You call one last time on the 'wild bull' within and the raging fury thereof. You dispel those ghosts with a manic charge then shatter the walls of the labyrinthine complex (and its stygian dark) to plunge back into the daylight of the outer world. You are free, tiny bovine types! Now you will have what you truly want. You will flex the mighty muscles of your neck and back and build a new home here on the land you love, the haunting spectres of your parents now exorcised. It will be a wonderful home, beautifully decorated with those atrocious pillars and garden ornaments you love. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, eh, my bullish types!
Oh gods, I am exhausted. I can speak no more upon the topic. Medic! Bring me my little brown bottle and that lovely silver tube you have. I must rest. If I recover my strength in time, I'll write more drivel next month. Until then, tiny cretins! Hail and farewell!
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