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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Great farting camels and little yapping dogs! It's you, my surface-wiping lunatics! Are you ready for your dose of prognostication of the vile and bitter kind? Certes, the dose is here and ready for you, as joyless July looms closer!
Last time, we left you busily snipping away at accumulated karmic connections as grim Saturn roamed in sour-faced misery through the darkest reaches of your solar twelfth house. As marauding Mars joined him there, making disgusting and unseemly congress, we have an astrological reason for the application of the sharp edge to the unyielding tie. So did the ghosts of the ancient past return to haunt you just as, urged on by the Loony Nodes in your sign and that of wretched Pisces (ugh), you readied yourself for a new journey down the mysterious (should that be bewildering) highway of life. So what will happen to the weary travelling surface-wipers? Well, I'll tell you! Hark to me, my dull-witted drabs of drudgery and dreary dithering! It is I, Asperitus! The dread didact of divination! Eek! I sometimes scare myself with blaze of power that surges from the cauldron of sublime irritation that seethes within my burning belly! Of course, that could be heartburn from the less than average cuisine in Heaven. And which among us truly knows what things are! What do you think? No, don't answer me! This exchange has gone on too long. Bare your maidenly bosom, nit-picking types! I hereby launch the bitter barb to pierce it! Marauding Mars is first cab off the rank as he assails the private parts of narcotic Neptune and so you look for something (or someone) to assail your private parts, as it's more than somewhat sexually quiescent with the stitching sisters here in the valley of chastity and fate. Thus, you fantasize about the improper (and therefore exciting) sexual encounters you've had recently with werewolves, herbalists and such. But the ghastly machinations of mischievous Mercury rattle Heaven's cage as he turns turtle into perverse reverse (eek). Your trance deepens (yikes) until you lose consciousness in the rapturous rhythm of the spinning while the past parade of phantoms parades past! Jolly Jupiter launches his crapulous bulk into forward motion and the spirits of teachers, business folk and bus conductors, wise and insightful, rich and nasty, pour forth the deathless wisdom they've learned on the other side. It resounds in your shell-like ears in a gloomy and depressing manner. The busy messenger cycles backward into neurotic Cancer and you chat with old friends, summoned from the spirit world by a power greater than your own. The power of the loom! You sit with the shades, recalling dreams you dreamed. In past ages, you and a doughty band of like-minded folk (lunatics) dreamed of making the world a better place with startling advances in the twin sciences of surface-wiping and personal hygiene, not forgetting the hidden arts of sexual gratification by perverse means. This latter is, of course, due to the presence of the sign of Aries on the cusp of your solar eighth house, bringing a touch of Martian nastiness to the horizontal arts. But, by my sainted aunt, my tiny twits, this is not the end of the haunting. Indeed no! As a Full Moon radiates her ghastly light in the lugubrious sign of the Goat, you find yourself lost in time as past lovers drift into this dream world. They remind you of the joys you never had, since you were so busy arranging limbs, washing private parts and cleaning all the surfaces involved in congress that you did not actually enjoy what was happening. A blot on your otherwise aggravatingly neat copy book! And what's this? Great Caesar's ghost, as vamping Venus flaunts herself before the leer of dark Pluto, god of the underworld, it's ex-bosses and family (also passed over) come to deliver their verdict on your dealings. Great giggling gargoyles and damnable demons! Is this parade to go on till I pass out with an attack of screaming terminal ennui! But, at last, vamping Venus clashes with the Loony Nodes and slithers into slimy Cancer and you decide from deep within your inmost reaches (ugh) that it's time to call an end to all these associations and connections from the past. Mischievous Mercury gropes the nether regions of dark Pluto and you cry aloud to Heaven and to Hell as well, a desperate plea for cessation, a thing more often heard from the lips of those that have to deal with you rather than from your own prim and disapproving mouth. And, as if magically responding to your cry, marauding Mars barrels into your sign and you wield the karmic cutters furiously, fiercely, as no hands have ever wielded them before. Truly are you the demon barber of fate, shearing the strands that bind you to these shades of the past. The great Sol Invicti rolls drunkenly into lackwit Leo, bringing a New Moon in the sign of the Lion, the phantom beast that roars and prowls in the nasty reaches of your solar twelfth house. As you shear the threads free, you deftly catch them with nimble fingers and weave them into a fast emerging form. By all the gods alive and dead, what's this? Gadzooks, my irritating ninnies! You've woven a magical garment from the very fibres that bound you. And, as mischievous Mercury moves forward once more, you wake to find yourself holding a shining, many coloured overcoat that you can wear to protect you from returning to the past or repeating old mistakes. Your sisters, Cloth-O and Lack-cheese applaud your mighty effort. The coat will banish the phantoms and leave you free to learn the sacred art of fateful weaving, especially on cold mornings when the frost doesn't melt. Hoorah that you've come to this ancient valley, met the fateful sisters (even Atrophy who only has a small part in proceedings) and learned the ancient craft! It seems that life, once barren, a plain of broken dreams, resonates with promise once more. Will it be onward and upward from here, my tiny turnips? Or will the ghastly machineries of fate once again have their wicked way with the hapless follower of Ludd? Click here next time and see! In the meantime, hail and farewell, carping curmudgeons! |
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