Given 2011 is more or less exactly half way through and the world will apparently end in 2012, in the time that we have left The Speculator thought it might try its hand at a spot of soothsaying.
Besides everyone else is doing it and getting wrong, so why not The Speculator?
Moreover, as The Speculator has become increasingly entangled within the latex-like texture that is the fabric of the local community, it has come to experience and to some extent understand a proportion of the obfuscated machinations of which you, oh innocent reader, are blissfully unaware.
While David Lynch fans will be disappointed to know that as yet, The Speculator has not discovered any human ears among the grass blades, there is nevertheless a soft white underbelly that has occasionally flinched after a few well-meaning pokes with a pooh stick.
Drunk with the realisation of the power in its hands and dizzy with its new found insight, The Speculator has decided to publish some predictions for the coming months.
As a fan of Nostradamus’ quaint practice of writing his predictions (while pissed up on hallucinogens) in unintelligible quatrains and thus rendering them to wild after the fact interpretation, The Speculator, balanced precariously on the shoulders of such giants and sipping from a tub of absinthe laced with Kronic, has adopted the same technique.
Readers are invited to send in their interpretations of these idiotic constructions.
The Speculator will not publicly reveal the answers of any until they each come true, thus igniting a debate about whether that’s what they meant in the first place.
Quatrain 112, Verse 3, Opus 9
The beez who sting, they come no more
their access path is blocked
but yet there’s grief and strife in town
by scandal we’ll be rocked
Quatrain 116, Verse 8, Opus 1 in F Flat major
Like a galaxy, a cradle of stars
its shell a murky gray
its fate, like space is black and found
on a not so distant day
Quatrain 214, Verse 7, Opus 9 in B Minor, with ketchup
The bell has tolled for whom displace
the great tides and the people
Their white now gone, there comes a race
a clamour for their steeple
Quatrain 442, Verse 11, Opus 9 with Piano “down a mine shaft” on A Flat Miner
They cry “The hoard has come”
but not prepare for “those they will invade”
but since they’re gone an empty state
shall those complaints pervade
Quatrain 111, Verse 13, Paul the Opus in garlic butter
To cross the sea to make the land
a trap it lies and waits
such plans shall die, the walk direct
a Celt decides its fate
Quatrain 114, Versing Takapuna at Mill Flat
The secret sect owns not the taps, the cellars nor the stables
a voice from history now speaks
the message bleak
but hence a fable