Thursday, December 20, 2007

The Turning Point of the Still World

Yesterday afternoon at tea-time I watched Cerberus Weasel dance about the dining room; with bewitching movement, he twined and twirled his way through tapestries and tables like a truncated serpent with the power and versatility of four little legs. In a mild trance, I poured another cup of Darjeeling and offered my cohabitant a square of cheese as recompense to the joy he brought me--but to my amazement, the furry devil ignored my offer and continued whirling his little dervish. And with that simple action, all I held true regarding animal-human relations was shattered. Oh Cerberus, what makes you dance without reward?

Cerberus Weasel, what causes you to dance your dance, for I hear no music? Are you dancing to the eternal rhythm of life, to the ethereal harmony of the spheres? Do you hear frequencies beyond the reach of the human brain or is it just that I have not yet castrated you? Ah Cerberus, is it all one and the same and do you think me a fool for always thinking and never dancing? Perhaps it is all a lesson... Oh, if only I could turn your squeaks to words!

I watched him shoot aimlessly about the room, which at this point is his entire world, and I had an epiphany. Tewksbury, I thought, you must dance about the world like Cerberus dances about this room--pay no mind to reward and punishment--the dancing is the thing. I got up, stripped off my clothes, and spun and neighed like a faun.

Oh how my world crashed when I remembered how dreary the world is this time of year! It is difficult to dance in the cold and the police would likely throw me in the bughouse and whip me. Damn this complicated world... How I long to be a ferret, dancing to nothing but the weird vibrations of my soul.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Purchasing ferrets

It was on a drunken whim that Reginald and I decided to purchase a pair of common ferrets. Initially we planned on capturing a couple wild ones using our albino peregrines, but just as we were discussing it--just as I was relaying some rather esoteric falconry tips to Reginald--we walked past a PetsMart and Reginald said to me:

"Nigel, let's give in to the conveniences of modernity just this once. I do so desire a ferret."

Oh when he looked into my eyes that day! I felt as though I were traveling backwards on a Japanese bullet train, back through a tunnel of time, back to when Reginald was a lonely young poet dying for some furry affection. He has always lamented that he has cat allergies and considers dogs to be "slobbery oafs." Oh, when he looked into my eyes, it was almost enough to make my snowy heart melt. I say "almost" because he then threatened to twist off my balls should I refuse to comply.

My goodness, when we walked in, I almost vomited from the hideous decor! Reginald then called a storeman over and said to the carbuncular youth:

"We would like two ferrets with ketchup and extra processed cheese. Hold the fries."

Indeed I almost fell upon the floor in a fit of laughter! I then giggled to the youth:

"And I would like to see the part of the chicken from which one obtains the McNuggets."

Reginald then pulled out his Spanish wineskin and we poured a stream of Beaujolais into each other's mouths and told the storeman it was elephant's blood and that if he did not immediately retrieve us his two finest ferrets we would squeeze out the contents of the guinea pigs into the wineskin and force it down his throat (Reginald added that he would twist off his balls--I have come to believe this is an idle threat but do not wish to test it).

The youth acted as we desired and brought us two scrawny specimens, but drunk as I was, I thought they seemed marvelous beasts. Because I was seeing triple at the time, I christened mine Cerberus Weasel. Reginald named his Pythagoras on account of its strikingly triangular ears.

Friday, December 7, 2007

I am sick, playing host to a virus

In the air are rumours of snow--the shopping mall heralds Christmas cheer and annihilation of the soul. What else is there to do but get drunk on eggnog--hold the egg--and pretend to be homeless? For homeless I am, in a sense--I am a vagabond of the brain--and I can't print out my pornographic Christmas cards till my printer be fixed.

On Monday morn I swore I heard the electric ring of the doorbell--I thought it was the milkman begging for his pay--but when I cracked open the threshold, I was left facing a vortex of swirling white cold. Oh Hello Hell, Come no further. And I shut the door before I got sucked in or out, I'm not sure which.

But it was of no use--that vortex held a villain--and now I find myself playing unwilling host to a virus worse than death. I have been sleeping in the bathroom to save some energy; my daybook's filled by vomiting and diarrhea, and sometimes they show up disastrously early for their appointments, creating soiled laundry for a housewoman who's in another continent. Damn incontinence! Oh damn... and how the flushing of the toilet only reminds me of the sinister vortex peddler at the door.

Last night while I lay in a primordial ooze of sweat and germs, I remembered my favourite vomit--the one where I spat out my soul. And I wonder if that was birth or death or something different completely. In a mad sick fever I jotted down the following words on a piece of toilet paper that had missed the mark:

Regurgitation is creation, as I puke into the void.

I then took the toilet paper and swallowed it and pranced about like an Arcadian faun while wondering from which end it would emerge.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

A ghost in the form of an old letter

I was tearing up my bedroom this afternoon in search of a little morphine to kill my anxieties, and I stumbled upon the following unmailed letter, browned by time. I had written it upon having "Wasted Arcadia" rejected by "The Paris Review." I appeared to disagree with the editor (who, it so happens, turned out to be one Reginald Hardcourt).


Dear Sir!

Thank-you for your unkind comments--and yes, I realize my pentameter occasionally slips, but the same can be said of your wife's fidelity. I have included a new poem for you to read entitled "Vomiting Narcissus." Please do not consider it a submission to your publication; rather, consider it an assault on your bourgeois sensibilities. I trust you will hate it--and no it is not a coincidence that the sewer rat's name (you know, the one Narcissus impales and eats like a Shish Kabob before spreading the plague through Paris via his next bowel movement) is an anagram of your own. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy it to the point that you lose sleep over the imagery. It is not easy to write nightmares, you know.

I read the orgy scene to your adolescent daughter yesterday. She seemed to like it. May I here interject with some poetic theory? You see I am of the opinion that one can only find beauty by exploring the ugliness. Gone are the days when songbirds and moonlight had any aesthetic impact. Just the other night I spat on a whore, but my spittle had the effect of cleaning her breast, which was tender in its own way. But I do not expect your middle-brow mind to comprehend such things... Go back to your copy of "Lyrical Ballades." I trust you enjoy them with tea and crumpets (and maybe some cucumber sandwiches?). Sorry if I seem to be preoccupied with food--I can't seem to keep much down these days... food is often on my mind and rarely in my body.

Excuse me, for I feel like a swimmer with a rock tied to his ankle and am about to collapse...

(an unknown period of time passes and I awake in an ocean of sweat).

You commented that you thought "Wasted Arcadia" was "the work of some pretentious 18 year old still untouched by reality." Well, I am now 19.

Have I made any progress?


Some Idiot


Ah! I was so full of passion back then--it makes me wonder where it all went because I did not notice its leaving. I suppose I imagined disillusionment would happen with some grand, cathartic event. Now it appears it is a slow and slippery process one does not even notice.

I never did get "Wasted Arcadia" published, nor did I find the morphine. Perhaps it is for the best.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Try a little tenderness, you magniloquent bastard

It is Sunday evening; I am not the same man I was Friday night. For it was in the witching hours of Freya's honoured day that Nigel Tewksbury as you know him died in a Soho brothel. I had spent the day smoking hashish and reading Le Petit Prince while languishing semi-nude (no bottoms) beside a secluded rill. The drugs had almost tricked me into believing I was inhabiting some kind of earthly paradise, but then, all of a sudden, there was a windy chill that awoke me to the weird horrors of reality. I suddenly remembered it was garbage day and that it was my responsibility to take the rubish to the curb (as Helga is in Las Vegas or God-knows-where).

And thus Harmony was destroyed by Noise (it is certainly one of history's sad trends, wouldn't you say?). Anyhow, I was so upset at being awoken to Facts that I decided, To Hell with it, Nigel, let's go to the brothel--and let us make love to the most deformed prostitute available. Life is a freak show--let's bring the carnival into the bedroom.

(Forgive me for using the royal "We," but I was feeling rather bombastic at the time).

Her name was Chastity--can you believe it?!--and she was barely four foot tall and had no teeth. She was one of those whores who liked to talk afterwards--I normally despise the kind--but for some reason I listened to her because I was so full of boredom and insomnia that I couldn't even be bothered to ignore the bitch. She informed me that she was married to some fat dullard and that she had a teen-aged son. She said she prostituted to buy her son a computer as he was technologically-inclined. And I responded by saying, "Where can I reach him? He can have a go at fixing my printer."

And the worst thing happened here. I actually cared! I could afford the best fucking technician on the continent but instead I hired the son of a freakish whore! And as I let Chastity go down on me a second time--more out of charity than desire--I thought to myself, "Try a little tenderness, you magniloquent bastard." And at that moment, I experienced a profound jouissance--damn it, it was terrifying. I fell asleep wanting to be a better man, and I realized I can be a real asshole sometimes--for God's sake, I decapitated a gibbon not too long ago! And that night I dreampt I reassembled old Harold and he went swinging through the trees like he was new. His smiling gibbon's face will haunt me forever, the damn ghost!

And as I left in the morning, I gave the sleeping Chastity a kiss on the cheek that may have even been sincere.

Dear Abby, I am full of confusion.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Getting to know me

Dear Reader, do you think you know me, Nigel Tewksbury, Recluse/Aesthete? Are you so bold? Have you read all my mad ramblings? Still, I dare say, you know me not. It is not all opium and absinthe, you know--I put my bespoke trousers on one leg at a time like the rest of you. But just for fun let us here put down a virtual interview for I am feeling rather madcap. Perhaps the questions will sound familiar. They were originally used by Bernard Pivot who semi-derived them from that memory-obsessed man Marcel Proust. I have heard that some fat American has adapted them for a television show in which he interviews celebrities--how positively dreary! Let us for a moment pretend that Americans don't pervert everything good and true and get on with the questions, shall we?

(To make this even more fun, let us imagine that the interviewer is Shakespeare's puck, Robin Goodfellow).

RG: What is your favorite word?
NT: Juvenillia. Always I have wanted to be a great author with a tenured position at Cambridge. At the end of the day, I would say to my students, "Now go home and work on your juvenillia, while I work on my masterpiece."
RG: Hahaha. You are quite the wit!

RG: What is your least favorite word?
NT: Syphilis.

RG: What is your favorite drug?
NT: Oh, that is like asking me my favourite child... And the answer to both is, Opium.
RG: Oh my!

RG: What sound or noise do you love?
NT: Moaning.

RG: What sound or noise do you hate?
NT: It is a tie between the chewing of gum and the death rattle. Both are awful, yet oddly if a gum-chewer were to suddenly switch to a death rattle, I could not help but smile. Puck where did you go?
RG: I'm over here... (throws voice). Over here! ( throws voice). Over here!
NT: Gasp!

RG: What is your favorite curse word?
NT: Oh, you're back. The answer is "shit." I love the toilet and how it perns in a gyre.
RG: Ah, a Yeats fan?
NT: Indeed. He wrote some cracking verse. I'll often read him in the loo.

RG: Who would you like to see on a new banknote?
NT: I despise the idea of money as art, so no one I respect. Oh, what the hell, let's use Spongebob, for he is as nonsensical and beloved as money to both lowbrows and middlebrows.

RG: What profession other than your own would you not like to attempt?
NT: Profession!? Perish the thought. All of them are so... vacuous!
RG: Tell me about it! Oberon and Titania won't let me rest.
NT: Hahaha. Oh, Robin, you are an imp.

RG: If you were reincarnated as some other plant or animal, what would it be?
NT: Titania's animal lover, of course.

RG: If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

NT: "Tewksbury, you make for a fucking gorgeous corpse." And I would say, "But I'm a damn ugly ghost, I'm afraid."
RG: Oh Nigel, you don't even give God the best lines!
NT: Yes, well wit was never really His thing. I have Him pegged as a bit of a moralizer.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Tales of escapades, not my own

Over the last several months I have received a number of letters from Myoki and Helga. The letters are always written on crumpled up paper that is covered by patchwork stains of what I hope and presume is wine and coffee. The letters are typically in the vein of the braggart and always written in Myoki's barely intelligible English made worse by what seems to be perpetual drunkenness. Upon opening the first missive with my elephant tusk letter-opener, there was a sharp pang in the chest when I was exposed to the sharp juxtaposition of Myoki's sloppy oriental style and what appeared to be the ink from my most valuable Mont Blanc fountain pen, which I just noticed had disappeared from its velvet sheath. And I collapsed on my bed in a state of indolent fury, wondering if Myoki's placidity was destroyed by my bad influence or if it had been feigned from the get-go. Regardless, he is a devil for whom I have no respect.

The letters--from what I can make out--describe exotic, whirling escapades. Myoki and Helga have moved from the syncopated jazz rhythms of Paris cafes to the beautiful shores of Algiers to the hidden Hashish bars of Hamburg and finally to the remote fjord-town of Akureyri, Iceland, the place of Helga's conception and birth. And in all of these epistles there is not a peep from Helga, and I confess to feeling a tinge of human emotion for her, even though she blatantly disregarded her duties in favour of roaming the world with a potbellied guru. The final letter I received described a journey to the Icelandic interior where the lovers supped on rotten shark meat and got drunk on cod liver oil spiked with vodka. Myoki says they then passed out on a glacier while the northern lights vibrated above them in the absolute cold. He writes that they would have died were they not saved by a band of nomadic gnomes searching the interior for a hidden musical note. His final sentence was a haiku:

left interior
though small, gnomes' jealousy, big
Helga caged bird

And today I received a postcard from Vegas simply saying, "Just Married." Oh Hell!

Saturday, November 10, 2007

An open letter to The Baron of the Trees

Dear Baron,

I thank you for your comment. It is nice to know there is at least one maniac who reads my words. You see, in all your omniscient posing, you seem to have missed the blatantly obvious: I live a rather scandalous lifestyle and am unafraid of Death and his shadowy train of followers. Rather, I welcome them. My psychologist/lover tells me this rather fiendish aspect of my character is my dramatic way of laughing at the Dionysian aspect of the World. Sometimes I wish I had let her expand on that thought rather than expanding myself and mounting her on the chaise longue. But I digress...

What I am trying to say--rather sententiously, I confess (forgive me, for I am feeling languid)--is: Bring it on, Baron. Besides your threatening words and your apparent hackery of of the estate's sophisticated wireless Internet connection (By the way, I am close personal friends of both webmasters and centaurs), I see no evidence of your power. Consequently I think of you as some kind of impotent Satan with a course in Computer Science under his gaudy country-and-western belt.

So please, go ahead and attempt murder, because often I dream of death and find it a rather peaceful alternative to the hustle and bustle of the world. Truly if you wanted to shock me, threaten appearing at my door in a black belt and brown shoes while devouring a McDonald's cheesed Hamburg sandwich open-mouthedly and eructating between gluttonous swallows, for that is a more fearful thought to me.

If you are serious about this murder thing, stop by for a spot of tea first and have a go at fixing my printer.


Nigel Tewksbury

I have left you a gift by the fountain. One of Santa's elves told me you wanted a bloody gibbon's head.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

A blogger's jeremiad

Good Morning, I suppose. I awoke, unfortunately, to the ringing of a telephone. Upon picking up the receiver, I mumbled a groggy "Hello," and after an unconventionally long pause, the voice on the other end uttered a similar "Hello." I immediately hung up because at this rate our conversation would go nowhere--it would be an endless string of meaningless greetings. I pinched myself to ensure I was not having another dream in which I am the sole performer in one of Beckett's lost plays. Oh how awful to wake from a sweet repose with a reminder of the world's vacuity! No doubt the disembodied voice on the other end was trying to peddle some of his useless wares.

I have grown sick of the world's money fetish and how money is our dreams and buys our dreams and how money buys other money which is merely money which is merely paper and ink. For some sick reason our Desire as humans has become this paper and ink, and the whole world moves like a mass of automatons, powerless over their collective fate, on metaled rails, in pursuit of this paper-desire, and when it finally achieves it, hoping it has finally found satiety, its desire paradoxically grows, and the mass of automatons builds new, bigger, better, more conductive metaled rails on which to ride in its meaningless, impotent pursuit of mass-produced paper and ink. And on and on it goes, straight into a sterile Hell.

And who am I to pen this blogger's jeremiad? True, my desires are not utterly tainted, for I desire Love and Creativity above all. But I wonder if it is because--through the lucky accident of primogeniture--I have so much of that paper and ink for which the common world longs (and I must admit I spend a great deal of it rather frivolously). No doubt I am a hypocrite. Damn this toilet-world, spinning and whirling down, down, down into the rat-infested sewers of which I am the king (or at least a powerful lord).

Oh well, I suppose I must arise and face the day, though I fear it has been completely ruined by that dimwitted telemarketer. My only consolation is looking forward to a suitable hour to get drunk. Let us say 10:00 A.M. (though I confess I keep my clocks a little fast because I often cannot wait).

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

A stirring in Gibbon Forest

Dear Reader, how are you? Of course, I do not really care; I ask only because you might ask how I am. I am doing fantastically! For whatever reason, I find myself a tall, slender packet of energy today. I spent the morning drinking tea in Gibbon Forest with a young blonde girl I met in the city. I commented on her exquisite hound's tooth overcoat while in line at the butcher's shop, and she asked me my background. I replied, "omnivore," and she laughed sweetly. Our banter went well so I invited her to the estate and we had a little picnic in the forest. Ah, it has been so long since I have had human company amongst the lesser apes, and I must say it was glorious. It eventually came time to say goodbye. I wanted to kiss her, or at least embrace, but just at that moment of parting, a gibbon swooped down and started picking at the poor lass's curls. I blame her not for fleeing as other gibbons began dropping to the earth like fallen angels. It is a shame it ended thusly. I feel a strong desire to twine my arms around her now, and I feel the gibbons marred an otherwise immaculate date. Damn them. I hope she is capable of forgiving animals--for they do not understand love. (although one particular gibbon will swoop no more).

I shall call her on the telephone when the muses give me the words to speak, for at the moment I find myself speechless. It is difficult to articulate the more tender feelings, and I find it laughable when I see retarded oafs composing love poems and songs to their lovers. I want to shake them by the throat and say, "Foolish rhymester! It is the job of the muse to compose. You are but a vessel." But oh no, they go on and on about love, dove, heart, smart, etc., etc. It makes me want to spew.

I remember my first night with Phoebe. The muse dictated to me the first quatrain of what later became an Elizabethan sonnet. I could never invent such beautiful lines. I am eager for tonight's slumber to see if the muse dictates a new one to me. It's how I will know if my love be true. But already I feel a strange mixture of gibbons, nymphs, and beauty stirring within.

Ah! I am distracted. My calendar is clear. I shall pass the afternoon with the faerie and dreams. I have already had Harold--the gibbon who swooped--beheaded and disposed of. He was often an instigator. So I instigated his end.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Shades of boyhood fading

You know... I haven't always been this way.

Confession before beginning: I am drunk. Scotch this time. But the weather made me do it. You see the boiler is broken and the house is autumn-with-walls. At first I tried to envision warmer climes, hoping the memories would act as an anodyne. But now the cool air is inspiring--not frightening--me. I feel clear-minded. The cool air is a tonic. And yet I want to kill the clarity with my accomplice--a Mr. Johnnie Walker, clad in his blue blazer, his finest.

But as I was saying, I haven't always been a wild, opium-addled, absinthe-drinking, pagan-worshiping, house-womanizing, aesthete/recluse. Oh no. I was innocent once (or so I've been told). I have a few memories of my boyhood, but sadly they are no longer vivid; in fact, they are dull-hued and getting duller. I fear they may soon disappear completely. I fear it more today because last night I dreamt I ate my own child.

So, what do I remember? The forest, mostly. It was my place to hide. I sat by the stream and longed to see my reflection in the water. But alas, it was a point of immense frustration: I would look down and all I saw was murky water and some stray twigs. Narcissus I was not: in fact, I was non-existent rather than self-absorbed. But perhaps that was the beauty of the forest. It was a place where I could lose myself completely. I often visit the forest in my opium dreams. Once I dove into the water and stumbled upon Xanadu (but they would not let me in). I digress... Perhaps the forest is what drives me. It pains me that the water was not clear--it was not the water of the dreamy Golden Age.

It pains me that the forest is gone--they have since turned it into a paper mill. I have an artificial replica of the original forest on the estate, complete with a river of glass and a few animals. But it is art; it is not real. And I never should have added gibbons--at night they sound like wailing wraiths in Hell. It's quite unsettling.

I apologize for my disjointedness--my young friend on MySpace assures me it is common amongst bloggers. But what I am trying to say is that Nigel Tewksbury was born in the forest. No no no, sweet Reader, not like Tarzan. What I mean is that the boy disappeared in the forest, thus opening his mind to wild imaginings, and the creature typing these pointless, masturbatory words is the end result. Like Gibbon Forest, I am untrue, unreal. It saddens and thrills me that I have destroyed my simple boyhood and replaced it with myself, the personification of a lie.

I want to cry but can't. Instead I will finish the bottle and howl. In Latin.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Reverie #12: Sweet Phoebe, Goddess of the Moon

Orange and brown are the leaves; likewise my mind is dull-coloured and sinking under the weight of ubiquitous gravity. What is it about the autumn that makes my mind hearken back to my stronger days? Is it the relief from the passionate summer heat, a relief that gives the mind the freedom to stride freely without excessive perspiration? Or is it that the happy times are behind, the grave winter ahead? I know not. And why search for answers? (Damn your questioning, Nigel--are you still hung up on paradoxes?--this is not the fin de siècle--please try to be more postmodern you magnificent dickhead).

Today as I trod the foliage of the estate, my footfalls seemed ghostly echoes, and I recalled a love affair occuring in the autumn of my 26th year. Ah, Phoebe, do you read these words? Are you connected to the web? Do you recall the fire-eyed boy--tall and slender--who asked you for a cigarette while writing poetry on a park bench? Do you remember what he said upon discovering your name? Let me rejuvenate your memory. He took a long, slow drag and said, "Ah, Phoebe. The goddess of the moon. Be you she?"

And, Dear Phoebe, do you remember your response? You gave a wry smile and said, "I do rather prefer the moon. I find the sun rather full of itself, to be honest."

And indeed I saw your many phases in the 28 days of our affair. And I loved them all. And I often wonder if you purposely left me for the poetry of it. We loved for one cycle and then were through. But I have never forgotten your pale and subtle beauty. Oft times I wonder if you still spend your days riding horses or if that bitch Necessity forced you into a day job. But to think of you in a cubicle is like thinking of the moon with a giant McDonald's "M" stamped upon it for all to see both day and night.

Phoebe, I shall never forget thee and how we drank the green faerie in an overgrown field beneath a perfect quarter-moon. Overcome by the intoxication of our druid-love and alcohol, I hardly felt the stinging of the nettles while we rolled nudely in Nature's unnurtured gardens. Recall our cat-scratched appearance the next day? I recall your words: "You know, Nigel. We shall heal." I have never laughed so hard!

Oh bother it all to Hell! Now only my Dell Inspiron sees me rest my lonely head in my hand. Memories are lovely, but damnit they have no feel!

It is a cloudy night. Dear Phoebe, I cannot help but fear you are dead.

Email me if you still be living. Also I am on Facebook now.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

Up close and personal

Helga's departure has left me feeling hollow. A friend I met on a "webbed site" suggested I create a personal ad. This is what I have thus far:

My name is Nigel Tewksbury. I am 37 years old. I am well-dressed and a bachelor. My strengths are a casual wit and a studied sense of style; my weaknesses are substances, mostly. My religion is mainly pagan with a touch of Medieval Christianity to be on the safe side. I am exceedingly wealthy and exceedingly lonely. I am a Recluse; I am an Aesthete. Foul-mouthed and self-destructive, I am mostly false but partially true. Thus, I am a reflection of reality but look better in a suit. And I am unwell and seeking a cure. Are you simultaneously a woman and a philospher's stone? Please contact with an electronic message.

Saturday, October 6, 2007


It is harvest time--a high-time for pagans like me. My dreams are full of cloaked figures chanting in a circle and demons responding to the witchcraft cues by swooping and screeching in a pentagram. Ah yes, the microcosm is my heaven, and Blackmagic is my native tongue. I am Faust, and I welcome thee, Mephistopheles, in your poodle-guise. I worship thee demons and thine eyen of bloody rouge. I would put down here our national anthem were it not in a hellish tongue untranslatable to these strange Roman symbols on the keyed-board of my Dell Inspiron. Dear Evil, please make a computer for me; we shall conquer the world with the sibilant language of the Serpent.

Ah, Autumn, Automne, I shall Fall into thee and thy sins. And yet the estate is bursting with summer humidity as some gremlin has tinkered with the air conditioning. I have alerted the handyman but I fear he has discovered my stash of barbituates in the dungeon and has ceased reporting to work on a regular basis. I should terminate his employment were I not so preoccupied with my wild imaginings.

Truth be told, my life has crumbled since Myoki put a Buddhist spell on Helga and they ran off to The Continent. They are no-doubt spending my money on wild Paris nights full of spinning brains, the green faerie, and hot African beats to which they dance the rigadoon. I hope they get syphilis in the process.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

I am a chemical ball, etc.

I must apologize for it has been quite some time since my last note. Rest assured I am still alive and kicking. But bear with me, dear Reader, for these notes are not mere simulacra of Truth and Beauty that I toss off over my tea break. Oh no. They are spittings from my gut, from my core. So if perhaps my words occasionally taste of bile, it is because Truth is not polished Hollywood-style; rather, it consists of the vomiting hobo as well as the merry Everyman and his picture-postcard famille. In fact, the hobo is closer to the core than the Everyman, as his mind is uncluttered by the world and its stream of propaganda (last time I checked, the typical box-car does not contain the ubiquitous plasma screen or even the apparatus necessary to plug such a device into an alternating current).

But tit for tat, as the hobo's mind is unfortunately cluttered by the soot and dirt he inhales as he catches "the drift." The more I think about it, the more I realize we are all little more than chemical balls...

Helga has quit her post. I miss her blonde beauty and the various duties she performed. I wish I could say that she moved on because opportunity knocked, but alas, the blame is entirely Myoki's. Myoki, you Buddhist turd! Why must you make yourself a guru to every acquaintance you make? You are a bastard and no longer welcome in my home. Find another swimmer, you leach. That is not chi you suck on, 'tis my blood, you meditating, bloodsucking baboon.

Monday, September 3, 2007

Farewell, fair Summer. Autumn, I welcome you as a brother.

The other day I was picnicking solitarily by the stream that runs through the estate, and I must confess that I shed a tear upon seeing a tree shed a leaf. Oft times I see my soul thus reflected in Nature's furnishings, and the semblance is never stronger than in the autumn time. Summer is a youthful maid; Autumn is my brother.

Ah! fair Summer, thy lover shall miss thee and thy sweet kisses. He knows that, though we shall sport occasionally in the coming weeks, it is but a transient affair and that thou art on thy way to a well-deserved rest in the underworld (incidentally, fair Reader, I watched the film "Pan's Labyrinth" the other day and enjoyed it immensely).

Autumn interrupts our final lovemaking with a knock on the door. In frustration I greet him and his inevitable arrival. In an open robe, I open the door; he looks like me. We are slightly past our prime. He whispers in my ear: "We shall only get worse."

Summer, I say goodbye with a kiss of sorrow. You whisper "carpe diem," but I can seize nothing but the dust in the air.

Autumn, I welcome you with a firm handshake.

I shall dress in an ashen grey till this mood pass.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Wild weekend with Reginald Hardcourt

At the moment I am only semi-conscious, so forgive me, Reader, if I am only semi-coherent. My torrid love affair with the green faerie continues... I am captive to her charms.

Reginald and I jetted to London for a wild weekend in the magnificent city, the omphalos of Industrialization. I dressed as Oscar Wilde and Reginald, as Beau Brummell. We washed our boots in champagne and began the ritual of dripping sugared water into that most potent of potables, Absinthe (the mere word gives me goose pimples). The faerie danced and Reginald chanted the bard's most otherworldly lines,

Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

With the last line Reginald playfully grabbed his crotch.

He then transitioned into his latest from "cacophonous caccaw" (he later informed me that what seemed like a wild mess of bird noises was in fact a highly-structured amalgamation of Greek, Latin, and Ebonics) and pricked his finger, adding three drops of his own "baboon blood" to each glass. He then leaned close and whispered hellishly in my ear:

And now about the cauldron sing,
Live elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.

Then began the phantasmagoria... and when I came to I was walking along railroad tracks with Reginald, my hair ruffled, my pants soiled. We walked along a narrow bridge while rain clouds gathered; it seemed as though we were crossing over the river Styx into Hades. I mentioned this to Reginald. He said he had a confession to make.

"What is it, Reg?" said I. "You can tell me anything for I am as sinister as they come; just don't confess you are clean because that is a lie."

He spoke not but instead removed his shoe to reveal what looked like a cloven foot.

"My God Reg.. are you... he?"

"No Nigey Wigey... A mere minion."

We spoke no more but continued along the bridge. Then the clouds burst. There was thunder and lightning. We turned around for fear.

"We'll save Hell for another day," said Reg.

"Isn't that like the faerie?" said I. "How she shows us our destiny, but won't let us touch it."

"Yes Nigel. She is a most magnificent tease."

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Helga's Duty

"He wakes...
He sleeps...
And in between he swims in sewers
and vomits yesterday's poison
where no one will ever know."

The Duke:
"Here I kneel
in gagging prayer.
The toilet reflects me--
Narcissus amongst bacteria and pubes--
Helga calls this colour "an off-white"...
but to me it's Dorian Gray.

"Dear master are you quite alright?"

The Duke:
"Oh Helga turn your eyes--
I'll give you diamonds not to tell
of the mess you're paid to clean,
of the things you're forced to see...

"of the ratman
in the tailored suit
puking out his shitty heart."

Sunday, August 19, 2007

The guilt of a lost weekend

My dearest Myoki, like Lucifer, I have fallen.

No, to compare myself to Lucifer is unfair, for he was an angel, once. Not so with me. Even as a child I was a devil. My interest in the black arts started early and I often wrestled stray dogs to death. By the time I was a teenager I drank daily and wrote scathing sestinas and sonnets about my parents and teachers. I was not exactly what you would call a lovable tyke.

An old Aesthete "friend" (an aesthete's love of all things artful and false prevents real friendship you see) unexpectedly stopped by the estate on Friday. He held a gun to my head and read me his poetry. There was fire in his eyes--he was full of spleen and absinthe. His poetry was a mad jumble of words and bird noises; he said he is writing a book entitled "cacophonous cacaw." He told me to drink the Green Faerie or he would fire the revolver. So I drank.

Myoki, I haven't meditated for three days. I am full of guilt. I feel a horrid imbalance in my humours. My attachment to absinthe is strong, Myoki. I have poured it all down the toilet, now... But the ceremony was not without a sinister toast.

I would confess to you, Myoki, but I fear I would take pleasure in telling you my escapades and fall even further into the dark pit of my mind.

All that is left for me is death, Myoki. I am not a good man like you are. Do you remember when we drank that bottle of cheap scotch? You remained eloquent while I harassed the maid.

It is raining. I have not seen the sun all day. I am fearing the clarity of a sobre sleep.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

On meditation as an alternative to opium, part 3

Let's jump right into the action.

Like a devil with a day-pass to heaven, I burst through the door of what I thought was my favourite opium den and bellowed to all:

"Aesthetes and Deadbeats, lend me your ear: Your prodigal son has returned--more prodigal than ever! Now fill my heart, with Laudenam and Beauty!"

I then saw the most belle dame existing in the corner. But, no, she was more than that... Much more... In strange alternations she was a nymph exhaling pixie dust and a cobra hissing hypnotic sound. Needless to say I was drawn to both her forms and wanted to understand her strange and changing shape with all my senses. I disrobed and approached, unsure whether to creep or pounce. She seemed frightened... so thus I crept. Mesmerized and wild, like Frankenstein's monster upon his moment of conception, I was full of electricity. More than life or death, I wanted to know this protean maid.

I crept and sang to her a melody,

"My girl, have I, a mortal modern, stumbled
Upon the hallowed ground of Xanadu?
Have I, a mortal modern, found a place
Where we can live in song and trance, and you
Will dance, and I shall capture your motion with words?"

Now it must be said that this was truly a cracking entrance and entirely off-the-cuff, as they say. But its brilliance was overshadowed by its lack of propriety. You see, this belle dame was no milk-white nymph but rather a cashier at the Tesco down the street doing her daily yoga practice. She had been striking the pose of the cobra before I burst in. I had killed her Zen. And yet, peculiarly, she did not appear mad.

A voice spoke from behind me:

"Friend. Hello. I have been expecting you."

I was nonplussed.

"Please, friend," said the voice. "Let me help to clear your mind and cure your soul. My name is Myoki."

"Nigel," I said. "Nigel Tewksbury... Opium Fiend... "

"Welcome Nigel." We shook hands. My hands were clammy; his, warm.

Thus it came to be. But that is all for now. More in coming days, my friends. Myoki is cooking dinner and I am famished.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Unfocussed musings

I cannot write of opium tonight. It is draining to tell one's whole story over the course of a week. A young girl I met on the Internet told me that blogging was very therapeutic. I cannot say I feel the same. For me it is draining and I have developed a craving for opium. In many ways I had forgotten how I had killed beauty until I rehashed the details of my horrific dream. Alas, let us speak of things mundane (though this will only kill Her more).

First of all, perhaps you, dear reader, have noticed my orthography is not typically British. Well, I am a bit rebellious in terms of spelling. I half-prefer the American spellings of Webster but will never wholly identify myself with that obese but good-enough-in-theory nation. So I pick and choose between the British and American spellings. I believe it is similar to the Canadian orthography, though this is pure coincidence (a hockey-skate has never graced my foot and I am too much of a nudist to be from somewhere so cold). So that is that.

Well, look at me, a bibliophile at a loss for words. I shall floss then slumber. Hopefully soon I will be back in form. I worry sometimes I have lost "it." Drat!

Helga! Fetch me my dental equipment and make me my bed! Come lie with me if you wish.

Monday, August 13, 2007

On meditation as an alternative to opium, part 2

So, to pithily (and, perhaps, fairly--I realize I am a bit of a Polonius at times) sum up my previous web log entry: Opium is a fantastic stuff, but it causes constipation of the most serious kind. Thus, after several medical appointments, a stern warning from my doctor, and severe worrying on my part over developing a hideously distended abdomen, I swore to quit. Now, any fool can swear any thing, and if you knew the type of chap I hung around at the time, you would place me at the top of this pile of fools because opium was as natural and essential to us Aesthetes as water: By quitting opium, I was quitting a lifestyle; I was forfeiting my soul; and, worst of all, I was divorcing my goddess-wife Beauty.

You see, when it comes to Beauty, I had only ever felt her curves and listened to her melodies while under the influence; so, by quitting the narcotic, I was murdering my ethereal bride. Often, while in withdrawal, I would dream she was in bed beside me, pale as a wraith, dressed in a see-through nightie, blood trickling out the corner of her mouth. But I was too intoxicated to call an ambulance and thus she died; and, in my state of utter indolence, I continued sleeping with a blissfully stupid smile on my face while a goddess's body rotted beside me.

You may say it's just a dream but I say you're just awake. As I see it, dreams are not a false reality; rather, they are an alternate reality in which truth is symbolic rather than factual. But I will spare you my esoteric ramblings for now and, as they say, "get on with it."

So on with it shall I get... To put a heavy matter lightly, withdrawal is hell, and I am only human. After three days of life in hell, I left the flat where I was recovering and succumbed to the thought of the opium den in the predawn hours. I was like a fiend on the loose, practically frothing at the mouth. But here occurs a most miraculous thing. In the brief period of my recovery, the opium den had been "found-out" by the bobbies (or "policemen," for my North-American friends) and promptly shut-down like my Dell Inspiron when it receives the latest software updates. And, you ponder, what would replace this magical place?

A yoga studio, of all things... More tomorrow. Adieu.

Friday, August 10, 2007

On meditation as an alternative to opium, part 1

I remember my first visit to an opium den. I felt as though I had stumbled upon some sort of vestibule between life and death. It was like an ancient catacombs, but instead of horrific skeletons reminding one of the posthumous worms that eat our worldly flesh, there were dreamers in sweet repose, breathing deeply, as though inhaling the soul of the blessed goddess Beauty herself. And Beauty's handmaidens were in abundance, here, in this den of holy fools, with oriental rugs and ornamental pipes aplenty. The proprietor smiled warmly as I entered, as though welcoming me to paradise. Instantly I felt at ease before I even took my first puff. But afterwards... well, one cannot remember bliss, let alone find the words to describe it.

And so it begun. I thought I had drunk the milk of paradise. Aestheticism-as-a-Woman moaned in my ear and I swore to marry her come dawning. And I did... I did... I smoked more while awing wide-eyed at the sunrise. But the honeyed moon of the first night and morning would not stay forever sweet. The moon is--after all--a rock, with craters and all. The marriage went sour.

Opium, you see, has the effect that it makes one agonizingly constipated. And the more constipated I became, the more I craved the drug; eventually, opium became less an escape into beauty than it was a relief from the pangs of strained defecation. Ask any chemist and he will tell you that it is no accident that opium and immodium share a suffix.

Oh how silly of me... I shall mention here to my North American readers that a "chemist" here in England is what you would call a "pharmacist." Inevitably you ask, what do we call chemists? Well... personally, I don't, because they are such a bore :)

Damnit my flow has been disrupted! I shall hopefully recover the thread tomorrow and speak to you of my recent attempts at meditation. The dogs want to be let out and the servants are god-knows-where.

Adieu fare reader—mon semblable,—mon frère!

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Loose (though lucid) ramblings

Today was full of twists and turns. I had planned to catch a lighthearted comedy (entitled "Knocked Up," a satirical look at unplanned pregnancy, I gather) but all went awry when I saw the magnificence of the day atop the beauty of the ocean. What type of man would I be to spend dusk in a theatre, surrounded by idiots crunching popped corn kernals, when I could lie serenely on the beach and watch the stars reveal themselves with more cinematic splendor than a Hollywood film with a multi-umptillion dollar budget? No thanks, chap, I'll take the stars of destiny over the stars of Hollywood any day of the eternally recurring week.

I do regret not seeing Reginald--the only man in this world I have ever considered a "friend"--but I trust our bond transcends a silly movie. Dear Reginald, I know you read these words... Please don't be hurt by my inconsiderate absence. You know I'm a bastard and for some reason don't hold it against me. I wish it were not so but alas... You are the better man. Please stop by the estate and perhaps if you are game we shall try some fencing. Or some nude wrestling, if you prefer (a sport destined--like all great things--to be misunderstood by the masses. But truly there is nothing more primal than wrestling in the nude beside a burning hearth).

A few lines I scribbled on the beach,

Cluttered is my mind;
my memory's an attic, full of spiders
and rat droppings. But I shall refrain
from calling the exterminator to "clean it up"
because the darkness is a part of me
and the phone, beyond my lazy reach.

Mere scribblings, really...

Monday, August 6, 2007

On drunkenness

When sober I am bored; when drunk I am maniacal. Truly I am unsure which is the more desirable state. I confess that there have been moments when I have made the difficult link between sobriety and happiness, but in those moments I have been inevitably high on some other, more unassuming drug, such as "love" or "success." The effects of such drugs wore off long ago... But alcohol still gives me that buzz, and boredom... well, boredom is at the bottom of everything, isn't it? It is like some mastermind, a sinister "Wizard of Oz" if you will, terrified to show his pathetic pallor. But I've seen him in a dream. He handed me a bottle of Absinthe and said, "This shall heal your spleen."

The hell it will!

What a fool I was to accept my enemy and his false antidote! I was face to face with Mephistopheles and didn't realize it--who knew the devil was so mundane? And yet if that antidote be false, is there one that be true? That is the question that has led me on this dark, twisty voyage of the night; this journey through the ocean of mundanity. One peaceful morning I was convinced that the true antidote is Beauty, but I believe it was Wilde who said, "Beauty is best accompanied with a glass of wine."

It is a cruel fate... My only consolation is that I am a drunkard-slash-aesthete, not merely a drunk.

Friday, August 3, 2007

Reclusivity calls. I answer, though grudgingly

Why am I a recluse?

Because the world is full of tacky shit. And I cannot stand the tacky shit. I loathe it with all I've got. Today for an adventure I stepped outside the walls of my estate to see what I've been missing, but instantly my senses were harassed by a mess of perversions, by flashing lights and bloated idiots ravenously gorging themselves on chemical foods likely spat on by a teenager. I honestly could not tell if I was experiencing a migraine or reality. Please God, let it be a migraine so it will disappear with a pill or some deep breathing.

When I came home (after a horrible trip to a "Kentucky Fried Chicken") I took some diazepam and drifted into a couched state of detached reflection, a state I know too well. (It shall be the death of me, but it is also my sinister soul's salvation). As always I thought of beauty and how it exists here, in my estate, like an owl in a tree. Beyond the tree, if the owl exists at all, it is as a killer searching for easy prey. As am I; as is beauty.

All of us are hungry for flesh but only some return to the wisdom of the tree.

Ah! I can think of beauty all day and often do! But at the moment the diazepam has turned my muscles into jelly and I am ready to dream... I shall write on beauty another time, if I--a dilettante at best, a lonely retard at worst--am up to the lofty task.

It is hot. I shall sleep in the nude.

On leprechauns and other hiddenfolk

About a month ago I visited Ireland on business. I have a tendency to drink on ceremonious occasions and find Absinthe has a way of burning an image into memory such that the image takes on a life of its own, popping into dreams and taking on a symbolic value and finding its own little couch in the cabin of the personal unconscious. Such was my mood upon pulling into the Irish harbour, and I drank the shit straight and felt as though I had instantly crossed some kind of threshold between reality and imagination (though I sometimes think we use these words in a rather backwards way--do you, Everyman, have the nerve to call my dreams a lie? But I digress...)

You would think in such a state of mad lucidity I would see leprechauns everywhere, but instead all I saw was a lifeless city, dull and grey. "Damnit!" I exclaimed to the stranger beside me (a woman wearing a most peculiar wicker hat). "I hoped to see munchkins! My dreams are shattered! Oh cursed, cursed woe!"

Perhaps she and her horrid hat were imagined, as when I turned to see her reaction, she had disappeared. Drunk, alone, and wailing on the prow of a ship, I have never felt so existential. Undergraduates dream of existentialism, but if they ever truly felt it, they would piss themselves and cry.

Though my shadow often walks beside me, reminding me of death, I never see any leprechauns. Which begs the question: Are they real? Well, everything I feel tells me they certainly are, and there are certainly many famous intelligentsia who have encountered the bratty little buggers on more than one occasion. Yeats, for example, documented the hiddenfolk like Mendel did his peas. But of course the key to the munchkins is their utter shrewdness--they only reveal themselves when they are expected to be hidden; they torture the skeptics, not the believers, and I, sadly, am a believer.

Oh to will disbelief and see a leprechaun! My only consolation is how they frequent my dreams. I suppose that is something, though we shall never high-five or embrace.

From my personal depths, a noise emerges

Just bought a Dell (something called an "Inspiron"). This is my first posting.

I gaze out upon my 600 acres and think to myself, "This landscape--so historically, monetarily, and botanically rich--is, in actuality, quite worthless."

As is my life. My land, trodden by the feet of druids and vikings, is dead under my kingship. I question my validity and worth as a poet-priest. I am more Vortigern than Arthur, more Coleridge (that opium fiend!) than Wordsworth; and yet I am less than a Vortigern and Coleridge (two zeroes) combined. Nigel Tewksbury is undefined. History shall forget me like children forget long division.

To hell with calculators. To hell with technology. Call me King of the Luddites and drown me in wine! I shall pretend it is the blood of a caveman. But, no, wine is wholly unsatisfying--for tonight I feel otherworldly and only the Green Faery will do. Absinthe, you ravish me; I am your most devout servant; your bottle is a holy relic and your liquid substance is the only true part of me. It is my soul!

Buried beneath noise, conscience--that aged, dying rat--whispers in my drunken dream:

"Nigey Wigey what is that you say? Absinthe is your soul? Awake now, or you shall piss your soul into your silk pyjamas."

I stumble to the toilet with a bulldozer brain. I wretch dryly--more! more!--and my greatest desire is to vomit it all out and to be pure again but with rotten teeth, eaten away by the acidic bile... Oh this is why a king must hide in his castle... The vomit comes--a spewing success. In utter humility and smallness I send for my servant to mop up the mess. I awake him from peaceful slumber.

"Dear slave," I ask. "Dost thou hate thine life?"

"No sir."

I weep and break into human noises. The king has been crushed; the social pyramid, abolished. In my dreams I am tormented by the riddle of the Sphinx. I solve it easily but upon awakening the confusion remains. I am half in love with it.

In the morning I ask my servant to order me a computer. Today I was welcomed to cyper space. I find it cold and empty--in other words, true.