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.


Anonymous said...

It is I, Reginald Hardcourt, gesticulating madly at Edwina whilst dictating epistle.

Let me start off by saying, Nigey, you devilmaycare rapscallion, I daresay gunpoint is a tad over dramatic. Though my consciousness was blissed out on opium-induced dragons and avian poetry, my pistole was not. Whilst travelling between the meandering maze of trenches that link our estates, chased by the green hobgobblin, one can go quite mad. To travel unarmed would be quite ludicrous.

At any rate, after you told me there was a beneficent gnome by the the name of Fridorik prowling in your lea, I could not get back in your house for the locked door. I could see nary a taper. After that there is no memory.

I awoke in the predawn on my thatched roof, quite nearly dead from the chill. Nearly dead, but undeniably alive from having once again grasped fair ethereal beauty. She is an untamable temptress.

Edwina drew me a bath and did not know quite what to say about my bleery eyes and lithe naked body. I have lost a great deal of weight over the past fortnight of excess. I think half a stone. The milkman found my soiled trousers tied to a signpost near Faralee Village. In the pocket I found the following mysterious note. I can make neither heads nor tails of it. Can you help me decipher the cryptic contents:

Quuwhhooorio More-pork
The hunting denizen of Zeeland dawn knifes through the dense jungle mist is cacophony
The walking stick recoils in silence

If you cannot help I fear I will have to resort to the faierie.

- Reg

Nigel Tewksbury said...

Reginald, I must say your new stuff borders on Dada, but perhaps there is some meaning...

l.1: Clearly a reference to "The World According to Garp." I know you enjoy this book... Of course Garp was named for the meaningless noises made by his vegetative father. Perhaps this is a bold statement of your new-found Dadaism--or perhaps it is a bold attempt to transcend Dadaism as Garp transcended his father. Bold, Reg. Bold.

l.2: Ah, the distinctive noise of the morepork--an owl native to New Zealand. I recall how this bird featured prominently in your quickly-abandoned novel. I love the pun on "more-pork" as a reflection of your unclean soul (pigs, of course, are deemed unclean in the Torah).

I love this line Reg... A nocturnal awakening into uncleanliness. Well done.

l. 3-4: A rather impressionistic, pompous description of a sunrise, Reg. Still, I enjoy the paganism, and the lack of sentence-structure reminds me of my own dawn-stupidity.

You know just the other day I almost put hair-tonic on my face and aftershave in my hair? Such a fool am I come morning.

l.5: Clearly a reference to the "third leg" of old age in the sphinx's riddle. Clever turn of phrase to imply impotence, Reg. That rather vulgar pathos is a hallmark of your style.

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