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.

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.

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.

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.

Autumbling

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.