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.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Edwina, dictate the following and post on that fool Nigel's Blogger:

Nigel, 'tis I - your most beloved compatriot and dearest friend Reginald! Or perhaps I should say gremlin. (High pitched chortle)

For it was I, one halcyon evening last fortnight with chimeras crashing about my consciousness, that befouled your air conditioning unit whilst trying to access your abode.

We had indeed imbibed the green ghoul and beauty reigned supreme that evening. You probably don't recall. Your opiate-riddled eyes appeared frightful to me that night. You reminded me of my travels to the dens of Tehran, but moreso of a 15th century Chinaman of some wealth.

Consciousness left you as we chased one another gleefully through the trenches, which connect our estates. I carried you home as the wet October chill would certainly have left you with distemper (my back is still wrenched!).

Of course your pants had long since been abandoned in the Village. Your keys where nowhere to found. I clambered onto the air conditioning unit to access the dormer window (ahhhh Tudorbethan architecture: both pleasing to the eye and functional). I was able to smash the glass with gilded flask (your hounds should be restricted from that glass strewn area). I battled gravity and blood and delirium and somehow managed to hoist myself through.

So that is how you came to find yourself bloodied in your chamber after 48 hours of blissful sleep, the dreams of which I shudder to think of.

End dictation.
Dictated not read.