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.

2 comments:

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Nigel Tewksbury said...

Dear crescenet,

I'm sorry, for it appears you are a moron. Does it hurt to be such an ass? I am not your friend nor ever will be. Is the reason for your uncapitalized name your uselessness or is it a consequence of your general idiocy? Perhaps if you reply intelligently I will be your friend. Do you call me inconsistent because I earlier said I would never befriend you? Well, I am confident in your ignorance, and I am sure if you did reply intelligently it would be because you took a magical smart-drug and would no longer be the same. Perhaps then you would capitalize your name and--Pan-be-praised--maybe even go so far as using a sir-name too! Good sirrah, that would be astonishing beyond belief.

Please take your spam elsewhere. You are here dealing with a maniac--I am not your typical drone. Some have called me a figurative killer because I can wound with words, often severely.

So go to hell or sleep in your hellish stupour you savage savage savage swine.

NT