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.


Anonymous said...

Shall I compare thee to the Isle of Manx? You are a self-governing Crown Royal dependent, located in the Irish Sea at the geographical centre of the British Isles.

You rule the like the sea god ManannĂ¡n mac Lir, drawing your misty cloak around the Estate to protect it from invaders.

Your mind churns like the Island's triskelion symbol - three bent legs, each with a spur, joined at the thigh. Ceaseless in your pursuit of the perfect euphoria and wardrobe.

I recall the night my mind and body sprawled by your Tudorbethan hearth, listening to you hurtle through Shelley. Do not imagine for one moment that I missed the peaty aroma wafting from the cuff of your suit pant. The cologne you sprayed there was beguiling and enchanting at once. The pheromone was strong as the beast with two backs we formed would attest.

- Pheebs

Nigel Tewksbury said...

Dearest Phoebe, is that truly you? With your writing, nonsensical and encyclopedic, I cannot help but wonder. And yet there is a scent of uncertainty in the air, too, for my web blog has recently been the victim of spam vandals and Reginald Hardcourt is certainly not beneath pulling cruel tricks, with my heart as the hapless victim. Alas! My heart is pounding, my genitals pulsing, and I feel the rush of opium in my brain without taking a puff. Oh Internet you are cruel! Everyone's penmanship is this vulgar, standard font! Phoebe, send me a missive--hand-written--so I do not love in vain.

Moon and stars and bitches' brew
In seedy bars and witches' stew
Relieve the pain of lonesome blues
By bringing Pheebs here all anew!