Sunday, November 11, 2007

Tales of escapades, not my own

Over the last several months I have received a number of letters from Myoki and Helga. The letters are always written on crumpled up paper that is covered by patchwork stains of what I hope and presume is wine and coffee. The letters are typically in the vein of the braggart and always written in Myoki's barely intelligible English made worse by what seems to be perpetual drunkenness. Upon opening the first missive with my elephant tusk letter-opener, there was a sharp pang in the chest when I was exposed to the sharp juxtaposition of Myoki's sloppy oriental style and what appeared to be the ink from my most valuable Mont Blanc fountain pen, which I just noticed had disappeared from its velvet sheath. And I collapsed on my bed in a state of indolent fury, wondering if Myoki's placidity was destroyed by my bad influence or if it had been feigned from the get-go. Regardless, he is a devil for whom I have no respect.

The letters--from what I can make out--describe exotic, whirling escapades. Myoki and Helga have moved from the syncopated jazz rhythms of Paris cafes to the beautiful shores of Algiers to the hidden Hashish bars of Hamburg and finally to the remote fjord-town of Akureyri, Iceland, the place of Helga's conception and birth. And in all of these epistles there is not a peep from Helga, and I confess to feeling a tinge of human emotion for her, even though she blatantly disregarded her duties in favour of roaming the world with a potbellied guru. The final letter I received described a journey to the Icelandic interior where the lovers supped on rotten shark meat and got drunk on cod liver oil spiked with vodka. Myoki says they then passed out on a glacier while the northern lights vibrated above them in the absolute cold. He writes that they would have died were they not saved by a band of nomadic gnomes searching the interior for a hidden musical note. His final sentence was a haiku:

left interior
though small, gnomes' jealousy, big
Helga caged bird

And today I received a postcard from Vegas simply saying, "Just Married." Oh Hell!


Anonymous said...

Mr. Tewksbury, my name is Robert Hawking. Not Stephen. Not that bitch Lucy, the "novelist". Not that cunt Jane that couldn't cope with the fame and ALS. Anyways, the boys in the band call me Ronny. I hope you don't mind me writing to you.

For I too am a recluse, if not an aesthete. I was born into fame and wealth, and I can't help but feel like your on my relay team as we lap the sun man. I'm definitely pretty stoned right now.

Pops created this program for me. It's more powerful than that cunt Google. It analyzes everything on the Web (in English, for now), and selects a new site every day based on merit. It fucking blows my mind to think about. Your blog was selected two weeks ago and I'm hooked. (I have an addictive personality.)

Maybe if you've got a second you could critique these lyrics I wrote. I was pretty stoned, but I feel like the words pulse off the page. It's more of a freaked out trippy beat. The rest of the tracks rock FUCKING hard. I feel like since STP disbanded my life has been for shit. For shit!

Anyways Nigel, hit me back. I think music would heal your restless soul. I can pop over the pond sometime for some hash brownies and absinthe. Money isn't an issue for me. That high would be mellow, but fueled, you know? Like our album, "Mercurial Marathon". Our band's name is Dystopian Fallopian.

(Mary could be Marijuana, but it doesn't have to be. It's like, open to the interpretation of the listener.)

"Hey everybody, where did Mary go?
Where did Mary go?
And where's my only cigarette?
Please think for me, I can't bare to
I'll just lie here for a while
Wet myself, wet my bed
I've readied it all for her, you know
Clean sheets, incense, and lots of fluffy pillows
Now soiled
And where's my cigarette?
Did you check the bathroom, the bathtub?
She sleeps there sometimes
Water cleanses, you know
Washes dirt away, makes new
Maybe she, maybe she, maybe she, maybe, maybe she swam away"


Nigel Tewksbury said...

Oh my, well aren't you an angsty one? It is my hope that you stay that way.

I shall check out your band. Do you have a MySpace page? I quite enjoy that program, though it is irritating at times.

I find your lyrics rather reminiscent of Rimbaud. Have you heard of him? He was quite wild--the prototypical enfant terrible, if you will. Judging by his work, I think Scott Weiland has read "Le Bateau ivre" in great depth.

Is your group currently on tour?

Cerise said...

Dear Nigel, Stumbling in an inexplicable way to your blog, I confess I am intrigued. I am not a recluse myself, but the observation of beauty, in all it's fine forms, is a consuming passion of mine. Whether or not this makes me an aesthete, I do not know. I enjoy the poetry of your words, and your eloquence, a quality rarely seen on blogs...
I await your next installment eagerly.