Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Year in Review, Part 2

Interlude

Perched atop a desk chair, Legba sits, with good posture, in his office. His yellow eyes glow; his forked tongue flicks. His ashen face is weary; his red tie, loose. On a quest for evil, I walk through the thick, wooden door. There's fire in my eyes. It is quite warm here in the dry heat of Hell. Legba is sweaty from too many spicy Doritos. He walks to the corner and turns up the fan. It sputters and blows hot--the demon throws down his arms in disbelief (things here are upside-down) and undoes another shirt button. A bell rings and I wonder if it's Judgement. Legba picks up a phone and speaks gibberish in the voice of my whiny accountant.

Part 2: Spring

The winter seemed endless; I tried to cancel my lecture tour on account of laryngitis, but I was contractually obligated to continue. I lived on ginger tea, medicine, and crackers. I met a beautiful actress but could not speak. I discovered my potency is my voice.

From my pagan ancestors I have pale blue eyes, a faithless brain, a love of drunken revelry, and a hatred of consequence. I wear colourful clothes but have a savage soul. I butter my hair.

But since seeing Legba has no dignity, I have had conversion on my mind. Oh to embrace the mysteries of the Church while the idiots text message acronyms and Richard Dawkins is in vogue! I bet he has never licked a poisonous toad.

Eventually the snow began to melt and I got extremely drunk. I vowed to explore hell but with a posh sense of dignity. I tuned my roadsters to Radiohead's "Reckoner," a glass of absinthe in my hand.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Year in Review, Part 1

I awake with a hangover and a ferret's corpse in the freezer. 2007 seems a failed adventure. Like the delinquents prophesied, I am alone. My gut tells me that 2008 will be a year composed of dead eternities with small disasters interspersed between them.

I could not make it through winter without intoxication. Fever and endless night. It will be months before I commune with my classical gods and hear reverberations of Arcadia marching to the beat of my quickened pulse. When will the river melt, the nymphs return? The world is ice; my only comforts, my imagination and a mystery tea.

In my dreams I imagine Helga returns and gently takes my arm. "Myoki's mysticism is spew," she whispers tearfully in my ear, the smell of mist and vodka on her breath. I kiss her and hear strange tongues, childish and snake-like. We sit by the fire; I tell her I love her vegetables.

In the evening we eat pot pie and do not speak. The kitchen seems bright and beautiful. We smear paint on each other's faces and dance to New Order. I am happy in my dreams.

Tucker & Taz amuse me but play shitty music.

In the depth of winter, an IKEA catalogue arrives at my door. How did they get past the gate? I get drunk, burn it, and hold my hand over the flame until the heat becomes unbearable. LYCKSELE & GRANKULLA YE SHALL NOT DEFEAT ME.

My world is a cave, but nothing like Lascaux.




Monday, December 22, 2008

The shortest days

End of December, the shortest days; sundown, 3:55. The heating is broken. All summer I danced on the hillside; then the frost came in November. I miss the bonfires and the personal rituals. In August my madness was charming--things happened--flirtatious girls, moonlit howls, echolocation at night. Once, walking home under the influence of drugs, I was almost hit by a car; it was fun, euphoric. I was full of swagger, hunger, emptiness, and stars. Now my housemaid drives me mad and it's -16.

Freya is from Sweden and looks like a dying elf. She'd be interesting if she were in a movie, but instead, she's here, with me, out of context in a world driven by bargains and base aspirations. People tell me she's ugly. I told her she could bring her laptop, but she's hogging all my bandwidth and has a disgusting cough.

I blame Sebastian Horsley, who also has a maid named Freya; he claims that she's a tiger in the sack. I sleep with my Freya for the echoes and drink vodka before seeing her. Sebastian is a cad and a bad influence. I should fire Freya tomorrow.

But she is elf-like and strange... Better than that hot and monotonous American girl. Dear Hillside, I'm suffocating and lonely--you know how I feel, you, all covered in snow. Call it cabin fever... I'll be happier when it's warm because I'll go dancing in your woods.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

A Story/A Walk

Last night, despite the cold, I walked through the seedy part of town. I hoped to find a story. At the very least I found some elements.

- A madman styled as Walt Whitman. He has a cult following but is known more for his simple kindness than for his art. He spewed poetry, but I could not discern the words he spoke through his long, white beard. His voice was thin and unappealing. I didn't pay him much mind. I think I was right.

A prophet poseur who, in this part of town, is only speaking the truth.

- What appeared to be an ogre in trackpants. He was laughing--I can't imagine why he was laughing. Drunk, perhaps? Simple in the head? I have only ever been happy when drunk.

Let's trade lives. I advise you never to learn about mirrors. Word on the street is you hold ogre orgies. I'd have to be proper tight for that.

- A possible doppelganger--for a moment I thought it was my Canadian cousin Harry. He was my height and had a bird on his arm. She was raven-haired and old. He was dressed like Dawson, stuck in the 90s. I thought him a decent bloke. I did not hate him though he needed some updating.

The theme is "Rotting in the dumpy part of town." I'll write it at my estate and hopefully disappear.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Neighbours

Today the woman next door (I suppose I could call her the girl next door, but she is too withered) invited me to a party at her house. I asked her if it would be swinging or cozy. She replied with the former. Thus, I accepted.

She then asked if I wouldn't mind "helping out" beforehand.

Was this a game of cat and mouse or was it just some wench too cheap to pay for catering? I needed a delving response.

I replied dryly, "Yes. I live to cook and clean."
Her resulting enthusiasm and long list of errands left me speechless, like watching a bullet shot into the heart of wit. This bird's all surface and you can't delve into a puddle. Visions of yellow rubber gloves and garbage cans fleeted through my mind. I don't know how to use them.

She'll be expecting me at 5:00? The party is at 8:00? I'll just get drunk. I'll drink rye as an inside joke and I'll toast my freshly dead friend. I'll be loud and make a big mess. That should teach her that friendship is laughter and drunkenness, not entrapment.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

A Conversation

Cathy and I are in bed:

"I don't mean to be rude, but lately I've been coughing up some awful shit. I try to ignore the simple fact, but I must come to terms with it: I am a man in decline. Perhaps my illness is a mere cocoon and in time I will emerge as something greater, either in this life or another; or perhaps the celestial chefs are preparing me for a party of worms. I see it. The waiter is a black dog--he cannot help but drool--and I'm the lunchtime special. 'Woof! He comes marinated in sweat with a delicious sauce of mucus. He is not high-born but he was good at pretending. Woof! Woof!'


"But of course the worms don't care, the slimy idiots."

"Oh," she whispers in my ear. "Nigel must you always talk like that? Must you be so dreary and strange?"

"Cathy I'm only being honest and, perhaps, trying out a new method of seduction. I confess that shit about the dog was obviously pre-written. Punish me." She sighs and turns over. "Now don't wreck my evening. Please go to sleep while I cool off in the garage with my cars." I slap the bedside table and storm outside as though I were young.

I am afraid to flick on any light more bright than dim. I suppose Cathy's right. I am a nuisance.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

I am loopy on meds

and cannot stop the phantasmagoria playing upon my eyelids. Myoki in meditation, Helga and her glacial skin. My old friend Cerberus weasel dying in my impractical car. My youth. Pouring wine down my throat at PetsMart with Reginald Hardcourt. The visions, the hangovers. The insane project of Gibbon Forest and the battle that ensued. My life is ridiculous and my heart is dead.

When I die, write this upon my stone, as it is my legacy and philosophy: Don't listen to the naysaying cocks. Lalalalalala. Tewksbury died an angsty teen.

Leave him here to rot.


Overcooked and wild, I am a daemon spawn born out of place. I am a raving lunatic. Fellows heed my bellows then pour another drink and pray to your new pagan gods. They are less than the old ones, but there's no controlling fashion.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Disorder

This afternoon I received a surprise visit from Maggie, a former lover. When I was 22 and Maggie was 18, we spent days on end drunk and making love in her cluttered loft apartment. We slept all day and never went outside. Eventually, of course, we grew to hate each other, but we always remembered those early animal days, those days before we became trapped and entangled in the personal. She had heard of my illness and wanted to see me. She said she did not phone because she preferred to arrive unannounced like the wind. I told her not to be so fucking twee and that she could only enter if we were both naked. Like the wind. I warned her I would not be pretty.

I removed my robe and she took off her clothes. We are not what we used to be. But wrinkles become palatable with wine, so I brought out what I could find. Soon we were happy and laughing and feeling fine. I even felt comfortable enough to show her my red patches.

She asked me if was bipolar back then in the loft. Of course not, I said, merely drunk or hungover. But what's the difference, really?

I dug around and found my old copy of "Unknown Pleasures" and put it on the turntable. We danced to "Disorder" and didn't speak a word until the album's end. She broke the silence and ruined the moment by asking me if my bipolarism is killing me. I told her no fuck off oh cry baby cry.

Friday, November 21, 2008

The Rabbit and The Greyhound

Yesterday I fell ill. Today I visited the doctor. He says my condition is serious. For now I am bedridden. I am grey. I would say I'm not taking visitors, but no one wants to visit a dying recluse.

In my condition, time passes painfully, slowly. There is little to mention besides the disgusting symptoms and the dreams. Last night I dreamt I chased an electric rabbit around Jupiter's orbit. Perhaps that's the sort of shit that happens when you die. Shit that's pointless, strange. Or perhaps it was the fever and the drugs. Either way, pointless, strange.

I do not feel a fondness for the world beyond my bed. It is all lies and madness. We make promises and break them. We pretend to connect but it is all acting and affectation. I hope one day in this world of corruption there is born an honest man. Someone who is better, but still has a bit of swagger.

I cannot forget it, but I cannot remember it, either, how the rabbit runs, an emerald light flashing on its back. Focused and exhausted, I chase it through space. At first it is excruciating--painful--but I grow faster and begin to understand the game we play. I know I will never catch the cosmic bunny, but I'm happy to run the course.

And then I wake in a pool of sweat. Oh hell.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

On the Occasion of a Full Moon

Every morning I think
I hate going downstairs

But for the drunken birds

Monday, November 10, 2008

Morning & Day

4:35-6:06 - I wake to celebrate darkness. I pour scotch and work on poetry from the old days. I have forgotten what it means:

I try to halt the dawn
That fuels the moving world
By dreaming of the morning star
Singing a quiet sound...

6:06-10:24 - Drunk and red, I pass out in bed. I dream of trains and America before waking with a headache.

10:24-11:04 - I eat chocolate, drink coffee, and read Halldór Laxness's "Independent People" with the window open and the wind gusting. Hello November.

11:04-11:30 - I melt in the hot tub.

11:30-11:39 - I smoke a cigarette in the nude and think about the rich bitch who broke my heart. Damn it I'd give anything to forget her for a day.

11:39-1:45 - I have bagel and lox and dick around on the Internet. Utter waste of time.

1:45-3:35 - I take a walk and look at the animals. I find a dying, emaciated deer on my property. I drink some brandy and dig it a little grave. I am sorry my friend. I put on my sunglasses and shed a tear.

3:35-4:21 - I fuck about with the computer and listen to The Small Faces.

4:21-4:23 - I receive a rare phone call from an old mate named Elborne. He asks me if I would like to play piano on a track he is recording. He says it will be a slow, atmospheric blues tune with some jazz variations thrown in--right up my alley. I tell him I'm a little rough around the edges. He says that's why he asked me. I agree.

4:24-5:20 - Full of nervous excitement, I don collegiate garb and warm up the Elan. I listen to Dizzy Gallespie's "The Champ" and Bob Dylan's "Positively Fourth Street" loudly and repeatedly before trading them for the sweet purr of my engine. I have almost forgotten the bitch and the deer.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

A Reply

Reginald,

Thank-you for waking me before sunrise. I had just fallen asleep when you forced your note beneath my door. Sarah was beside me and we had just entered the sleeping phase--you know I have trouble sleeping when there is a bird in my bed. I tried to suggest she go home, but she preferred to nuzzle. In other words, I am sleepless and it is largely your fault.

Blah blah blah, I went to Ireland with a half-naked girl. Well done. Quit your bragging--do you know I felt-up her cowgirl friend? And for the last time, that hip-hop bullshit is not poetry despite its wild, African syncopation. It is ignorant verbal spewing. I am on a steady diet of Schubert and The Rolling Stones. I suggest you follow my lead.

I confess you made a hell of a Greenleaf. I admit my Poirot was half-assed, but that is because I could not decide between the Ustinov and Finney incarnations. Anyhow, to hell with costumes. I have decided next year I shall just go out with my patchwork cap and deep blueberry sweater and look like a Fine Piece of Ass.

Was Rodney drunk while flying this time? I swear I will never take your private jet again. Your pilot is a drunkard and your gold accents are tacky.

I am sending this message by falcon with a command to peck out your eyes. Please don't take it personally. Mordecai knows not what he does.

Yours,

Nigel Tewksbury

A Message from Hardcourt

I received the following message beneath my door this morning. The slide woke me up. I am constructing my reply, which hopefully shall be less winded than the original.

Nigel,

I am recuperating as I dictate this epistle, which Edwina's sure hand will transcribe. To begin, I must say I thought you rather a stick-in-the-mud last week when you turned down my invitation to jet to Ireland for All Hallows'. (In fact, I still think you looked and acted like a fuddy-duddy in your Hercule Poirot costume.) For what better place is there to celebrate Celtic New Year in true pagan fashion? I suppose we had just had that row about the abacus and were both rather tight. The last thing I recall is marching down the street in Westminster. I had a lingerie-angel on my back who was chanting her siren's hymn:

"Patron' on ice
And we can pop bottles all night
Baby you could have whatever you like
I said you could have whatever you like
Late night sex so wet you're so tight
I'll gas up the jet for you tonight
Baby you could go where ever you like"

Next thing I knew I was aboard my jet to Ireland with Rodney at the helm. I had lost one Poirot, but gained one shiner and one lingerie-angel. She grew infuriated after I ejaculated over the Irish Sea and started teasing her about her costume: "Pardon me, are you dressed as a trollop?", "Ugh, excuse me madam, are you dressed as a harlot?", "Ma'am, I daresay, are you costumed as a whore?". I did some laudanum on the plane. I cannot recall the slut's name or her departure, but she was not there when I sprinted through downtown Cork in search of the party.

I came across a Samhain Night celebration. Never before has the division between the world of the living and the Otherworld been so blurred. I danced with a goblin and drank with the green faerie. To stave off corruption I endeavored to speak only in Spenserian stanza. This proved difficult, so I tried to speaking with my wild eyes only. Dressed as Dickie Greenleaf, I appeared quite daft. I started singing "My Funny Valentine" and jabbing at those that tried to lure me into the pagan dance ritual. I felt they were trying steal my corrupted soul.

One chap was dressed as a banana. He prodded me as his ghoul friends danced around in a circle laughing. I felt the key was to peel him thereby revealing his true spirit to stave off the Netherworld. He became enraged as I tried to bite the bottom of his peel. Then I knew evil had triumphed and it was time to escape. I found a rotten Ronnie's and gathered all the salt I could before their service people drove me out. I sprinkled the salt in my hair to ward off the otherworldly creatures and ran into the forest.

It was darker than the circles under a Bangkok streetwalker's eyes that night. The witching hour had struck. I took off my dazzling blue top-hat and attached it to a tree as an indicator. There was snow and I became frightened of the tracks I was leaving. After running serpentine figure eights I decided the best course was to hang from a tree limb and make my footprints smaller before they dissipated to nothing. That would throw the spirits off course. I swung from tree to tree in this dense thicket using branchiation techniques I had learned in an earlier incarnation. I curled up in the groin of a sturdy oak.

My blue satin vest looked exquisite as a makeshift sheet, but did little to shield me from the howling wind. I did my last dose of laudanum before passing off into a deep slumber. Queen Mab haunted my dreams. I dreamt I was the King of Majorca in 1341. Jude Law was my jester.

When I awoke my throat was dry. My teeth chattered intensely. I was lying sideways in a snowdrift and my tailored Greenleaf costume pants were torn in many places. (How had the fall from the tree not woken me? Had Queen Mab enchanted me there?) The underworld had been defeated and I was alive in the mid-morning Irish sun!

When I surveyed my surroundings I noticed I was only a few hundred metres from McDonald's. My hat was spiked through a sapling and totally ruined. Further, "Regin" had been peed into the snow and there were faeces nearby. Footprints were everywhere. My back ached like the devil. I did not feel ashamed as I hitched a lorry back to the airport (my money clip was not about my person). I felt I had truly safeguarded mankind from some terrible fate.

Faithful Rodney was on the tarmac waiting and whisked me off to the Isle of Mann. I have been nursed back to health for the most part, but my mind still turns like the triskelion. I have been medicating with absinthe to quell my overwrought nerves. You certainly missed a hell of a struggle old chap. I shan't soon forget your abandonment but fear you may have made a pact with the Otherworld to save yourself. It is probably all for the best.

Yours,

Reginald Hardcourt

Friday, November 7, 2008

A Common Cold

This week I have been suffering from a cold, and, despite the ailment's common status, it has really been fucking with my body and mind. Further, the meds I popped often left me covered in a thin membrane of sweat. Earlier this week I attempted an autumn bicycle ride, but after labouring through the first sector, I unzipped myself from my sleek neoprene uniform and discovered I was coated in the disgusting, mucusy interstitial fluid that made me feel like some sort of science-fiction pod-person. It was heartbreaking and then made worse upon vomiting blood in my neighbour's garden. I had hoped to put in a solid 40K time-trial and then a few heats at the velodrome. But I barely made it past the front gates.

But O Happy Day! This morning I awoke feeling vigourous as a devil. After performing a few powerful air-punches, my first thought was to celebrate by hitting the liquor cabinet, but I quickly decided to restrain myself. At least, that is, until nightfall. And then I shall howl.

Anyone up for a night on the town?

Monday, November 3, 2008

Hobos and Aesthetes

During the utter idiocy of my adolescence, I was fascinated by that most rugged of American creatures, the train-hoppin' hobo. I loved their wild and pithy rants against rules and responsibility; I loved their drunken form of Communism and simple secret codes; and, possibly above all, I loved the worn looks of their hats and satchels.

Often upon coming home from school, I would run to my bedroom, tussle up my uniform and hair, and smoke cigarettes whilst dreaming of riding the rails across the unimaginably gigantic country that is the United States of America. I decided I would call myself "Opium Jack" and I would have the reputation of being the most suave and nonchalant hobo in this here land. "Ain't nobody more suave than Opium Jack, ya hear?" would be the malformed interrogative spoken by all the ramblers and tramps who made my acquaintance. I imagined fucking dirty, toothless girls who had run away from home because damn it we are all so misunderstood. And it would never be awkward because we would get drunk at the first sign of guilt and the cycle would eternally repeat and we would never, ever be sad or bored.


But, as I say, back then I was an idiot. Of course the life of the hobo would not be the Romantic ideal I have in my mind. Once the money and Jack Daniel's ran out, I would often be sad and bored and possibly shitting my pants and vomiting simultaneously. My teeth would rot and I would be ugly. Flipping the bird at responsibility certainly has its drawbacks.


And yet, there is something to it. Perhaps I should not reject my teen angst outright. It is difficult to throw our lives away and ride the rails, and yes, it would be a hard and lonely life. But so is the life of an Aesthete. Indeed, upon inspection, Aesthetes and hobos aren't so terribly different. We have in common the altered states, the neglect of responsibility, the love of the unorthodox. Despite the flashy cars and lovely clothes, this dandy still has a hobo soul. So what would Fishgill Jones or Syphilitic Pete think of Nigel Tewksbury? Would they welcome him as a brother or deride him as a sissy? What form of code would they chalk upon his antique door?

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Dear S.

Dear S.,

Do you remember the time we went back to your alabaster chamber with two birds we met outside the bar? I imagine not, as you were quite drunk, but their names were Emily and Diana. You called Emily your little falcon (the room was spinning) and threw her aggressively on the bed and offered to pet her feathers. I remember you smelled like shit. I remember you stripping and revealing to us your withered old-man's body, grey hair on your chest and balls. Are you not ashamed? Or are you not aware of how ugly you've become? I was worried you would cut the poor girl with your sequin undergarments. In the morning there was blood all over the bed. I thought you'd gone too far.

I played the good Samaritan and told Diana to run away. "Things will only get worse," I whispered to her in a serious breath. She had to work in the morning. I don't suppose she had a very productive day. Had you worked a day in your life, you would know it is hell to do with a hangover. Or so I've heard.

In the end, what is to blame for this mess we keep making? The heroin? The rum? The man? The feeling of flesh and hair? The sound of a moaning girl?

We really must do it again. I hate that I let Diana get away.

Your greatest challenger,

Nigel Tewksbury

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Roadsters and Elves

In my garage are housed several exquisite automobiles, none of which has any practical value, and often in my predawn boredom I will go out and look at them and even caress them. Unshaven and with a green faerie in my hand, I dress in my vintage racing overalls and my favourite Tag Heuer chronograph and marvel at the beautiful engineering of my gasoline chariots whilst dreaming of being a playboy racer circa 1966. I am not exaggerating when I say that many of my cars excite me sexually; most notable of these are my roadsters. My faithful readers are likely aware of a grayscale photograph in which I am leaning against a charming little pocket rocket, cigarette in hand, but I must say I trashed that car earlier this year going too fast down Snake Hill, and it was no great loss. It was a mere Japanese plaything used mostly on the (not infrequent) occasions when I was too drunk to drive the good ones. My real babies are my Lotuses and Alfas. For day-to-day driving, I have a '63 Elan (yellow), and for the days I hope to seduce Mrs. Robinson (or any other unsatisfied, married woman, for that matter), I have a red '67 Alfa Spider. I also have a lovely blue Lotus 7 that I won in a duel (or perhaps I stole it--I honestly don't remember that night particularly well).



At 4:00 this morning I decided to take the 7 for a spin. I drove out along a winding country road to a spot where legend says the Hidden Folk play and whore until the sun rises. Though objectively not particularly fast, the car sounds, feels, and handles as though it were a fucking
Type 35 Bugatti. Upon arriving at the supposedly magical cave, I parked and turned off my roadster's lights and suckled upon my flask of Johnnie Walker Black while watching the sun rise over the hills. I turned on the radio and listened to some strange music played only for the sad and lonely (perhaps the elves had a little FM transmitter in their cave?). It was too late for spotting elves, but I didn't care. I was enveloped in beauty and oblivion. All my thoughts were dead.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Tropic of Ping

I would write more today, but I cannot stop thinking of food and Henry Miller playing ping pong with a naked girl. A wrinkled old man, he could not help being the innocent but lascivious Don Juan-in-a-vest. What was going through his batty, cosmic mind as he raced this nymph to 11? Did he play to win or did he play to make her prance? He was a master of nonsense and the match-point forehand. I imagine there was a poetry and comedic grace to the rapid pock-pock-pocking of his wooden paddle against the plastic sphere. Come Dear, let us bat about an ovum.

I, too, have a table and some skill, but they are both in the basement, collecting a layer of dust. I used to play with Myoki and Helga. Inevitably our matches would erupt into either argument or orgy. Now that they are gone, the sound of pinging balls plays in my mind as an absurd lament. I hear it in hailstorms and at night.

Goodbye for now. My noodles are cooked.



Sunday, October 19, 2008

Electronic Missive

Tanya,

Tonight I am lightheaded and brokenhearted. I have struggled to become a better man--you know how in college I grew an American heart--but it has all been destroyed by my pride and my illusions. In the jigsaw puzzle of the world, I do not fit, no matter how hard I try to force myself in place. So over me, you chose the common man, my friend, my brother, your Mr. Potato Head. We grew up together--shared desires and fed each other poison--but in time our paths forked. He went to the office and I to the forest. He brings home the bacon and doesn't question the system. I find pigs filthy and live off berries and seeds. Tanya I do not blame you. But Tanya I am sad and lousy.

Come pick these bugs out of my hair and sail upon my drunken ship. Or do you not listen to the commands of losers? It is probably for the best. I should forget about you and find a filthy forest lover. If I medicate myself, I will not care. Come monkey, come, my filthy girl, and stick this needle in my arm. I'll grow grey and decompose, and who knows, Tanya, if, after all that, I am still bitter about it, I'll haunt you till you cry.

You compared our cocks. I guess mine lost. Now my estate has gone to hell. It's seven Mondays and then another week. Every morning, before reality starts ringing its cacophonous bell, I am writing my book and dedicating it to you. I hope it stings you when you read it, but I'm sure you've given up reading, now that you are married. You were never good at feeling the words anyhow--you were always looking for the symbolism--at least after you went to college. I kept telling you that there was nothing there.

Off to bed,

Nigel Tewksbury

Monday, October 6, 2008

My New Addiction: Tucker & Taz in the Morning

In my miserable life, I have been addicted to many things: opium, dueling, drunken driving, to name a few. But my latest addiction seems a relatively harmless one. It is Tucker & Taz in the Morning, a Canadian radio program on FM96, a station which boldly claims to be "London's Best Rock" (indeed, there is a London in Ontario, Canada--a real shit-hole from most reports). I do not know if the slogan is true as I find the pig-squeal vocals of AC/DC--a band which the jovial duo play interminably--laughably awful (although I greatly enjoyed Tucker's impression a few days back), but damn it if Tucker and Taz aren't "London's Most Lovable Losers." Though from all reports these pair of pudgy, balding DJs are not terribly special, I cannot help but put them on a pedestal when I hear them talk to the common idiot hicks on riot-fests like "Mr Know-It-All" and "The Question." However Tucker & Taz, I have a question for you: which one of you is the leader?

You see, my friend Reginald Hardcourt has also become a frequent listener of your show (twice a week we set up my Dell and listen to your webcast whilst playing chess and drinking cocaine-laced South African rooibos in the sun room of my estate) and we invariably argue over which of you is the leader. Reginald says it's Tucker, for no tangible reason, whereas I say it is Taz (which one of you hosts Taz-Mania again? Ah, yes... Oh, but what about Taz of All Trades? Ah... Yes... Taz again). Indeed I often wonder whether Tucker is drunk due to his fumbling work with the controls--not that there's anything wrong with that. But I am afraid our little disagreement is no longer friendly because last week Reginald turned his revolver on me for saying Tucker would be nothing without Taz (not coincidentally, I had just taken his Queen's bishop, thus destroying his beloved fianchetto). In a bold move of self-defense, I forcefully grabbed Reginald by the arm and put my ivory letter opener to his throat. I then forced him to push a pawn and lose the game in an embarrassing oversight.

Perhaps this addiction is more dangerous than I fear... Regardless, I look forward to waking up tomorrow. It is a non-Reginald day.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

The Hunter

The other day I was conversing with a bastard towards whom I am socially obligated to be respectful. We were at a dull but elegant restaurant and I became rather bored with his inane ramblings about business and the sad state of the economy. I offered him some hashish, and after his eyes had returned to a normal size (I take it he was rather enamoured by my drugs--I told him it was the good shit because, of course, it was), we went outside and had a little smoke. It hit me hard and I began again to see the point of the world. The sun was setting and I was looking forward to getting nocturnal. It had been awhile.

Upon returning to the table, I reflected on the duck that was now inside me and told my companion that I would eat almost any bird. "Even a penguin?" he asked. "Especially a penguin," I replied. "I imagine they are best done on a rotisserie. Just imagine it there, in your backyard, rotating like a big, tuxedoed sausage, roasting in its own succulent penguin juices." He chuckled uncontrollably at the thought and wondered if it would taste more like fish or chicken. But it was not a joke.

And why must we always compare beasts? It was here I lost respect for him entirely and, like an angsty teen, stopped speaking.

It is odd that we humans are animals though I see the beast in me each and every day. And I know that I am supposed to reject this beast and dress him up in fine, tailored clothing. It is the necessity of living in this artificial world, I suppose. To hell with it. Let's get drunk.

When I'm drunk I am a rogue and I treasure my roguish soul more than I treasure my modified Lotus Elan. While most people spend their lives looking for comfort and money, I spend my life looking for entertainment and experience because I believe these are the only worthwhile things in our artificial world. So I dress myself up in fine, tailored clothing because I want to be the good shit and not the ugly shit or the shit that doesn't know any better. Those in baseball caps and printed blazers are swine; they are scavengers. But me, I am a large, exotic cat--come stroke me if you dare--and I prowl on penguins and drive real fast. The power to weight ratio of my car will knock the cap off your common, greasy head.

We are endangered. Our habitat is nearly destroyed. Where is the wildness? Where is the tall grass in which I can crouch before pouncing on my prey? It is gone and I am supposed to find my dinner at the grocery store. How convenient. How safe. How utterly boring.

Oh hell, I am still sitting here at this table, staring at my glass, starting to come down. He's still high as a kite--I told him it was potent, but he insisted on smoking gluttonously. I'll just feign a full bladder and then hop in my roadster and take off into the night. I need his business less than I need my precious night on the prowl. I'll follow that busty redhead in the tight black dress. She must be wild.

"Let's go hunting," I said to her. "At the grocery store."

She laughed uncomfortably and walked briskly to her car. To hell with her. In this city of garbage, would someone kindly tell me where hide the nymphs and pixies?

Fuck it. Let's get drunk and go to Tesco. I walked into the first pub I found and did three shots of Chartreuse for the Holy Trinity (and then I did another for the road). I then stomped off to Tesco and pushed a blue-hair out of the way to get a good cart. "I am the hunter!" I shouted while I kicked at the automatic doors. I grabbed all the 12-grain bagels I saw--expiration date be damned!--and a tub of chunky peanut butter. I topped up the cart with dark chocolate, cheese, and nuts. I laughed uncontrollably when I saw that Penguin biscuits were on sale and I took the whole stock. I would have a feast tonight.

In my periphery I sensed a security guard's stare. It was time to blow this place. With a snarl and a growl, I took my cart and charged at the door. No one dared get in my way. But in the parking lot I noticed a wobbly wheel on what I thought was my faithful cart--I suppose it was not built for such extreme speeds--and I heard the guards charging behind me. I gave a primal yell, but it was of no use. I knew that damn wheel would be my end and I was forced to abandon my kill and take off into the night. I grabbed two packs of Penguins and shoved them in my pockets. In a wild flourish, I threw my favourite yellow pocket square behind me.

Once out of the artificial lights, I stopped in an alley and took a good, long piss. I cracked open some biscuits and shoved them in my mouth. They tasted very, very good.

Upon returning home, my euphoria quickly wore off. I was sweating and frightened at what I had done. I tried to regain some sanity by watching a marathon of Britain's Next Top Model. What a topsy-turvy world! I was unsure how I could go on knowing that in my heart there was this caged and rabid beast. I do not know... It is in times like these that I reach for my laudanum and hope to feel fresh-as-a-daisy upon waking.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

A Bike Ride of High Intensity

At an unsafe speed, I rumble through the trees--through the fall I fly, the stink of sewage in my nose--and I know there is no happiness that I'd call true. For happiness is fleeting and false, like this dandy-on-wheels, and I wish I were foolish enough to buy into the buying and the house and the dog and the car--though they appear all innocent, at heart they are all evil, except my roadster, of course, which I enjoy because it's fast (and perhaps a little evil). Now, Nigel, focus, and watch out for the retard with rotting teeth but nick the oblivious teen as a wake-up call from reality--ring your bell like a coked-up Pavlov and hope the dogs respond and make way for Master Tewksbury, he's faster than you; and I storm along the riverside--upshift! upshift! upshift!--with a death wish, perhaps, yes, certainly with a death wish, because I am an exotic bird of paradise that does not wish to propagate--propagation's for the common and the plain--I wish to go out in a colourful explosion of feathers, dancing my strange, exotic dance not understood by the populous who prefer the ignorant impregnators, the bacon and the burgers--now I'm on the ragged edge, dipping down and up, huffing and puffing and growing younger--ringing my bell, again, like a coked-up Pavlov to signal my mercurial pace through the sewage stink and cultural garbage--hark! my message is chaos with precision--whoever made this bike path had great aesthetic sense--I salute your work--I'm sorry no one notices, but we are all basically stupid. Ah! This is happiness, this is false, this is fleeting, but fuck it feels grand and fuck I feel superior and fuck it would be a good time to die, now, by smashing my head upon the road and being eaten alive by ducks--I just hope it cracks easier than a coconut and I taste alright without sauce--I wish to die--I'd like to be a cutter, that is, a cutter of corners, up upon my bicycle, my silent steed; but with sadness this ride must end. It is a shame. But I feel a little better now. I must remember this as a cure for my occasional bouts with malaise.

quickly beating heart
trees, sewage, water, and will
hidden underground

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Planetary Plagues, etc.

Reginald stopped by for an unscheduled visit and brought with him his magic pouch. As he rang my bell, I awoke from a drunken slumber and inquired, "What time is it?"

He replied with slurred enunciation: "It is pre-plague Renaissance. I know it is your favourite."

It is... He opened his magic pouch and indeed there was no time at all but those times that are our favourites--and in times like these one must really be outside! And then we were in an empty battlefield with no one but our ghosts. Like teenagers we traveled there by bicycle. We waited for the fight but there was no one there to fight us. Ah, it's just a field, then. So we rode on but not before losing our accents.

"What happened to your accent, Reg?" I asked.

"What happened to yours!?"

"I'm not sure... I do not know my voice at all... But to think of my accent frightens me."

"Let's bike on."

We rode to the university where wild Tropicália music crackled and pulsed and wasps buzzed about unemptied rubbish bins and I grew fearful of the plague while Reginald munched a bagel and played kitten with his cock. What was this plague I feared? I looked around and saw people who were advertisements and whose teeth were like dentures because they were so white and so straight. Is this style without substance or substance without style? Or is it neither and none? Ah, listen to their voices... Their accents are strong and false... As was mine--but now it's gone and I am left with a rubble of phonemes with which I must build my new Babel. But let's not build Babel again--it always falls down--let's come up with something simpler, something sturdier, something a little more like Lascaux.

In the distance I gazed at a girl with wild, red hair. I know her. I danced with her once in a Dublin bar. She is better than most but that's not much. I quickly realized she wasn't my Nicevenn when she professed to be a follower of Acca Dacca. I shan't strike up a conversation. Our orbits have briefly crossed and sentimentality is known to kill a planet and turn it to a moon.

We must leave this place before we die--Franny was right--there is no knowledge here--only horny professors with patches on their sleeves. There you are, my bicycle, my steed. We shall go home now in total darkness. Though there are no lights in the park we can get by with echolocation and a little bit of luck. It's all we need. Who cares if we die because this is a good way to go--speeding down a hill, towards a set of headlights, drawing me in like gravity.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Towards a New Aesthetic (the half-assed, blogger version)

As a seedling Aesthete, I was fascinated by libraries. Often I wondered, In the world, is there one that holds all the knowledge of all? The answer is, of course, no, not in this post-Alexandrian age. But things have changed and libraries are now as obsolete as Reginald Hardcourt's piece-of-shit '01 Dell. Now knowledge lives in Google's servers (which Hardcourt's computer can occasionally access if one is extremely patient and not working during peak hours) and my boyhood vision of a complete realm of information, I believe, is a reality, albeit a superficial one. Where I once thrilled in hunting down a book or article in the labyrinths of a real cracking library, I now apathetically find the same thing by inputting a few keywords into Google, all while dressed in my white cotton underwear and munching on a really proper sausage.

There was a time when I lived my life bouncing between the inspiring but tiring poles of bibliotheque and discotheque. Now I live my life between Google and Facebook. I have saved a lot of time but I have lost the thrill of the chase (and the amusement of a rhyme). Today, knowledge is an easy destination, and there is no longer a meaningful journey. Indeed it is meaning that has been lost, and I wonder if it can ever be found in this hypertextual rat-race world.

Of course all this meandering has a point--are you bored enough to stay with me? The point is this: We must create an art that does not rely on bookish knowledge but rather requires us to search the libraries of our souls (Yes, I sound like that Texan Twat Dr. Phil here, but fuck it, I have a soul, and I will take it back from the pseudoscientists by any means necessary--if you have any of his books, please do your part and burn them). I hoped here, in this dime-a-dozen blog, to proclaim Intertextuality dead, but of course, not being real, it cannot die; however, it can be proclaimed a concept, a word, and it is exactly that. Let's take the focus off it. Let us not rely on facts and references but rather on the journey and the experience. Knowledge is mostly just showy bullshit anyway. Let's not be so deluded as to think it means anything on its own.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Out of the open and into the cracks

Like Persian cats named Pumpkin, they creep in silently, these end-of-summer days. Dressed in my finest pilgrim's garb, the breeze blows past me and imparts memories of youth and school (can you hear the children call? Can you smell the aging books?). I almost forget that I am old. On the weekend I will do a bicycle tour across Quebec. Alone. It is to remind me of the importance of the journey and to develop the skills of the cat. Silently I will pulse down carless veins until I reach my parents' house and am greeted by their ghosts. Then I will eat my little granola bar, grab a little nap, and push on, without purpose, into these end-of-summer days.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

An excerpt (from Chapter 5 of my memoirs)

I have been waking early every morning and spewing my life onto the page. It has been painful and enlightening. Why do we do such things?

It is a first draft. I apologize for the formatting--it is difficult to adapt a novel for Blogger.

***

The next day I received a phone call. It was Reginald.


"Let's do some trespassing," he said, dispensing with the standard greeting.


"Of course."


"Don't worry Nigel, we shall be forgiven in the end."

"Well Reginald that all depends."

"Are you high right now?"

"No."

"You should be."

"No."

We planned to meet at the railroad tracks. I wanted to feel the thrill of trespassing but I was too afraid to do it alone. I had begun to hate Reginald but I was not ready to strike out alone. I still did not have the courage of a true rogue and Reginald is as roguish as they come. As I say, I hate him, but, I must admit, I have learned and stolen a great deal from him. I have stolen from many people and it has made me what I am. I am not original; I am a thief of influence.

We drove to a quiet portion of the tracks. Rocks, grass, wood, silence. It was all land and no people. We wore only earth tones and as a ritual we smeared dirt on our faces imagining it was primordial ooze. Reginald climbed the wire fence and I followed him over. Initially I worried about tearing my clothes, and then I realized, These are the things that hold me back, so I sucked up the courage and tore my lovely shirt so it would be done and out of mind. Once we were over, we realized we had stumbled on the flotsam of the world: pants, shirts, and bras all caked in mud. I wondered, Why put these here? This is not a place for lovers. Are these the clothes of the underground people? Of the hobos and of the homeless? Is this what I would become if I stayed on this trajectory of drugs and trespassing? I have a feeling that having a hobo bride is not as Romantic as it seems.

"This is fucking brilliant," said Reginald, wearing an Old Navy baseball cap and acting like a cad. He puffed out his chest and spat at a squirrel.

I laughed, out of shock, not out of humour. I knew I would follow.

"Incredible Reg." I kicked at the objects and wondered to whom they once belonged. Why not just bung them in the closet? Or you could give them to Oxfam, I suppose. Fuck we are all so lazy.

"Let's follow the tracks and see where they go."

Reginald here opened his khaki rucksack and pulled out his Spanish wineskin and poured a stream of deep red liquid into his mouth. He looked like a maniac as it ran down his cheeks and chin.

"Have some blood my friend, my brother."

Was it? It is hard to tell with Reg. I drank it sheepishly. Reginald watched me with wide eyes. It was wine.

"Bloody good, eh?"

"Let's get drunk in hobo village," I said, suddenly infused.

"Yes!"

We drank the wine, all of it. It's brilliant how being drunk changes everything and how the world shifts from prison to carnival. We were in the hobo village and imagined what it would be like to sleep here and wait for the next train to hop. I imagined all the hobos making love here out of boredom. Hiding in the rubbish I saw the grubby faeries that must guide the misguided transient—dirty hair and dressed in torn brown rags—beautiful in a way—the outcasts of the faerie world. Like us, they were drunk, oblivious to responsibility and to consequence. Was this the way to live? To live clean is to live a lie. I wanted to be dirty forever but to have a good heart.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

A Basement, 2001

In the forest I see the blinking eyes of my ancestors. The trees are alive and naked. In the moonlight, they are evil; in the sun, good. The red red berries, from what I hear, will get you gloriously high, but will, unfortunately, kill you, too. It's written in a Bowie song--one he never recorded. Let's get off the berries now... What a thin and funky junky... Ah yes in the trees are howling monkeys. And sound waves. Notes fall and crash and make all the noise hypothesized by Gurdjeff. I met him once in a cafe beneath a darkening sky. He was quiet.

Once I knew a jazzer by the name of Don Trebblehorn. He was full of shit and beauty but always pissed at the London Jazz Society. He was good to smoke a joint with but I can't imagine him sober. He would be a frightened cat and spray everywhere. Where's your holy music now? Are you afraid because you dreamed your life away? Oh yes, it's gone, you shriveled up piece of beef jerky.

Let's have a dinner party with Baudelaire and Shakespeare. We'll allow only artists, but we'll let in the shit with the others because if we only allowed the good ones it would be dull and not a party. We'll tell them how Google has made us stoopid but told us everything. We'll toast wikipedia but not think about it too deeply. Then we'll do a hippie drum circle and some cock with a keyboard on his tie will twitter on a flute. Oh, come one and all! It will be farcical and bleak!

Let's. For fun. We'll forget about the dark monkeys in the trees. We'll forget about the noise...

... Good morning, love. I don't know how you got here but you're here and so am I. Let's go drink absinthe and sunbathe on the balcony. Let's develop a grand Aesthetic and start an artistic revolution. But, don't worry, we'll probably just get drunk. Maybe if we're lucky and ask them nicely the gods will mute the colours and make it look like an old movie. I'll be James Dean and you can be Brigitte Bardot. Burn me, Apollo, but not so much that I cook, just so much that I sizzle for a bit and then shut up for once.

Let's. For fun. Then we'll fall asleep and forget all about it. There's shopping to be done.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Poison Oak vs. Syphilis

I am in love with the notion of wildness. To me there is the wildness of nature and the wildness of the city. Often I wonder what the relationship between them is. Reginald Hardcourt once told me, "There is only music and noise," and I think of these words often, and for all of Reginad's esoteric bullshit babbling in Latin and birdsong, I think these words will always be his best because they are so simple. And I wonder how wildness is related to music, and I wonder how wildness is related to noise. The untuned mind would likely conclude that wildness is noise, but I do not think it is so simple. I remember the time I rolled with Beauty beside a stream, our soft, naked bodies merging in intercourse yet bearing the brunt of the prickly landscape. We emerged happy and satisfied yet blotchy from poison oak. Now I say that I remember fucking Beauty by the stream but I am not sure it was real for I had poppy resin lingering in my veins--those great channels of the human body--but to call this wildness vulgar--to call it noise rather than music--is to call yourself out as a tone-deaf, beer-swilling cockmuncher. It was wild, and it was music, both to my ears, and to my other senses, too.

I have had similar experiences with whores though I'd take poison oak and an imaginary woman over lice and the syph anyday. Wildness is intoxicating regardless and I would not trade it for all the gift certificates and creature comforts in the world.

But my liaison with Beauty happened only once and it is now firmly in the vanishing past. It is one of my fondest memories, but I wish I could forget it and move westward into adulthood. The fact that I may have been delusional at the time makes me question the value of all that I believe. Perhaps I am just an opium addict who is forever blotchy with poison oak: I will not heal. Yet the music remains and I wish the taxmen and politicians could hear it.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Reyka Vodka and My Mind

Reyka vodka, thou art the elixir of my soul. How could something elevate such a vagabond aesthete to such heights sublime? Ah! Reyka vodka, you quench my thirst. You are pure. You are a wonder. Reyka vodka, thou art my glacial lover.

It is off to Iceland; let's go by boat rocking drunkenly. Reyka vodka shall make us adventurous rogues, the heroes of the world, and we shall shall sail past the arctic circle but feel flames within our hearts. There can be no other country. Sweden is too plain; Russia is too large. Iceland is a country that makes you a man. Let's drink Reyka vodka and go berserkergang.

How can one not love the feeling of being tight? On Reyka being tight. When I am drunk, I am a buffoon; when sober, I am a bore. But when I am tight, ah! Reyka vodka true, I am a wonder to behold. Gone are the inhibitions. I am an animal inspired. I am unstoppable. I am one hell of a piece of ass and don't mind if you stare.

Come back and we shall go nude beneath the moonlight. I still have half a bottle by the salt lamp by the door. Dear Reyka vodka, please meet our new lover. Her name is unspoken. Let's keep it that way. Have a sip of my sensual landscape. My body is volcanic; come explore my lake
Mývatn. Pet my devil duck and explore my darkened heart.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

It all boils down to this

Woke at 6:00, said "Fuck this life," booked a flight to Iceland, ran a hard, brisk 5.25K.

Meditated on the balcony, dewy body glistening in the dawn. I shall spend the day with a bottle of Reyka because it gets me drunk but does not give me a headache.

Friday, July 4, 2008

Some words to fill a void

Since returning from the forest, my life has been clean. My head is clear. It is good and bad.

It is good because the nightmares have stopped. In my daily life, the things I experience are real rather than a mad amalgamation of fantasy and reality. But it is bad because the truth of my life is, often, frightening. I live in a ridiculous house; I drive a ridiculous car; I wear ridiculous clothes. I cannot help but feel I am a ridiculous man--a "pretentious asshat," as one reader has called me.

Like a teenager, tonight, I am vulnerable. I walk down the street with my head hung low. The jabs of your stares sting my pitiful heart. I am swimming in a sea of vague malaise with no sight of land.

If ever I make it back, perhaps I will go to "The Gap" and buy a hooded sweatshirt and a decent pair of jeans and wear them like the rest of the world. Or perhaps I will write my memoirs and put down in words the vague philosophy that drives me--a mixture of Plato, Thoreau, and Hemingway, spotted with misconceptions and strange delusions from origins unknown.

Or perhaps I just need a good night's rest. Or some friends--the kind that money can't buy.

Let's start tomorrow after wasting away the day with music, smoke, tears, and laughter.

Friday, June 20, 2008

The Hump

I hope to add more partially digested ruminations from my wilderness experience in the future, but I must confess, I am still grappling with what happened. At the moment, my recollections and scrawls are fragmentary at best and terrifying at worst (for example, I am reluctant to write it here, dear, dead Henry Miller, thou who taught me that self-censorship is a killer of art, but according to my log (oh pun scatological!), I, at one desperate point in my wilderness wildness, attempted the trick of coprophagia in imitation of the hyrax, cur, and gimmicky whore). Oh YHWH, oh Yoda, Thou who gives me life, let these dark memories be more fantasy than reality, and, like my carefully crafted personalty, lie more within the realm of the mythological than the physical.

Ah! But like the life of that bitch Elizabeth Taylor, I digress. You see the reason I write today, Dear Fanatics and Admirers (not to mention the more common, more pidily, Naysayers), is to tell you the story of my Wednesday, of my Woden's Day.

Hwæt! Now listen to my tale.

I was visiting a prestigious university (I shall not name it here) for the purpose of seducing a slut who frequents the campus
café. Her eyes like emeralds, her skin like milk, her tits magnificent, I approached her like a tiger on the prowl. Wearing my blue and white seersucker suit and carrying my vintage WWII Triumph motorcycle helmet, I slipped down beside her and said,

"I would like to fuck you, when you are through with that coffee drink."

I then rubbed my snake-like hand up her inner thigh and inquired, "Vanilla?"

It was indeed vanilla, and with that she threw her bullshit drink on the floor and we headed to the campus bar to get tight. But as it was only 10:30 in the morning, we had to wait a half hour before alcohol was served, so we had a glorious make out session in the grass beside the bicycle rack and dumpster. Things worked out wonderfully because by 11:00 I was sufficiently bored with my exploration of her body and quite ready to get extraordinarily drunk.

For a bar the place was rather bright, and the light served only to accentuate the horror inside: a multitude of fat, balding graduate students getting drunk in their nerdy little sanctuary, the campus Grad Pub. Ah! It was awful to see all these cases of arrested development in one crowded place. Their socks and sandals! Their backpacks! (Reginald always said: "To avoid looking a fool, one must never wear a backpack past the age of 25"). On my way to the communal washroom I glanced at a paper being written by one particularly egregious member of the species (I turned a little pink with anger and embarrassment to see he had the same model of Dell as I) and was shocked by the terrible prose. Long, ambiguous sentences; sentences never using anything but a simple structure (please don't point out my fragments, Naysayers, I am quite aware of them). Such sentences would only pass as high prose to one unable to focus due to severe astigmatism, and yet, everything about these people was an attempt at screaming, "HELLO! I AM SMART! LOOK AT ME!"

GAH! Damned fakers!

Oh YHWH, oh Yoda, I ask you on my knees in prayer, in supplication: What ever happened to Dignity? Are these the modern Intelligentsia? Say it ain't so!

And yet the females were rather, well, hot with their glasses and their books. But I decided not to speak to any of them fearing my lofty illusions of studious seductresses--girls who would explore my gonads as though they were metaphorical meteorites and then calculate the optimal angle of trajectory with which to direct their cattish tongues--would only be destroyed. I returned to my slut and my alcohol, but my slut was gone. I do have such rotten luck.

I sat there and drank. Alone. And I mused. There certainly seems to be a hump that one hits around the age of 25. Now that growing up is done, what does one do to progress? Damn these cases of arrested development. But am I really so different? I still have a childish heart.

These are the thoughts that are dissolved in a bottle of gin. Fear not change; fear not darkness. This drink shall be my last.

Ah Nigel, you are a fucking riot.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Wilderness Journal

Notes for Day 1:

- I am extraordinarily drunk on the comically-named "Balantine's Finest." I have six bottles in my rations. The bottles have doubled as toilets--I still find the notion of pissing in the bushes rather vulgar. Frankly at this point I am unsure which is scotch and which is excrement.
- Yesterday I attempted to build a cabin out of twigs. It was rather small and immediately reminded me of my deceased ferret as only he could fit into it. I am an aesthete, not a contortionist. I then remembered that ferrets do not live in huts but rather burrow into foliage. I shall do the same.
- I burrowed my lithe, hairless body into the brush. At first the prickling was unpleasant--unbearable even--but then I realized it was a form of corporal mortification. For a moment I thought I felt the wind of the Holy Spirit pass over me in my suffering. I look forward to telling my Emo friends on MySpace.
- There is no MySpace in the forest. My feelings are ambiguous.
- I began reading Inferno in the original tongue. I then realized I do not speak Italian but have been lying about it all my life.
- I am growing bored. I will drink more scotch or excrement and pass out. The forest is more tiresome than Avery Mann's house. No, that is not true... Here there are foxes and deer, though they are neither as social nor as beautiful as I imagined. Indeed they are quite filthy.
- Grass does not taste very good at all though reindeer moss is not half bad.
- I cried.

A Dream

I am lost in a forest. A silver stream runs along a beaten path. I look into the darkness of the trees--the unexplored world. Eyes twinkle like stars. I find a clay cup beside the water--I am not the first traveler to awaken here. I look in the river expecting to see my reflection. I see no one.

I do not miss the whores and the drugs. My mask has been removed. Once again I am a child, though I am a little old and wrinkled... Why is it that we look forward to the weekends but fear the future?

No matter... I will trudge on despite the sprouting grey hairs... I will metamorphose. I will become something new. I am the wily Odysseus--fate be damned. Poseidon do your best.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

I am back

I am back from the wilderness. After a series of green-tinged dreams I ran away to live in the forest. I realized that all my life the forest had been calling me but I did not have the ears to hear its wind-whispered words. So in the middle of the night, four and twenty days ago, I undressed and hopped in my roadster but not before removing all the maps from the glove box and putting them in the fiery furnace of my Westinghouse stove. I put it in self-cleaning mode and watched the roads of Great Britain crumble to ashes, all while cautiously keeping my distance from the hellish heat so that my dangling genitalia would not get burned.

Let me describe to you my dream, Dear Reader, Dear Daniel of the Blogsphere. I awoke in a petrified forest but in the distance was a burning flame housed within a ghoulish cave. I crept nearer and nearer the strange and humming glow, and my body grew more and more feverish, my glorious cock more and more erect, as I stepped ever closer. The hum grew more intense, like Mariah Carey exploring her upper range, and I had to cover my pulsating ears. Eventually my senses were overwhelmed with heat and noise and I collapsed on the ground, but not before I saw a wraith signaling me with a slow and flexing finger. I nodded my head in profound obedience and the world turned an absinthe green. It was then I knew I was to escape to the forest.

With neither maps nor my custom GPS I hopped into my roadster and let it purr. I revved the engine and felt the beast beneath the hood. Using the customized paddle shifters and Momo steering wheel, we wound down the treacherous corners of Snake Hill, hitting the apex of every corner with microscopic precision. Ah, how I will miss thee, rubber on road, growl of engine, but it is the forest that calls your master. I left her on the side of the road for a lucky thief, but not before urinating on each of the leather buckets.

It was then that I got drunk. Instinctively I knew that drunkenness would be an integral part of living in the forest as I would need to abandon my fears and inhibitions (and there are many). I wanted never to see sobriety again, not even at sunrise.

I lived for three weeks in the woods. Like Nebuchadnezzar and Timothy Treadwell before me, I ate nothing but grass and berries. Currently I am coming to terms with my experiences. I hope to blog about them soon.

Yours,

Nigel Supertramp

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Dear Blog

Dear Blog,

I wanted to write tonight but cannot. I am bloated on turkey and have been drinking heavily as of late. I became afraid of the tap-water after some slut flushed poison down my toilet in an attempt to get it into my pipe-system (I admit, my knowledge of plumbing is rudimentary at best). I have been drinking Double Diamond beer as a replacement. I am looking a little bit tubby, I'm afraid. There are mice droppings in my bed. And yet I shall sleep there tonight.

I shall sleep there tonight, most likely under the influence of an opium tincture. I am growing more and more withdrawn each day. I cannot come to terms with the world outside me. And the world inside me is no longer my own.

Oh Blog, you are nothing like my boyhood diary. You are a cheap gimcrack whereas my diary was a hidden flower pollinated by my private thoughts and words. You are a tabloid, and I, your perverted publisher.

We shall go to sleep angry at each other tonight.

Yours,

Nigel Tewksbury

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Pig in the City

Fluently through the dark foliage of the city night, I walk; I walk and I stalk with a profound nonchalance, a panther on the prowl, looking for a mate, or possibly for food. I have not eaten in days; I am growing weak and tired; my insides burn. Perhaps I will stop at a fast food place, a drunken dandy hungry for grease; or perhaps I will simply press on with the faith that I will not die from hunger when I have gold coins jangling like reindeer's bells in my pocket. Jingle jangle. Jingle jangle. Jingle jangle jeroo.

I stumble around a corner and see the flash of an urchin's eyes. The protein of her eyes is white and shining in stark contrast to the grimy rags she calls clothing. She is begging for coinery. I toss her a big one and tell her she would be beautiful were she not so filthy, but upon further reflection I think it is because she is filthy that she has the potential for beauty. I feel that if she showered and dressed she would be just a common slut--one of those whores in this city who give it away for free. Often it is best that the veil of Maya be not lifted.

I turn around and toss her another coin before laughing at the absurdity of it all.

What is this city in which I live? It is built on dreams, true, but they are the dreams of Capitalists, not of Dreamers. If only poets had the background in construction and engineering necessary to build! Ah, what a sight it would be to behold, the city of poets, golden and true. Nymphs and prophets would emigrate from Arcadia (but we would keep the satyrs out).

I walk with a funky swagger straight into a McDonald's restaurant. I gobble four cheeseburgers and a chocolate milkshake--I have never felt dirtier in my life! And oh the salty fries! I remove my belt and whip the table. I paint my face with ketchup and mustard--I am out of my fucking mind and loving every moment--my monkey heart pounds and I hope I die like this, a complete and utter failure, a complete and utter fool.

I hear the river calling me and run out into the night. I run down a hill and push through the trees. I am alone and it is quiet... I am out of the city. The river flows on and on. I cannot believe what I am. I was a child once... Mother I am sorry. I have strayed further than any man in history.

I watch the ripples and the ducks. They flow on, always forward. "Oh hell," I mutter. Oh hell. I suppose I should go home. Or return to my damn house.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

The complications of being human

Finally it is fragrant spring--sensual spring--and happy is my heart that the snow has long-last melted; no longer does my soul feel captive and tortured; no longer does my heart feel as though it is slowly freezing deep into a mechanical stasis--what a scientist might term Death--from which it shall never wake. I incant: Spin vortex spin! Impregnate me with inspiration and dreams that transcend my robot-like physiology! And I lament: If only my beloved ferret were still alive--not a victim to the frozen world but a hero in the verdant one--if only he were bounding through the open fields, squeaking in strange, primordial rhythms, bristled fur wrinkling down his tube-like body like salty ocean waves. And I wonder: Would he, like me, feel the strange and frustrating ambiguity of April memory and April desire? Would he, like me, feel slightly disappointed after the high expectations of winter? Or are ferrets utterly blind to feeling, as popular Biology professes?

Through sheer power of will, I quiet my pestering thoughts and remove my clothes to roll through the fragrant fields of chamomile flowers. I roll sensually towards a pretty rill located at the bottom of a bumpy slope, and I weep, and I wonder: Are these tears of rage or are they tears of joy? Or am I so utterly pedestrian that they are the standard tears of sadness like those felt by an adolescent over the synchronicity of an unrequited love and a fresh batch of pimples? I know not, for I know nothing... I know only that they are tears--real ones at that--and that my knowledge is not true. No, I am not satisfied, no... No... I am not content to merely roll--instinctively merged--man and terra firma--beautiful but without the satisfaction of an Epistemology that resonates and rings throughout the entire core and being.

I roll... I roll... Growing older as I go...

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Alice in Emoland

It was the rumoured propensity for suffering that initially drew me towards the dark flame of the Emo world. A little bird once told me these bastards like to bleed, and oft on my Sunday hashish stroll through the park, I would encounter the sullen-faced, floppy-haired creatures naval-gazing and weeping for the oily garbage on the ground (or perhaps it was for the oily garbage in their brains... or perhaps it was for the adolescent oil in their hair... or perhaps it was, devil-be-damned, for no reason at all). I asked a park whore what these creatures be and she replied, "They are Emos--it is short for Emotionals." Ah, they do seem a touch sensitive, I thought, and it was then that I resolved to go home and conduct some Internet research for I had a strange inclination that there was a little corner in my soul that resonated with the spirit of Emo.

I almost jumped out of my body when I looked up and saw Lord Byron looking down on me. "Childe Harold!" I ejaculated, before realizing it was just a statue.

***

Once back at the estate, I brought my new notebook computer out to Gibbon Forest. I had recently invested in a wireless network that would allow me to surf the Internet whilst basking beneath Apollo's sweet springtime rays--today I would test it for the first time, and I must admit, I had my doubts. As I logged on, I mused, "Dear Apollo, god of wisdom, god of beauty, god of poesy true, let this connection be secure from fiends and let my signal soar past the highest peak of Mount Parnassus."

Miraculously, before I incanted the final phrase, a popup told me I was, indeed, connected.

"Off to Wikipedia!" I said aloud as I began the revered ceremony of Absinthe preparation. Ah, how the faerie danced in the sunlight as the particles of sugar dripped through the pores of the specialized spoon one by one.

Dance my lady, dance filthily for me; dance, dance, dance, around the maypole primordial.

In the distance, the gibbons howled.

***

It is not yet Walpurgisnacht, yet the line between fantasy and reality was narrow to the extreme. What follows is more a curiosity than a blog entry. Indeed, I have no recollection of the Internet session in Gibbon Forest, but upon awakening I found a strange note typed haphazardly in Wingdings font in Microsoft Word. Upon converting the font to Times New Roman, it read as follows:

The Emo is black and impotent with vision obscured by an asymmetrical haircut. Pain-obsessed and pimply, he cuts out of boredom and lack of art supplies. Two hours ago I thought perhaps I was an Emo, but I am not. I am an Aesthete, not an Emo, though not an Aesthete proper... I am no one, not even myself, thank God...

EGO sum an Aesthete, non an Emo, sententia non an Aesthete verus.

To green... To green... To green...

"Nigel?"

"Hello!"

"I have created a MySpace account... MySpace, I discovered, is the Jerusalem of the Emo.

"Shalom and sorrow."

"Yes... Well I must tell you, bodily Nigel (for I am not real), I messaged the hottest one I could find and invited her over for supper and discussion of her kind. It is a sexual ploy, of course. She is due at sundown."

"Cage the gibbons!"

"Yes..."

***

The sun will soon be sinking. I am sober and feeling foolish. I often terrify myself when I indulge... I am a mixture--a demon and a god--and I worry of schizophrenia. I do not know what I will do if and when the doorbell rings, but I confess there is a succulent duck roasting slowly in the oven.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

An odyssey mundane

It has been approximately one lunar cycle since I landed in the horrid town of London, Ontario. How is it that I came here? I know not precisely for I was heavily sedated at the time, but I recall meeting a beautiful milk-white maid and following her into the roaring belly of a strange, mechanical bird that seemed to exude the sound of the Holy "Om." But upon awakening, she was gone and my pants were wet. Alone I was in a miniature airport. I was lost and sweating profusely.

On some level I knew I was now free from the many chains that have shackled my lithe, hairless body for so long--I was distant from the Baron of the Trees, my bottomless stash of drugs and alcohol, the letters from Helga and Myoki--and yet I have never felt so stifled. Years of seclusion have hampered my ability to adapt to new cultures, particularly modern ones. Had I awoken in Illyria or Fairyland, I would have been perfectly at home, but alas, I have come to the crushing realization that such lands exist only in the mind, and perhaps even there they are nearly dead (I have not been able to escape into literary worlds since arriving in the drab city).

Sunny it was on my first day. My first acquaintance was a chap named, believe it or not, "Mitch." He had a gaudy Canadian accent made worse by a horrendous rasp that instantly reminded one of the death rattle. Barely five foot tall, we must have looked an odd pair making chit-chat on the street. The conversation was awkward as he only talked of hockey and getting drunk--and he made the solemn ceremony of intoxication sound utterly vulgar and base. Clearly he had not studied the drunken state at all, so I suggested he read some Baudelaire before the weekend came. He said he would, but I was certain he would not.

The air was frigid. It has not changed. I long for coastal climates and despise this flatness. Flatness of landscape and flatness of heart. Few benefits do I see in this land other than the safety of boredom and the reasonable cost of property.


Tuesday, March 11, 2008

A dream, a prophesy

I walked to the courtroom. It was a lovely spring day--the streets were body-temperate and the fields smelled of chamomile and poppy. Hidden in the bushes were gnomes and hobos. I spat on a hobo but he didn't seem to mind--perhaps he even found a little nourishment there. For the first time since my lonely but joyful adolescence, I whistled as I walked. "Sebastian Horsley Dies Today," read the front page of the Times.

"How can he not believe in ghosts"? I thought as I tossed a piece of caramel corn into my mouth (or was it caramel maize? I purchased it from an aboriginal vendor who muttered words I did not understand). How can one not believe in ghosts when time--damn time--surrounds us always.

There is no escape.

I could not stop eating my sticky treat. My jaw ached and my teeth were sticking as though glued. My whistling became internalized like the rules of my mother and the dictates of Aestheticism. I walked over the moat and into the courtroom.

"Surprise!" they yelled as I crossed the threshold into the geometric world of the legal architects--how utterly false, how utterly hideous! There were balloons and confections and the Jack of Hearts pissed beer in abundance. From the rafters hung a banner that read, "Welcome Nigel Tewksbury, Aesthete/Recluse."

"What day is this?" I muttered. Surely it is not my birthday.

"March 15th" said a newsboy with a Caesar haircut.

"Beware," whispered the wind, or my conscience, or Time, I'm not sure which.

Oh... Fuck.

"All rise," commanded a pasty bailiff, and in walked Sebastian Horsley wearing nothing but a black sock.

"Welcome to your execution," he said. "It is my latest stunt. Please, help yourself to some beer before we chop you up and hide your limbs in brothels."

Out of the corner of my eyes I saw a grinning gibbon flash and then fade into the brickwork bit by bit.

"Yes," I said. "I believe I will have to get rather drunk for this."

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Basia Bulat sings the lunar eclipse while I sip upon a mystery tea

It is the magical predawn, but I cannot sleep. And yet I have never been so tired. I am beyond tired, beyond fullness; beyond emptiness, too. I linger by my frost-sheered window and watch the moon go into hiding--I would howl at the damn thing were the night not so peaceful and serene. But instead I struggle to silence my mind and brew a cup of tea.

The kettle's on. I search the cupboard for some chamomile for I feel like the convalescent Peter Rabbit, but I do not find the leaves I seek. Rather I stumble upon a stray teabag of unknown origin. I sniff it but it remains mysterious. I drop it in the cup and pour the boiling water.


Ah, what a horrid, horrid day, I think, as I leave the tea to steep. I languish on the couch, robe hanging open, my weary eyes gazing at the diminishing moon. My affairs are not in order... I cannot think straight anymore--my thoughts don't just wander--they fall into the pit of mundanity and are drugged by the candy of spiritual starvation. There is little I can do... The modern world is, sadly, stronger than my soul's tide.


But at least I can drink this mystery tea. And, I chuckle to myself, I've noticed that the simple pleasures are intensified by the still predawn hours. The tea smells of nothing but warmth and tastes the same. I do not remember buying this?


Let us put on some music... Something befitting of the predawn, of the lunar eclipse, of the mystery tea. Ah, yes, Basia Bulat--the modern equivalent of a woodland nymph. Her voice warbles and echoes throughout my den as I take another sip. What is this brew? It tastes of nothing, perhaps nothing with a hint of hazelnut.


I think of Julian of Norwich and how she saw the world inside a hazelnut. Perhaps we were not so different, she and I.


Except for the whores and the drugs... Oh Julian, I'm sorry, my dear... I am weak and have given up trying to change. Come out of your little cell tonight, just for me. It is a night for ghosts.


I almost drop...

Ah yes, the moon! It is nearly gone... There is no eye watching me tonight, seeing if I'm on my best behaviour. For a moment I cease to exist. A perfect night to die in the cold...

Yes, now I know... Now I remember. I have had this tea before. It is the kind that gives me mad dreams and madder erections. The night will be lovely but the day will be dreadful. So be it.

With legs like lead, I stumble off to bed.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Freeform ramblings, metempsychosis, etc.

I have not left my little opium loft for nearly a week. I am cabin feverish and am frequented by terrifying hallucinations. Why just yesterday I imagined myself sitting atop a stone bench in ancient Athens while listening to Pythagoras expound upon metempsychosis, when all of a sudden he began squeaking wildly. I watched in astonishment as his philosopher's beard turned into ratty old fur and he peeled off his mask to reveal, well, a mask. Before I knew it he had turned into my dear, dead pet, Cerberus Weasel, and at that moment I both understood and was stupefied by the soul's transmigration. What ever will become of me? Will I turn into a graceful swan or a filthy swine? Or will I be destined to eternally recur as Nigel Tewksbury, Aesthete / Recluse? As an undergraduate I grew convinced that Nietzschean recurrence was the only possibility--for how else could I act if I had not acted that way an infinite many times before? I am not one of those idiots who believe in free will, you see, at least not in a simple version (I admit, it does make some sense if one presupposes there are 7 dimensions of existence--but I am yet to witness numbers 6 and 7 so remain a little skeptical). At the time, eternal recurrence of the same was a dreadful thought to me, but I eventually grew to see the humour in it, no small part as a result of watching the Bill Murray film, "Groundhog Day." If you have not seen it, I highly recommend it.

My visions have become quite regular. On Sunday morning I could not get out of bed. I know not if I was dreaming or sleeping, but I lay beneath the covers in a state of paralysis while seeing myself rolling through verdant grass on a hilltop. I rolled and I rolled and I then noticed my manlihood grow full and turgid. It was marvelous! The paralysis then lifted and I opened my eyes, descended to the kitchen, and brewed some Kopi Luwak. I cannot remember who said it (was it you Reginald?), but, "it is much easier to rise from bed if one first experiences a rise in the pants."