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.

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."

Hallucinatory Squeaks

I am cabin feverish.

It is the dead of winter. I could not be unhappier. This is no season for an Aesthete--I spend my days suffering in silk pyjamas while my soul is crushed beneath the dead weight of this most sterile season. I would die for a season in Hell... But even drunkenness has lost its charms... Oh to be a frozen ferret--both immune from the suffering of the world and yet immaculately preserved!

Is died ut annus eram prognatus.



Cerberus is home from the taxidermist. He sits atop my mantelpiece, twisted just so, eternally trapped in his marvelous dance. Oft his squeaks haunt my drug-addled brain, as though trying to communicate to me what exists on the other side.

Squeaks of warning or squeaks of welcome? I know not the ferret's tongue.