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.

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."