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."


Anonymous said...

You will rue the day you decapitated my friend Warren J. Gibbon. Not only have I mastered the art of branchiation, but also the art of troop warfare. I have been lying in wait. I'd keep your eye on the sky good Sir. Terminal velocity's a bitch.

- Baron In The Trees

Frances Elaine said...

Are you quite sure that this was a dream Mr. Tewksbury? For I myself had a remarkably similar experience on my way home from The Den last Tuesday and woke up in a Moses basket that had been left outside the British Heart Foundation charity shop. Extraordinary isn't it, what our bodies get up to when our minds are forced to take leave by that wonderful spirit. I shan't dwell on it anymore, it isn't very becoming of a young woman to speak of such things and yet I feel a great freedom in doing so. Many thanks for your most elegant ramblings Mr. Tewksbury.

Nigel Tewksbury said...

Ah Frances, I find great comfort knowing that I am not alone in this beautiful madness. On what days do you puff? Perhaps when I return from my exile we can explore the landscapes of our visions while exploring the country in my roadster. Utter madness; utter freedom. Ah!