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
Sunday, October 19, 2008
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3 comments:
I am truly amazed my you, for some sick reason that I can't explain. Cheesy, I know, but when the hell.. you've just found yourself another admirer.
Lovely, sweet Nigel. You must be in a lot of pain. My own heart hurts for you and wishes you joy. What should you do, you, who grasps so little about life, who must let it happen to him and comes to realize that his own willing is always slighter than another great will into whose current he oftentimes chances like a thing drifting downstream? What should you do, you, for whom the books in which you want to read only draw open like heavy doors which the next wind will slam shut again? What should you do Nigel, you for whom people are just as difficult as books, just as superfluous and strange, because you cannot derive from them what your need, because you cannot select from them and thus take from them what is crucial and incidental and burdens you with both? Should you remain utterly alone and accustom yourself to a life lived among things, which are more like you and place no burden on you? My heart is with you Nigel.
I'd just like to add that cacophonous is an excellent word.
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