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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.