A bender remembered, the end, Part 1

The house is empty. Acoustically, it is phenomenal, and the echoes are free making me feel that all my ghosts are purged. Out of the darkness and filth of a lost weekend, many truths were revealed, and what was formerly a confused ball of tangled twine now seems a straight road leading to who-knows-where. I'll close the door behind me and won't look back; it has been my motto since viewing the Pennebaker film.

I slammed--slammed!--a bottle of absinthe before walking to Natahsa's flat. Solemnly I walked through Gibbon's forest, now empty, and remembered the blonde girl I thought would be my new beginning but who I never heard from again. (But I never really loved her; she just reminded me of Julie Christie). I pulled my flask from the secret pocket of my coat and slammed--slammed!--a little more. The moon was yellow and there was three of them. Though elated and internally spitting swears, I knew this was not like other benders. It was much more philosophical.

As I exited the gates I danced like a serpent that had other serpents for arms. When I arrived at the flat, Natasha looked slutty, but not in a gaudy way: she simply dressed unabashedly, refusing to hide the sensual animal lurking beneath.

"Hello sweetheart," I said as I walked in, and I slapped her lovely bottom.

"Nigel! That is no way to treat a lady."

"A lady? Where? All I see is a whore."

I seemed to hit a nerve with that one.

"Nigel," she said. "I thought we could make this work."

"Fuck off," said I. "You're a whore, baby, so let's stop pretending. You're nothing. Come on. You're on the meter you filthy bird. Act like I want you to because you're mine."

She had a tear in her eye but I wiped it away and told her to get serious. We called a taxi and moved on to the dinner party.

One Last Bender, Part 3

I am preparing for the night by listening to a mixture of Leonard Cohen and The Rolling Stones. I shall pick Natasha up at 10:00. I have spent the last two hours doing shots and resistance training. Resonating through me is a strange combination of swagger and euphoria. As I type these words, I pace like a maniac--it is impossible to sit!--and I perform invigorating air punches. Take that! Bam! Bam! Kaplow!

All my finest clothes, I have given away; all, that is, except my favourite suit. It is a simple but elegant black number I purchased on Savile Row. Two buttons, single-breasted, simple. It is so beautiful on its own, one can forgo a pocket square. To the untrained eye, it looks like nothing, but to those with taste, it is sure to produce a sensual elation.

Every hair, though casually tussled, is exactly in its right place. I shall not let Natasha so much as touch me. Indeed I plan to drop her the first chance I get because I have come to the firm conclusion that she is an enormous bitch.

I am late, but to hell time. At the moment I am slightly drunk--call it Level 3. I feel brilliant and wild--like a lion--both animal and king.

One Last Bender, Part 2

The sea change makes me nervous so I have taken something to calm me--in fact I've taken two. I have just received a phone call from Natasha--she seemed distant and tried to jack up the price. Some friend! You idiot you did not take your own advice: you must never fall for your whore... My muscles are jelly and I am talking to myself. I have just come home from the park. I cycled along the path and talked to strangers with dogs and abandoned my exquisitely beautiful Merckx racing bike beside the statue of Byron. It was not without sadness and anger that I watched some pimply chav take it, but it was not without a chuckle that I watched him wobble and fall on his face as he left. You idiot it's not a toy; you shan't pop wheelies on that baby. I have not been sleeping well. I shall take a drink and a nap.

Memories of faces keep flashing. I dream of Tanya and she tries to speak to me but I cannot hear her words. She was always rather vacuous, and so was I, but I think a little less than her.

I am in a ridiculous state of mind but I feel today it's necessary. These words seem mad... I have booked the flight and arranged for the animals to be taken to a zoo. Oh yes, and Happy Birthday! Let's have a drink alone! To hell with the nap--I shall stay awake to make the night intenser. Toodaloo for now all ye I have welcomed into my formerly private sphere! I encourage you all, no matter how far away, to have a drink with me now, to share in my euphoria which will inevitably go crashing to the ground.

One Last Bender, Part 1

Today is my birthday; I have not had one in years. Tonight I will go out and drink. In my house I have several bottles of absinthe and vodka that henceforth will be useless to me. I look forward to absorbing their magic.

This will be my final bender. Attempts at grandiosity typically fall flat, but I cannot help feel there is something in the air, and of course one does not need luck to make a bender grandiose: one simply drinks more. As an experienced user, I know well the stages of drunkenness--there are nine, possibly 10, depending on what follows an accidental suicide. I have no intention of exceeding level 7, but I do want to get there.

I have hired Natasha to accompany me. We have agreed upon a reasonable flat rate. I know her quite well and even consider her a friend. I have selected an intimate party for us to crash.

Looking around, I find the emptiness of my rooms thrilling but can't help feeling like a ghost when I reach for things that are not there. I have sold my Inspiron and purchased a lovely new ultraportable that seems more than a robot friend.

Heightenedly yours, whoever you are,

Nigel Tewksbury

Cleaning Up

I've been cleaning, selling, and burning all my things. Myoki's broken-English letters turn orange then black then air; my finest clothes, tailored precisely to my sleek form, now move amidst the idiot crowds on the back of parrot poseurs. And, yet, it's all alright.

Yesterday I wore a pair of 501s and a sports shirt--I even tried on a smile--and I looked bloody good and not at all common. I felt natural and there is nothing stranger. I'm sure it's like anything and I'll get used to it in time.

It's an administrative nightmare, but I plan to change my name to match my new style and voice. I am planning one last bender--a big one--but have no plans after that but to move. Come all ye false dandies and follow me into the wild night! Wear your most casual clothes! I dare you! Just know that if you do I'll immediately drop you all like a tonne of bricks.

I am not here, I am not gone, I am not Nigel Tewksbury. Occasionally I hear him still, his measured, melifluous voice calling me and telling me what to do and say--and there is no denying the sheer magnitude of his awesomeness--but it's time for him to die and leave this house behind.

Nasal Irrigation

It is with great shame that I make this confession: I am an animal. As such, I have certain biological problems, and one of them is the occasionally runny nose. It was under the recommendation of a strange woman friend of mine that I began the practice of nasal irrigation. She informed me that I will reap many rewards, including lowering the incidence of snoticles, a strange phenomenon no doubt familiar to my Nordic readers in which the mucus of the nose freezes and forms an uncomfortable crystalline landscape of the interior--a nasal Narnia, if you will, but without all the magic and creatures. In the mode of a ruggedly handsome shaman, I would like to pass the technique onto you, my dear readers:

You squirt water up your nose.

The supposed benefits of this practice are numerous and include:

- The treatment of Empty Nose Syndrome, which, I have been told, is not as funny as it sounds.
- The treatment of Phantosmia, or, "phantom smells"--indeed, just the other day I thought I smelled a lovely roast, but alas, it was but thin air. I have recorded no such experiences since beginning treatment.
- Providing clearer vision.
- Improving one's sinus-related quality of life (which, for me, is essential in preventing suicide).

I recommend you try it as it is important to keep up with the latest hygienic trends.

Overheard at the Café

This morning, adorned only in unassuming streetwear, I ventured into town for a coffee. I overheard the following conversation between two society hens:

"Beatrice, what do you know of Nigel Tewksbury?"

"He can be amusing. But I deem it wise to keep your distance."

"And why's that?"

"Well... I've heard he does strange things to cats."

"Oh, I don't think there's any truth to that. It's a rumour started by his rival."

"Patricia I just don't know. There's something about him. Something so peculiar.... And... he's a bit of an alcoholic. To be honest, I'm afraid of him."

"It's true, he can be rather vulgar. He called Sebastian an 'affected piece of shit' when all he did was raise an eyebrow. Vile man. Especially when he's drunk"

"Especially when he's drunk."

At this point I coughed loudly to make myself known. I whipped off my sunglasses and capped my flask. Obviously the situation was awkward, but over the years I've learned to embrace awkwardness. One cannot be afraid of social conventions; they do not bite. I knew I had to put on a performance while maintaining my new-found ideals.

I pulled up a chair, sat on it back-to-front like a teenager, and said, "Hello Beatrice, Patricia. How are you?" And I thought, I shall take the high road, although I could easily insult them and make them cry because they are both old--a good ten years past the twilight of their mating age.

"Mr. Tewksbury! How do you do?" said one of the bitches, shrill and flustered.

"Well I feel like I have just been slapped in the face--not to mention a little tight--but that's alright. In fact the latter is quite good."

"Oh... Yes, well..."

"Yes, well, I am an ass whilst drunk. And I do drink quite a bit. But I am not an alcoholic and my love for cats is purely platonic. They are beautiful, mysterious creatures," and I thought, Nothing like you dogs.

"Oh there's no need."

"Yes, there is no need to explain. You are quite right. How's Harold?"

Before Beatrice had a chance to respond, I interrupted her: "Actually, fuck Harold, if he'll take you. Your gabbing disgusts me, you smelly, obsolete old bags."

I smacked the table and left. No doubt they thought it rather rude.

So, perhaps, in the end, I didn't take the high road, but I did tell the truth, which, I think, is the higher ideal. I am also a firm believer that what's good for the gander is good for the goose and that gossipy old bags will go to hell quicker than a chap who likes a few drinks with his coffee. You must understand, I am not a bad man, at least not anymore, but kindness and manners have their limitations and are entirely ineffective if you are trying to teach a lesson to two stupid old women.

Thank you for the comments

I must confess, my readers are often more eloquent than I. I thank you for your comments on my most recent post. It amazes me and warms my frosty heart to think that my words are read by others, particularly those I have never even met. I think it wonderful, and I wish to show you off now like a new hat, and, perhaps, accidentally, provide you with some answers.

from Kathy:

Where shall you go then, Dear Nigel, to lock away your body and soul? Will it be another building with four bare walls or the damp, deep forest; the ones with the fallen, deciduous tree branches and crisp leaves that you trample underfoot and beckon without fear, your maudlin obtrusion? What will happen to the succinct blogs of the reclusive popinjay that I've come to admire? Will you truly abandon this space here and leave a fellow sojourner all alone to fend for herself? How can abandonment abandon itself? I, for one, am not a dirty leach and I quite like your creative designs.

So where will you go to perish, Dear Nigel?

Reply:

Only time will tell what happens, my darling Kathy, but I think I'll head east. I do not know the answer to most your questions but I know there is a freedom in not knowing. Q: "How can abandonment abandon itself"? A: With a shrug and a hard drink--it is my custom to take four (three for the Trinity and one for the road).

And who said anything about perishing, you morbid little bird? I shall live on, though perhaps under another name and email address.

---

from Arthur Cattersby:

"Dandyism is dead"? Such words coming from the truest dandy of all, I cannot believe it! For God's sake, in the true spirit of dandyism, sell all your belongings and buy newer, and bigger ones.

-An admirer.

Reply:

Arthur, I like your spirit and your shit. I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that wanted to travel with you and romp with exotic Persian sluts amidst billowing clouds of opium. Of course I want to do that... Again. But I have lived that life already--anything more would be addiction and fear. I pass the torch to you and encourage you, should you ever get the chance, to stab me in the back.

All that Is Here, I Renounce

Over the years, I have accumulated a great pile of things. Cars, animals, books. It is time to forget them all and find someplace new.

This weekend, as I meditatively, and masterfully, played an amusing word game on Facebook, the spirit of the microcosm welled up inside me, and I realised, I am wasting away. I thought of calling one of my girlfriends, but said to myself, To hell with it, forget them; they are all dirty leaches in love only with my pretensions and liquor. Come, let us channel this vital force in other ways. Let us go outside for a run.

Like a cat I prowl though the cool crisp air not caring the slightest about my wardrobe or the grey in my hair. It is cold but my body keeps me warm--and Society is colder. Here am I, a solitary animal, healthy and happy, rugged as a billy goat, reacting nerves with cocked assurance in control of a graceful steady stride.

Afterward, I tilted back the chair in my favourite car and fell asleep. When I awoke, I felt another spirit--one more gentle than the one before--whisper in my ear. It told me Dandyism is dead; it is time to stop pretending. You look idiotic in those clothes.

Now is the hard part: I must get rid of this heaping pile of Materialism. I shall sell what I can and leave the rest behind, or use it for practical jokes. I renounce all that is here, but shall keep my roguish soul.