Orange and brown are the leaves; likewise my mind is dull-coloured and sinking under the weight of ubiquitous gravity. What is it about the autumn that makes my mind hearken back to my stronger days? Is it the relief from the passionate summer heat, a relief that gives the mind the freedom to stride freely without excessive perspiration? Or is it that the happy times are behind, the grave winter ahead? I know not. And why search for answers? (Damn your questioning, Nigel--are you still hung up on paradoxes?--this is not the fin de siècle--please try to be more postmodern you magnificent dickhead).
Today as I trod the foliage of the estate, my footfalls seemed ghostly echoes, and I recalled a love affair occuring in the autumn of my 26th year. Ah, Phoebe, do you read these words? Are you connected to the web? Do you recall the fire-eyed boy--tall and slender--who asked you for a cigarette while writing poetry on a park bench? Do you remember what he said upon discovering your name? Let me rejuvenate your memory. He took a long, slow drag and said, "Ah, Phoebe. The goddess of the moon. Be you she?"
And, Dear Phoebe, do you remember your response? You gave a wry smile and said, "I do rather prefer the moon. I find the sun rather full of itself, to be honest."
And indeed I saw your many phases in the 28 days of our affair. And I loved them all. And I often wonder if you purposely left me for the poetry of it. We loved for one cycle and then were through. But I have never forgotten your pale and subtle beauty. Oft times I wonder if you still spend your days riding horses or if that bitch Necessity forced you into a day job. But to think of you in a cubicle is like thinking of the moon with a giant McDonald's "M" stamped upon it for all to see both day and night.
Phoebe, I shall never forget thee and how we drank the green faerie in an overgrown field beneath a perfect quarter-moon. Overcome by the intoxication of our druid-love and alcohol, I hardly felt the stinging of the nettles while we rolled nudely in Nature's unnurtured gardens. Recall our cat-scratched appearance the next day? I recall your words: "You know, Nigel. We shall heal." I have never laughed so hard!
Oh bother it all to Hell! Now only my Dell Inspiron sees me rest my lonely head in my hand. Memories are lovely, but damnit they have no feel!
It is a cloudy night. Dear Phoebe, I cannot help but fear you are dead.
Email me if you still be living. Also I am on Facebook now.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Up close and personal
Helga's departure has left me feeling hollow. A friend I met on a "webbed site" suggested I create a personal ad. This is what I have thus far:
My name is Nigel Tewksbury. I am 37 years old. I am well-dressed and a bachelor. My strengths are a casual wit and a studied sense of style; my weaknesses are substances, mostly. My religion is mainly pagan with a touch of Medieval Christianity to be on the safe side. I am exceedingly wealthy and exceedingly lonely. I am a Recluse; I am an Aesthete. Foul-mouthed and self-destructive, I am mostly false but partially true. Thus, I am a reflection of reality but look better in a suit. And I am unwell and seeking a cure. Are you simultaneously a woman and a philospher's stone? Please contact with an electronic message.
My name is Nigel Tewksbury. I am 37 years old. I am well-dressed and a bachelor. My strengths are a casual wit and a studied sense of style; my weaknesses are substances, mostly. My religion is mainly pagan with a touch of Medieval Christianity to be on the safe side. I am exceedingly wealthy and exceedingly lonely. I am a Recluse; I am an Aesthete. Foul-mouthed and self-destructive, I am mostly false but partially true. Thus, I am a reflection of reality but look better in a suit. And I am unwell and seeking a cure. Are you simultaneously a woman and a philospher's stone? Please contact with an electronic message.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Autumbling
It is harvest time--a high-time for pagans like me. My dreams are full of cloaked figures chanting in a circle and demons responding to the witchcraft cues by swooping and screeching in a pentagram. Ah yes, the microcosm is my heaven, and Blackmagic is my native tongue. I am Faust, and I welcome thee, Mephistopheles, in your poodle-guise. I worship thee demons and thine eyen of bloody rouge. I would put down here our national anthem were it not in a hellish tongue untranslatable to these strange Roman symbols on the keyed-board of my Dell Inspiron. Dear Evil, please make a computer for me; we shall conquer the world with the sibilant language of the Serpent.
Ah, Autumn, Automne, I shall Fall into thee and thy sins. And yet the estate is bursting with summer humidity as some gremlin has tinkered with the air conditioning. I have alerted the handyman but I fear he has discovered my stash of barbituates in the dungeon and has ceased reporting to work on a regular basis. I should terminate his employment were I not so preoccupied with my wild imaginings.
Truth be told, my life has crumbled since Myoki put a Buddhist spell on Helga and they ran off to The Continent. They are no-doubt spending my money on wild Paris nights full of spinning brains, the green faerie, and hot African beats to which they dance the rigadoon. I hope they get syphilis in the process.
Ah, Autumn, Automne, I shall Fall into thee and thy sins. And yet the estate is bursting with summer humidity as some gremlin has tinkered with the air conditioning. I have alerted the handyman but I fear he has discovered my stash of barbituates in the dungeon and has ceased reporting to work on a regular basis. I should terminate his employment were I not so preoccupied with my wild imaginings.
Truth be told, my life has crumbled since Myoki put a Buddhist spell on Helga and they ran off to The Continent. They are no-doubt spending my money on wild Paris nights full of spinning brains, the green faerie, and hot African beats to which they dance the rigadoon. I hope they get syphilis in the process.
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