The Turning Point of the Still World

Yesterday afternoon at tea-time I watched Cerberus Weasel dance about the dining room; with bewitching movement, he twined and twirled his way through tapestries and tables like a truncated serpent with the power and versatility of four little legs. In a mild trance, I poured another cup of Darjeeling and offered my cohabitant a square of cheese as recompense to the joy he brought me--but to my amazement, the furry devil ignored my offer and continued whirling his little dervish. And with that simple action, all I held true regarding animal-human relations was shattered. Oh Cerberus, what makes you dance without reward?

Cerberus Weasel, what causes you to dance your dance, for I hear no music? Are you dancing to the eternal rhythm of life, to the ethereal harmony of the spheres? Do you hear frequencies beyond the reach of the human brain or is it just that I have not yet castrated you? Ah Cerberus, is it all one and the same and do you think me a fool for always thinking and never dancing? Perhaps it is all a lesson... Oh, if only I could turn your squeaks to words!

I watched him shoot aimlessly about the room, which at this point is his entire world, and I had an epiphany. Tewksbury, I thought, you must dance about the world like Cerberus dances about this room--pay no mind to reward and punishment--the dancing is the thing. I got up, stripped off my clothes, and spun and neighed like a faun.

Oh how my world crashed when I remembered how dreary the world is this time of year! It is difficult to dance in the cold and the police would likely throw me in the bughouse and whip me. Damn this complicated world... How I long to be a ferret, dancing to nothing but the weird vibrations of my soul.

Purchasing ferrets

It was on a drunken whim that Reginald and I decided to purchase a pair of common ferrets. Initially we planned on capturing a couple wild ones using our albino peregrines, but just as we were discussing it--just as I was relaying some rather esoteric falconry tips to Reginald--we walked past a PetsMart and Reginald said to me:

"Nigel, let's give in to the conveniences of modernity just this once. I do so desire a ferret."

Oh when he looked into my eyes that day! I felt as though I were traveling backwards on a Japanese bullet train, back through a tunnel of time, back to when Reginald was a lonely young poet dying for some furry affection. He has always lamented that he has cat allergies and considers dogs to be "slobbery oafs." Oh, when he looked into my eyes, it was almost enough to make my snowy heart melt. I say "almost" because he then threatened to twist off my balls should I refuse to comply.

My goodness, when we walked in, I almost vomited from the hideous decor! Reginald then called a storeman over and said to the carbuncular youth:

"We would like two ferrets with ketchup and extra processed cheese. Hold the fries."

Indeed I almost fell upon the floor in a fit of laughter! I then giggled to the youth:

"And I would like to see the part of the chicken from which one obtains the McNuggets."

Reginald then pulled out his Spanish wineskin and we poured a stream of Beaujolais into each other's mouths and told the storeman it was elephant's blood and that if he did not immediately retrieve us his two finest ferrets we would squeeze out the contents of the guinea pigs into the wineskin and force it down his throat (Reginald added that he would twist off his balls--I have come to believe this is an idle threat but do not wish to test it).

The youth acted as we desired and brought us two scrawny specimens, but drunk as I was, I thought they seemed marvelous beasts. Because I was seeing triple at the time, I christened mine Cerberus Weasel. Reginald named his Pythagoras on account of its strikingly triangular ears.

I am sick, playing host to a virus

In the air are rumours of snow--the shopping mall heralds Christmas cheer and annihilation of the soul. What else is there to do but get drunk on eggnog--hold the egg--and pretend to be homeless? For homeless I am, in a sense--I am a vagabond of the brain--and I can't print out my pornographic Christmas cards till my printer be fixed.

On Monday morn I swore I heard the electric ring of the doorbell--I thought it was the milkman begging for his pay--but when I cracked open the threshold, I was left facing a vortex of swirling white cold. Oh Hello Hell, Come no further. And I shut the door before I got sucked in or out, I'm not sure which.

But it was of no use--that vortex held a villain--and now I find myself playing unwilling host to a virus worse than death. I have been sleeping in the bathroom to save some energy; my daybook's filled by vomiting and diarrhea, and sometimes they show up disastrously early for their appointments, creating soiled laundry for a housewoman who's in another continent. Damn incontinence! Oh damn... and how the flushing of the toilet only reminds me of the sinister vortex peddler at the door.

Last night while I lay in a primordial ooze of sweat and germs, I remembered my favourite vomit--the one where I spat out my soul. And I wonder if that was birth or death or something different completely. In a mad sick fever I jotted down the following words on a piece of toilet paper that had missed the mark:

Regurgitation is creation, as I puke into the void.

I then took the toilet paper and swallowed it and pranced about like an Arcadian faun while wondering from which end it would emerge.

A ghost in the form of an old letter

I was tearing up my bedroom this afternoon in search of a little morphine to kill my anxieties, and I stumbled upon the following unmailed letter, browned by time. I had written it upon having "Wasted Arcadia" rejected by "The Paris Review." I appeared to disagree with the editor (who, it so happens, turned out to be one Reginald Hardcourt).

***

Dear Sir!

Thank-you for your unkind comments--and yes, I realize my pentameter occasionally slips, but the same can be said of your wife's fidelity. I have included a new poem for you to read entitled "Vomiting Narcissus." Please do not consider it a submission to your publication; rather, consider it an assault on your bourgeois sensibilities. I trust you will hate it--and no it is not a coincidence that the sewer rat's name (you know, the one Narcissus impales and eats like a Shish Kabob before spreading the plague through Paris via his next bowel movement) is an anagram of your own. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy it to the point that you lose sleep over the imagery. It is not easy to write nightmares, you know.

I read the orgy scene to your adolescent daughter yesterday. She seemed to like it. May I here interject with some poetic theory? You see I am of the opinion that one can only find beauty by exploring the ugliness. Gone are the days when songbirds and moonlight had any aesthetic impact. Just the other night I spat on a whore, but my spittle had the effect of cleaning her breast, which was tender in its own way. But I do not expect your middle-brow mind to comprehend such things... Go back to your copy of "Lyrical Ballades." I trust you enjoy them with tea and crumpets (and maybe some cucumber sandwiches?). Sorry if I seem to be preoccupied with food--I can't seem to keep much down these days... food is often on my mind and rarely in my body.

Excuse me, for I feel like a swimmer with a rock tied to his ankle and am about to collapse...

(an unknown period of time passes and I awake in an ocean of sweat).

You commented that you thought "Wasted Arcadia" was "the work of some pretentious 18 year old still untouched by reality." Well, I am now 19.

Have I made any progress?

Sincerely,

Some Idiot

***

Ah! I was so full of passion back then--it makes me wonder where it all went because I did not notice its leaving. I suppose I imagined disillusionment would happen with some grand, cathartic event. Now it appears it is a slow and slippery process one does not even notice.

I never did get "Wasted Arcadia" published, nor did I find the morphine. Perhaps it is for the best.