Shades of boyhood fading

You know... I haven't always been this way.

Confession before beginning: I am drunk. Scotch this time. But the weather made me do it. You see the boiler is broken and the house is autumn-with-walls. At first I tried to envision warmer climes, hoping the memories would act as an anodyne. But now the cool air is inspiring--not frightening--me. I feel clear-minded. The cool air is a tonic. And yet I want to kill the clarity with my accomplice--a Mr. Johnnie Walker, clad in his blue blazer, his finest.

But as I was saying, I haven't always been a wild, opium-addled, absinthe-drinking, pagan-worshiping, house-womanizing, aesthete/recluse. Oh no. I was innocent once (or so I've been told). I have a few memories of my boyhood, but sadly they are no longer vivid; in fact, they are dull-hued and getting duller. I fear they may soon disappear completely. I fear it more today because last night I dreamt I ate my own child.

So, what do I remember? The forest, mostly. It was my place to hide. I sat by the stream and longed to see my reflection in the water. But alas, it was a point of immense frustration: I would look down and all I saw was murky water and some stray twigs. Narcissus I was not: in fact, I was non-existent rather than self-absorbed. But perhaps that was the beauty of the forest. It was a place where I could lose myself completely. I often visit the forest in my opium dreams. Once I dove into the water and stumbled upon Xanadu (but they would not let me in). I digress... Perhaps the forest is what drives me. It pains me that the water was not clear--it was not the water of the dreamy Golden Age.

It pains me that the forest is gone--they have since turned it into a paper mill. I have an artificial replica of the original forest on the estate, complete with a river of glass and a few animals. But it is art; it is not real. And I never should have added gibbons--at night they sound like wailing wraiths in Hell. It's quite unsettling.

I apologize for my disjointedness--my young friend on MySpace assures me it is common amongst bloggers. But what I am trying to say is that Nigel Tewksbury was born in the forest. No no no, sweet Reader, not like Tarzan. What I mean is that the boy disappeared in the forest, thus opening his mind to wild imaginings, and the creature typing these pointless, masturbatory words is the end result. Like Gibbon Forest, I am untrue, unreal. It saddens and thrills me that I have destroyed my simple boyhood and replaced it with myself, the personification of a lie.

I want to cry but can't. Instead I will finish the bottle and howl. In Latin.

Reverie #12: Sweet Phoebe, Goddess of the Moon

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.