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For the Recluse, the holidays are complex and ambiguous. He views them with a heart that brims with fear and excitement. He is fearful because, oh hell, he must emerge from his warm cocoon. And yet he is excited because, oh hell, he must emerge from his warm cocoon that is so stifling.
Throughout the year he has accumulated new artifacts in the museum of his mind--up till now he has horded them for himself--he has shined and restored his magnificent discoveries and knows, were he to unveil them to the public, it would respond most viscerally--the morons would be repulsed while the appreciators of beauty (roughly 1/1728th of the population according to my esoteric friend) would experience profound epiphanies that give meaning to their lives.
On the Solstice my cocoon felt awfully stuffy; thus, I accepted an invitation to a New Year's Eve party. The stage was set for my grand reveal. I remembered my new theory of beauty and how it could be proven with calculus--sure to be a hit amongst scientists and artists alike--perhaps it would even reconcile their ideological differences.
I would hire a whore to accompany me--a fantastic one at that, Scandinavian if possible. I would wear my finest blue blazer and show the world that sprezzatura is not dead. I would even give up my favourite vices in the days leading up to the party and exercise 16 times a day. And I did, I did! Everything was perfect. I was ready to emerge a magnificent butterfly.
Relaxed and enervated from all the masturbation, I went to pick up my whore at her house. Cerberus Weasel came along. Indeed I was not disappointed--she was a buxom Swedish beauty and I wanted to lap up her milk-white skin with my freshly detoxified tongue. Cerberus also took a liking to her and they played a delightful wrestling game with his squeeky toy--it touched my heart to see her--a whore--so jubilant and pure. The whore and I shared a bottle of claret and then decided to pop into an opium den before going to the party. We took the roadster, Schubert on the radio, wind in our hair, ferret in the backseat.
We only took a few puffs and then rang for a taxi to take us to the party. I think the party was a good one, but I must admit I was so focussed on my whore that I did not notice the surroundings. We began to get drunk on straight vodka--it was nearly midnight and I was partially blind--I had forgotten all about my theory and the revealing. Indeed my mind was preoccupied with what was beneath that red dress and when I looked at my watch I realized I had missed the big moment--it was already quarter past twelve--and yet I remembered a fleeting kiss.
But when I went to ask her if it was all an opium dream, she was gone. I searched for her madly and even poked my head into an occupied loo. Eventually she found me, but my marvelous erection instantly disappeared when she said to me, "Nigel. You look tired. You should go home."
I laughed and said I was fine, but inside, I was heartbroken and decided to give the bitch what she asked for. I grabbed my coat and wandered to the opium den to fetch my roadster and ferret. The walk seemed like an eternity. I had a premonition that 2008 would be a year composed of these awful eternities with little disasters interspersed between them.
As I walked alone, a band of ruffians yelled at me from across the street: "You're alone you faggot!"
Still a worm, I longed for my warm cocoon.
And, of course, when I found the car, Cerberus had frozen to death. It was a cold night.
***
I spent New Year's Day with a bottle of Absinthe while poking girls on Facebook. I was a drunk as a skunk when I heard the slide of a letter beneath my door. It was from the whore, Natasha.
It read:
Nigel,
I apologize for disappearing on you last night. You see Sebastian Horsley was there and I do adore him. It was though he cast a spell on me and I was all his. I am sorry. I have had a rough time at the brothel lately and Sebastian seemed a good temporary solution.
I did not mean to hurt you. As I said, the brothel has been chaos.
Natasha
***
January 8th, 2008
I am alone at my estate, back where I started. I am drunk again. Dear Reader, never fall for your whore.
The holidays are always such a disaster. Next year I will simply smoke hashish and listen to music. I will not emerge. The world is not ready for my museum, and my museum is not ready for it. Damn you Sebastian Horsley, you prim piece of affected shit.
Dearest Friends,
I regret to inform you that I have been exiled from the Facebook community. It seems the administrators have deemed that I violated their "Code of Conduct." Perhaps it is so... But I would like to take this opportunity to explain myself to my friends, for you are, indeed, my friends, even though I only know a few of you in this fleshly world.
First, I would like to say that the medium of Facebook allowed me to communicate with several wonderful people, and, in some ways, it gave me a new hope in this world. It is so rare to meet others who share my interests, and I confess, I messaged and "poked" several individuals simply because we shared a favourite author or composer. And is that really so wrong? Part of the beauty of Cyperspace is that it tears down the walls that separate--whether they be geographic or social in nature--and I was overjoyed when people with common interests replied to my little electronic missives... Indeed, it reminded me of the pen-pals of my youth (one of whom, I must say, confronted me one dark Guy Fawkes Night with a pistol, but was thankfully too intoxicated to aim... We remain friends).
But, I admit, there was a more sinister side to my Facebook escapades. It is with a slight blush that I confess to occasionally writing sexually suggestive messages to those whose pictures sent blood rushing to my nether regions. Now, these messages were never vulgar in nature and were always complimentary and never ever degrading. If anything, I am being punished for my honesty, and it saddens me that declaring my desire to make love to a few beautiful creatures is seen as violating some sort of "Code of Conduct." Indeed, this code is one an animal such as I cannot live by--it is suited for automatons, not men.
But, I believe, it was not the suggestive messages that made me hear that fearful word, "banished"; rather, it was my exceeding "the poking limit." Perhaps it is fitting that, like Oscar Wilde, I am being punished for poking one too many.
I live my days in constant fear of being thrown in gaol.
Regarding my messages, I never once received an angry response... All in all, I felt quite loved on Facebook, and I must say my banishment pains my bastard heart to a fierce degree. Shall I return? Well, it is hard to say, but for now, like Dante, I am eating bread salted by tears.
Dear Isabelle, I loved discussing Bjork with you (please think of me when you play Vespertine), and Dear Elizabeth, it saddens me that we are forced to play our game of Scrabulous covertly. Ray, you are a dandy to the core--I shall think of you whenever I don a bowtie. You are all my friends and please do not hesitate to email a poor exile for he has nothing in this world but his Dell.
Yours truly,
Nigel Tewksbury
Happy Holida... Oh, let's just skip the trivial phrases... Although, for me, the phrase is not quite so meaningless because it rings in my ears like the mockery of a grammar school ruffian. My holidays were far from happy... but, in hindsight, I see that they contained a grain of truth similar to that found in a well-crafted parable.
It was Christmas Eve and I was on my way to see my favourite whore when I ran into a friend of a friend outside of Marks & Spencer. His name is Avery Mann and he is the singular model citizen of the modern world--he lives an unspeckled workaday life and worships, above all, the holy notion of Family. Needless to say I despise the chap and would stab him if I knew I could get away with it. But, my goodness, the man is a master of persuasion and somehow coaxed me to his house to eat a Christmas goose with his family. I'm not quite sure how he did it--I think I was so taken aback by his constant chatter and positive demeanor that I simply could not turn him down.
Now, Dear Reader, the conventions of the season would lead you to believe that I am going to tell you a heartwarming story of family and "love" because we communally ate a roasted fucking bird. But I assure you, if this was true in the Victorian Age (and who's to say it is), time has altered the truth to the point that it is as trivial as saying "Happy Holidays" to the miserable automatons of the world who are incapable of experiencing emotion.
First off, the bird was dry and the wine was like cat's piss. Second off, the family had nothing interesting to say--the teenaged son spoke of nothing but explosions in awful Hollywood films and Avery spoke only of his job as an accountant and his superficial love for his wife (who, I believe, might be made of plastic). Still, despite the awful wine, I got extremely drunk and the wife demanded I give her the keys to my roadster. I, conversely, demanded she lay with me in her husband's bed. She never responded and the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur (though I vaguely remember a game of Scrabble--Trivial Pursuit would be more apt).
Oh how I wish I had woken face-down and shivering in a pile of snow! But I was not so lucky... Rather, I awoke in a twin sized bed in a room that smelled of potpourri and Lysol. Thankfully I found my way to the washroom where I found some children's Gravol and a bulk bottle of NyQuil to help ease the pain and sorrow. Oh, it was absurd to drink four doses of NyQuil in the sterile hell of the guest room while exploring the upper registers of cable TV, but at least the absurdity combined with the intoxication of the cold syrup put a smile on my face--though it was a devil's grin.
Upon awakening in the early evening I found a note on the floor in my own handwriting. It said, "I am an old-fashioned devil in a new-fashioned hell. How I long for the good old days."
