The lecture
I was scheduled to attend at that juncture was zoology,
a complete waste of my valuable time, being wholly
unrelated to Elizabethan Poetry and found wanting
time and again as a source of inspiration. Thus,
I left the library, and, in high spirits, drove
home to my flat to begin the process of selecting
the attire in which I would sally forth to the “Pub.”
After much deliberation, I settled on a smoking
jacket and ascot, befitting, I felt certain, the
leisurely pursuits of which I was about to partake.
Having no trouble at all finding the “Pub,”
I smiled with glee when I took note of the Union
Jack painted on the door, entered, and announced
myself forthwith:
“What, ho! goodly friends! I am Percivel Hogsbottom,
Scribe Extraordinaire of contemporary Spenserian
sonnets! Perhaps you’ve heard tell of my many
feats of poetic dexterity?!”
This greeting, Dear Diary, was met with a silence
most profound from the denizens of the dark and
smoky Pub. From the jukebox, some chanteuse with
whom I remain unfamiliar caterwauled about being
“crazy for loving you.” As mine eyes
adjusted to the lack of light, I could make out
several of the ruffians at the bar eyeing me suspiciously.
Obviously, Dear Diary, this was not at all what
I had anticipated, much less hoped for, and my newfound
friends were nowhere to be found. As a simultaneous
Student and Master of Elizabethan Poetry, I am,
by definition, endowed with incredible intuition
and a profound understanding of the inner workings
of the human soul. I quickly surmised that the rogues
and scalawags around me felt threatened by my presence,
and decided to show them that I, too, am subject
to the whims and willies that brought them here
to seek out the company of others.
“Ho there, Pubkeep!” I shouted with
gusto. “A cup of your finest meade!”
“Look, buddy, this ain’t Beowulf,”
the pubkeep replied. “The beer list’s
over there.” And then, under his breath, but
still audibly: “Goddamn freak.”
“Yes, of course,” I intoned, both confused
and shaken by his belligerence, “the beer
list.”
Woe unto me, Dear Diary! “Woe,” and
yet again “woe”! Forsaken by my new
friends and belittled by the pubkeep, I felt that
surely I had just begun to live out what would no
doubt prove to be one of the darkest chapters of
my life! I stood stock still, unable to proceed
toward the locale of the beer list, yet also unable
to turn and run. My mind told me the latter was
the more sensible course of action:
“Run! Turn ’round and run like the wind, young bard! Run back, back to the
sanctuary of thy desk and quill!” it exclaimed.
And yet I could not form to move my slippered feet!
Something held me as though I’d gazed into
the eyes of Medusa and turndeth to stone . . .
So often, Dear Diary, we count the Fates cruel.
“Ah, cruel Fate!” we are liable to exclaim,
“what doth thou intend by making it so?!”
Not so on this early eve, Dear Diary. For even as
I stood frozen in my tracks did the haze of smoke
that hung about the room part as the Red Sea before
the Children of Israel with a mighty blast of the
“air conditioner”! revealing unto me
the vision of my Faerie Queene for the very first
time . . .
Ah, but how my heart leapt from my bosom like mighty
Pegasus taking flight! Her shoulder-length tresses,
stringy, limp, and of a purplish-reddish hue did
at once serve unto me as a sign that royal blood
did course through her veins. Her sunken cheeks
and delicate features, framed by this majestic coiffure,
did radiate with a garish, greenish glow à
la Henri-Marie-Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec, and,
coupled with the slightly pockmarked condition of
her skin, did bring to mind the concave form of
Selene herself on a cloudless night. To quote The
Master in contemporary English:
Her angel’s
face
As the great eye of
heaven shined bright,
And made sunshine of
the shady place;
Did never mortal eye
behold such heavenly grace.
She wore the garb of a tavern wench, and, as I neared
her, I could see from the identification “tag”
pinned to her bosom that the Christian name of this
Faerie-like creature was “Lulu,” and that
the eatery at which she plied her craft bore the fanciful
name, “The Clock” . . .
Our eyes met, and we held one another’s gaze
for an instant. What passed between us in that instant!
“Surely,” mine eyes spoke silently. “Surely
a woman—nay, a goddess—such as thee need
not sit alone in an establishment such as this, among
cretins and rapscallions such as these. Away with
me. Away! and I shall bear thee upon my shoulders,
a humble shepherd-servant, to surroundings more deserving
of thine regal and deific presence.”
Ah, but my coy Queene did break off our optic connexion,
and then, shaking her head slightly from left to right,
did turn back toward the “bar.” In a most
bizarre drinking ritual did she lick her thumb (Oh,
to be that thumb!), sprinkle salt on the wetted area,
then pick up a small wedge of what appeared to be
some sort of green citrus, perhaps a lime, with the
hand upon which she’d sprinkled the salt. In
one fluid motion did she lick the salt from her hand,
raise a small glass to her lips, throw her head back
slightly whilst simultaneously swallowing the elixir
in the glass (Oh, to be that elixir!), and bite down
upon the wedge of citrus.
“Yes,” methought, “yes, my Queene.
Surely one look is not enough to win a heart such
as yours, smitten, though I may be, with one chanceful
glance from thee. Surely, surely, I must prove my
worth if I am to serve thee and join the ranks of
what is undoubtedly a legion of other worthy suitors
determined to win thy love—or die trying!”
I took another step toward her, toward my Monarch,
then froze as I had before.
“What if, young bard,” methought to meself,
“what if she will not but speak to thee? Whilst
thou have the strength to push on in thine pursuit
of poetic perfection—nay, much less, to continue
to draw the breath that sustains thee? Would it not
be better to love her from afar? To take that which
hast already been granted thee and ask no more? Hast
not the vision of this chaste Aphrodite, this Avatar
of Erato, provided thee already with inspiration fit
to last a lifetime?”
And then, just then, Dear Diary, as if I had needed
proof of this inspiration, did the first four lines
of what would become one of my finest works appear
in my head, as if conjured there by some sort of poetic
alchemist:
I left my house
and drove there in my car,
To a place where the air
of smoke was stinking.
I looked and saw my Queene
there at the bar.
She sat alone, silently
adrinking.
Ah, ah, Dear Diary, but the young bard is bold—bold
and not easily sated! His love knows no bounds, and
though he may plunge to a depth of despair and longing
heretofore unheard of if he is spurned, plunge he
must.
Plunge! Plunge, young bard! Plunge into the unknown
. . . !
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