The
Group
21
Nov.2012
In a quaint little English village in
the Hampstead Heath the group would quietly gather each second
Wednesday, sometimes meeting at the enclave -or in the boudoir.
Dexter would lead the group and orchestrate poetical recitals and
wine consumption. Wine would flow and conversation abound, such was
the enthusiasm of their scholastic endeavours.
Yet after some time, a
transmogrification occurred, Dexter began critiquing the writings of
others within the group, especially after consuming too much
Beaujolais.
He was the cynicist of bohemian persuasion, arguably a
societal misfit. He was a glorious disaster. He was jobless yet could
act like a depraved intellectual with ease. The group was plagued by
arguments, as a result of Dexter critiquing another writers work. He
felt he had artistic licence to criticize anything and anyone.
Overtime he became more belligerent the
drunker he became. He acted like a lout and others had to restrain
him. He evinced the most appalling conduct and degenerated in a total
disgrace. He dressed like Oscar Wilde and resembled a dandy from the
Victorian era, yet he was a bastard. He had a thin bourgeois French
style moustache, a tweed jacket, and Brylcreem
greased -back hair. He had a gold plated cigarette holder bought in a
second hand shop in gay Paree, and he would strike numerous
sophisticated poses in door ways. In his intoxicated states he would
bounce off the walls and doors of rooms still managing to clutch his
glass of wine- which was a permanent fixture in his hand. He was
riotous fiend. A self-confessed nihilist with no concern for ethics,
he believed he had transcended them completely, and, at times, it
appeared he had.
If someone in the group mentioned
Nietzsche for instance, he would stare vexingly at them quoting the great immoralist thus:
“Hope in reality is the worst of all
evils because it prolongs the torments of man”.
However, Dexter was more obsessed
however in primal regression theory. He longed to escape his
bourgeois fetters and devolve into a primate, living and acting
purely from instinctual habit- in the absence of all intellectual
moral philosophical interference. He envisaged himself as a savage
living alone in the state of nature. A morally bankrupt beast
striving for survival like any other beast in the forest.
At the last meeting before the English
Christmas break the group deliberated that they would travel and meet
at a secret location in the woods, somewhere near Devon. Dexter
thought it to a be a fantastic concept. Immediately he procured a
case of the finest wine form a 16th century cellar to
accompany him.
The track was difficult to negotiate,
nonetheless Dexter dexterously negotiated his way through the forest
whilst precariously clutching his case of wine. He donned a white
English dinner jacket with gold cuff links.
Upon their arrival at the secret
location the group began to recite their pieces. Dexter recited his
work and steadily drank his wine, inevitably spilling some on his
page. Then articulating in an aristocratic dialectic he proclaimed:
“Kant's categorical imperative is a load of bollocks”. Suddenly a
fight ensued and Dexter found himself on the ground, jacket torn, and
sadly wine spilt. There was a lot of yelling and confusion. Dexter
sprinted far into the woods with another group member in pursuit.
Eventually, he rested on a rock beside
a creek. Yet upon rising to his feet he felt disoriented, where was
he exactly? He was partially intoxicated, alone, and every part of
the forest looked identical. In the distance he could hear dogs
barking. Twas then that the realization struck him: was what he was
hearing an English fox hunt in the distance, no, it could not be
possible or could it? He scrambled cut and bruised through the naked
brier as if possessed by some demonic force. The sound of the barking
dogs grew louder until it became insufferable. Suddenly, a huge pack
of ferocious foxhounds confronted him directly.
At this point he decided it was fight
or flight. He stood, slowly turned around, and then with complete
animosity on his face he gave the dogs a look of utter defiance and
at the top of his voice screamed: “I AM MAN BECOME ANIMAL!” The
words echoed through the forest and the surrounding hillside. Then
with every single element of bodily energy he could muster he threw
him self at the dogs. Twas at this very moment that he transcended
all worldly metaphysical limitations, indeed, he had achieved his
goal.
N Thomas
© Copyright Act 1994
© Copyright Act 1994
Beautifully written, great style. Regards, Patricia Shannon.
ReplyDeleteNeville I have just read this again and indeed it is beautifully written and it makes me laugh however there is so much truth evident as well.
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