Mr. Narcy Takes a Walk

I recently read on another, slightly less poetic blog, that the Fireheaded Celt had passed away. I was initially shocked to hear this because any passing is a bit of a jolt to the soul, but then I just laughed to myself. Because ah sure, don't you know that this particular Celt was a bit of a pagan and believed quite strongly in a place called Tir Na Nog. Maybe you have heard about it? Well - needless to say, the Fireheaded Celt will live on in her own special way. You will surely see her again in the future.

Throughout much of my stay in this protected and undisclosed location, I have pondered what it would be like to take dear Narcissus along with me on my travels. I will reveal that I am in a place surrounded by water - in lakes, rivers, streams, falling from the sky in frequent heavenly doses - so I imagine that Narcissus would have an interesting time not just navel-gazing, but directly gazing at his own dear phenotype in any one of the pools of liquid divinity which this place saves in abundance. Thus, I imagine that the first few days with Narcissus, or Sir Scribbles, would be a bit tedious, what with the amount of arm strength I would have to use to pull him away from anything that would reflect his lovely skin and luscious eyes. But once my fiend was settled, I can just imagine how a day would go....Let's give it go, shall we? A look into his mental gymnastics?

Narcissus walks along the main city street as though he has been called to active duty at the time of the Apocalyspe. This is the moment for which his legs and calves have been training. He will dart, he will jump, he will duck - he will do whatever it takes to beat the traffic and arrive at his destination. Where, you ask. The nearest coffee house - the only place to do sincere philosophical observations and musings (conveniently also a prime place for observing delectable morsels of human meat). As Mr. Narcy (almost like a certain Mr. Darcy, but not quite) patrols the streets, he mutters to himself about the state of the others sharing his path.

"Fecking woman. Yes, yes, now is the prime time to stop and stare at your coffee cup - the cup that is holding the fruits of some poor, unpaid day laborer's sweat and blood, the cup that will undoubtedly remain on this soil until long after the Second Coming, sitting on lush potential like oil sits on life-giving water - stare at that cup as though it is your newborn babe who just so happens to have the same oversized ears as you. Stare at that cup and slow your walk, so that you and your hipster Italiano-leather shoe lovin' boy toy stops to look at it as well, so that you can both rejoice in the fact that globalization and vanity-driven consumerism has been so effective as to bring Seattle's own Buckies all over the world."

Avoiding the woman in front of him, Mr. Narcy pulls out a small plastic figurine from his scouting daypack. Spitting on it ever so slightly, he pauses long enough for the figurine to meta-morph into a bike, just large enough to make more of his precious manpower and push him towards his destination. Flying between buses with the litheness of the snakes that supposedly fled the Emerald Isle, Mr. Narcy finds himself a decent establishment which he can dare to grace with his presence: "The All-Natural, All-Organic, All-Considerate, All-Peaceful, All-PC, ALL Jesuit Coffee House" (the ANAOACAPAPAJCH for short).

Yet when he entering his favourite establishment, a different smell meets his extra-sensitive nose. He smells neither smell harmony nor inner-drive. No. Mr. Narcy soon realizes that he, unlike the Fireheaded Celt, is a bit behind on the news and missed the notice that his dear place had closed. While the old sign remains outside, inside those eco-friendly glass doors lies something that Mr. Narcy had never dared step into before out of fear of losing a bit of his soul: a place of booze, of lust, of irreverant jocularity, a place of crude gender generalizations. A place that many call a pub. Immediately reaching for his inhaler, Narcy takes three puffs - a bit of an overdose, yes - and squints his eyes as much as possible. All around him stand the enemy: Tall, beefy, football-playing men. With cropped hair and tight shirts, muddy sneakers and small girls biting at their heels, the men smell of heterosexuality. (Their cologne - "Man-Smell for Heteros is sold at the local tourist shop next to Guinness flavoured condoms).

Because his legs have traversed half of the city, Narcy has no choice but to sit down for a moment to allow his lungs to start back up. Pulling out his only defense, the MacBook Pro, he stretches his fingers, puts his keyboard condom the keys so that they are not exposed to whatever jock-driven ITD (Intellectually Trasmitted Disease) is floating in the air, and begins to hammer the keys - but only for three seconds, before he stops again. Looking at those around him, he catches the attention of one member of the Crew-cut Mafia who is wearing an earring and seems to have overwashed his pants a little bit. The two stare...Narcy opens his eyes. The man can't tell, but continues to stare. Tension fills the air. Smoke fills Darcy's lungs, stings his eyes which turn red. He grabs the nearest glass on his table, conveniently filled with a lovely lager, and downs the remains in the glass, turning a brilliant shade of tomato red within 0.5 seconds. He touches his hand to his chest and cocks his head. The man might have a friend conveniently situated near Narcy's other side who could attack at any minute. Will they talk to each other? Will they discover that both have the hidden desire to write achingly poetic studies on gender and equality in developing countries? Will the man reveal that he gets aroused at the scent of pork? Will Narcy reveal that he falls for struggling poets that scribbles their loves and desires on tiny notebooks in their tight back pockets?

As Narcy's inner core asks all these questions such that his mind reels like a dancer on craic, his line of vision suddenly gets blurred. A tall, sleek, woman with redhead and troubled dark eyes steps up to Narcy's table and pulls out a cigarette, holding it between her fingers, rubbing one side ever so slightly:

"Want it?"