The Journal of the Countess of Brighton and Hackney
Anno Domini 2013
Dearest Readers,
Upon mine return from the grand City of London, I didst retire to mine humble chamber in Brighton and took solace in a most restorative bath. Mine cats, ever-loyal, greeted me with such enthusiasm that I did feel as though I were the Queen herself. Yet, verily, my journey to London bestowed upon me much love and mirth, for I encountered many companions from the halcyon days of yore.
Our discourse turned to the revelry of our youth, wherein we, unshackled by the chains of propriety, lived as true Libertines. Oh, how we defied the moral decrees of the Church and State! The air was rife with rebellion, aided, I confess, by the advent of wondrous inventions such as the Pill, which granted us freedoms hitherto unseen.
Upon My Return to Brighton, With Musings on Modern Liberties
Having returned to my dwelling in Brighton—where my dominion lies and my title commands such a peculiar respect—I found myself greatly fatigued yet brimming with reminiscence. The bustle of London, though but for a short sojourn, doth spark within me both fond nostalgia and vexation. How peculiar it is that the modern carriage I rode from the great city seemed no swifter than a plodding mule, despite all their vaunted engineering!
Upon my arrival, my dear feline companion did greet me with such a warmth of spirit, it seemed to rival even the love of my most loyal companions in London. 'Tis a fine thing, indeed, to be so adored by beast and man alike.
Yet, I must confess, London’s revelries have stirred many a reflection within my breast. As I traversed the cobbled streets and ancient byways of the capital, my thoughts did wander to a time long past—when Libertines of every stripe did defy the rigid bonds of societal decency. We, the young and brazen, clad in the wild fashions of our rebellion, did proclaim a new gospel of freedom. There were none who could control us, nor would we abide by the petty morals of Church or State.
Of Libertine Liberties and Unfortunate Accoutrements
Oh, the memories that doth cascade like a flood! From the late '70s through the mid-'80s, our indulgences were many. The city, though vast, could scarce contain our passions. The age was marked by marvels, among which were certain peculiar devices for the prevention of heirs. I speak of the infamous colored sheaths! How ludicrous they now seem, with their garish hues and ill-conceived fragrances, purportedly for amorous delight. I recall one such contrivance failing thrice in its duty—thrice! A comedy of errors that saw me in a most undignified scramble for the alchemist’s morning-after potion. Ah, how we lived with reckless abandon!
But then came the gravest shadow upon our libertine paradise: the plague of which none dared speak but in whispers. A sudden dread overtook us all, as the specter of the grave loomed in the form of an accursed illness. How swiftly it sobered our revels! We who had shared pleasures without care now found ourselves haunted by the grim tally of our indulgences. Yet, even amidst such darkness, our community clung to its spirit of unity and resistance, holding fast to the music and camaraderie that defined our rebellion.
A Gathering of Aged Libertines
But lo, my journey to London was not without mirth. I attended a gathering held in honor of dear Paco, one of the old guard, who now rests in eternal slumber. The event, though bittersweet, was a joyous reunion of many familiar faces. How curious to see the ravages of time upon my fellows! There were those whose mouths, now bereft of teeth, bore the telltale marks of age and neglect—a sight both humbling and amusing.
Yet their spirits remained undimmed, their attire as wild and extravagant as ever. Great Mohican crests did rise like the spires of a cathedral, their colors defying the grayness of years. Dreadlocks swayed, bowler hats perched jauntily, and leather jackets creaked under the weight of nostalgic adornments. It was as though the clock had turned back, if only for a night.
Of the Lamentable State of Libertine Finances
As the revelry unfolded at Paco's memorial, I found myself engaged in a most peculiar conversation with an old companion, one Mr. Flaxworthy. He, like many of us, had aged not in grace but in debt. His tales of financial ruin were recounted with the grim humor of a man resigned to his lot.
"Countess," he declared, his voice heavy with the peculiar lilt of bygone Cockney brogues, "there's naught but two guineas to my name, and even they are spoken for by the brewer."
I offered him a sympathetic nod, though I too have not been spared the occasional brush with penury. The Libertine spirit, for all its vigor, has proven ill-suited to the accumulation of wealth. Indeed, how could one expect fortunes to thrive amidst the chaos of artistic pursuits and nightly debauchery?
Yet, we are survivors, are we not? Whether by wit, charm, or the odd fortuitous commission, we endure. Even Flaxworthy, for all his complaints, boasted of a forthcoming exhibition of his “avant-garde taxidermy”—a phrase I dare not unpack for fear of what horrors it entails.
On Returning to Brighton Arts Club
My heart did swell upon my return to my beloved Brighton Arts Club. The venue, though ever a den of delightful chaos, remains a testament to our collective spirit. The walls bear the scars of a thousand nights of revelry, and the floors creak under the weight of countless dreams.
That evening, I convened with my council of creatives to discuss the next great endeavor. The theater troupe has proposed a production of Tartuffe, though reimagined with the protagonist as a modern-day influencer—a most daring conceit! Meanwhile, the musicians spoke of their plans for a new symphony, composed entirely of the sounds of Brighton: the crash of the waves, the murmur of the crowds, and even the peculiar cries of the gulls that haunt our skies.
As we sat in council, wine flowed freely, and laughter echoed through the room. It was then that I realized the true beauty of our strange little community: we are a family, bound not by blood but by a shared belief in the power of art, music, and rebellion.
A Night of Raucous Merriment
That night, as the moon hung low over Brighton, the club came alive with music and mirth. The minstrels played their tunes, a blend of old and new, and the dancers moved with wild abandon. I, ever the dignified Countess, indulged in several glasses of spiced wine before taking to the floor myself.
Oh, how the modern dances elude me! The gyrations and thrusts of these young revelers seem more suited to a battlefield than a ballroom. Yet, I gave it my all, much to the amusement of those gathered.
At one point, a young poet—a lad of no more than twenty summers—approached me with a quill and parchment. “My Lady,” he began, his voice trembling, “would you grant me the honor of your likeness in verse?”
How could I refuse such flattery? I stood tall, striking my most regal pose as he scribbled furiously. The resulting poem, though rough and rambling, captured the spirit of the evening beautifully. I have since framed it, for it is not every day one is immortalized in the words of the next generation.
On the Mysterious Affair of the Missing Absinthe
It began, as all great mysteries do, with an empty bottle and a room full of suspects.
The Brighton Arts Club was hosting its Evening of the Green Fairy, a semi-regular celebration of absinthe, poetry, and questionable decision-making. The tables were adorned with sugar cubes and spoons, the air heavy with aniseed and ambition. I, as hostess, had taken it upon myself to oversee the proceedings, dressed in a gown of emerald silk that rustled with every regal step.
All was well until the great cry arose: "The absinthe is gone!"
Pandemonium ensued. Artists, poets, and musicians clamored around the bar, each protesting their innocence while clutching suspiciously green-stained glasses. One particularly zealous playwright accused the sculptor of siphoning the last of the bottle for a private toast. The sculptor retaliated by claiming the playwright had been “overly familiar with the fairy all evening.”
As arbiter of all things chaotic, I stepped forward, tapping my fan against a wineglass to call for order. “We shall investigate this as we would a great work of art,” I declared. “With equal parts deduction and flamboyance!”
The Interrogations
First, I questioned the bartender, a wiry lad with a penchant for riddles. “I served all in good measure,” he said, shrugging. “But the absinthe bottle? It vanished like a muse at dawn.”
Next, I turned to Madame Fantasma, the clairvoyant painter known for her eccentricities and impressive capacity for liquor. She was seated at a corner table, furiously sketching what she claimed was the “spirit of the absinthe” itself—a swirling mass of green mist with suspiciously human features.
“Did you take the bottle, Madame?” I asked.
She looked up, wide-eyed. “The absinthe chose me, Countess. I am but its vessel!”
I decided she was too far gone to be a reliable witness and moved on.
The Discovery
It was only after much debate and theatrical finger-pointing that the true culprit emerged: a bassoonist from the orchestra, who had tucked the bottle beneath his chair for safekeeping.
“Why hoard it?” I asked, baffled.
He blushed. “I feared it would run dry before the finale of our performance,” he confessed. “The piece I’m playing tonight demands… lubrication of the soul.”
Though his actions were dubious, his honesty won him a reprieve. The absinthe was returned to its rightful place, and the evening resumed its merry course.
Reflections on Libertine Logic
Later, as the revellers dwindled and the candles burned low, I pondered the strange logic of our Libertine lives. What other community could transform an empty bottle into an epic tale or elevate an absinthe theft into a parable of human frailty?
In our world, chaos is not a failing but a virtue—a source of inspiration, laughter, and, above all, stories. And as I sat amidst the remnants of the evening’s revelry, I realized that I would not trade this absurd, brilliant life for all the order in the world.
©2024 Sarnia de la Maré
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