Thursday, February 20, 2014


I stand out incongruously because i love women. My father's love comforts me, reassuring me of a certainty amid the tumults of everyday life. My elder sisters hint at a materiality not only from which i am disbarred but which i willingly relinquish. I don't claim probity or blamelessness but a certain ingenuousness, a certain reticence is certainly constitutive of me.

Which is why when father told me about the beast and his condition i acquiesced willingly, though with apprehension. Again the promises of material wealth the beast proffers, though sanguine, are not mandatory for me. Me, i'm an old romantic, i'm looking for love.

The beast is robed regally, his luminous eyes look at me beseechingly, supplicating, as though about to shed tears. Everyday he asks for my hand in marriage and everyday i politely, considerately refuse. His otherness from me is two fold. His bestiality and his gender render him an inadmissible possibility for me. His protestations of regard stress, by contrast, the love i yearn for but can't seem to possess.

An ineluctable homesickness propels me homewards. He extracts a promise of my return and seeing the misery on his face i agree. My sisters marvel at my wealth, at my furs , at my spangled gown.

The months pass, the promise i had made so precipitately returns to haunt me. I see the lovesick beast, on the throes of death. His eyes are a mirror before whose gaze i find myself dissolving. His unwavering, enfeebled gaze draws tears from my eyes. Fusillades of pent up guilt emanate from me. The beast dissolves, revealing human contours. In the wake of his transformation i see a beautiful woman emerging. Subsequently i learn that she is a princess who was doomed to male beasthood and love would self determine her. But it was not just love but the inviolable purity of my desire that makes her become. The mirror contains a nascent blueprint, both of the visible and the configurable and with the ministrations of my tears the metamorphosis from beast to princess is actualized. The reversion to womanhood is not, i see, for her, a process of becoming but a realignment of her becoming with her being.

The funereal bed where the beast lay dying becomes a fulcrum of our love. She nibbles at my lips seductively, her white teeth incise my skin and her mouth on my interiority sends ripples of uncontainable ecstasy up my spine. She makes me be, she makes me become. 

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