Thursday, January 23, 2014


There was a poor man who had twelve children. When his thirteenth was born and he was too poor to sustain him the thirteen child was adopted by death as his godson. Now death was irascible in his human form as a man. Finality was his forte. With irrevocable force of destiny he determined life and death.

When death became a godfather his tender and gentle instincts arose. He loved his godson as his own son. A fierce protectiveness assailed him and his ministrations to the young man's well being were very considerate and caring. As the young man became an adult his sinews rippled. He exuded incredible strength. He was a clean shaven, extremely handsome youth and his beauty, it seemed, was indestructible. Death fell in love with him as he would have with his own image in the mirror. The young adult seemed an emanation of him, a prolongation who distilled in death's withering countenance youthfulness and suppleness. Unbeknownst to death and though an imperceptible process he fell in love. Initially the incestuous undercurrent worried him but he exculpated himself with the thought that since the young man was his godson and not biologically linked to him, a leap of faith would actualize his nascent feelings.

As a proof of his love he taught the young man the arts of a physician telling him that death's presence at the head of the sufferer would betoken living and at the foot of the bed would betoken death. Once the young man saved the king even though death was at the foot of the bed. Death, though angered at this betrayal, gave him another chance. When the young man saved the life of a princess despite death's presence at the foot of the bed death lost it. He dragged the young man to his inexorable fate which was death.

For death the image in the mirror had splintered and shards of broken glass pressed upon his heart making him bleed. As he made final the process of the young man's death the young man fell on his knees confessing that he loved his godfather and had, for fear of incest, concealed the fact. He began kissing death's gnarled face and the broken skin of his lips. He began performing fellatio on the inner fulcrum of death. Death relented. It seemed that the young man too had identified the image of death in the mirror as his own. He had fallen in love right from the outset yet death's redoubtable countenance forbade expressions of intimacy. He had saved the princess not because he loved her because his orientation was predetermined but to avenge himself on death to demonstrate unfulfilled and unrealized love. It was a gesture of frustrated helplessness.

Death, fully tumescent, engorged replete expended his ambrosia which the young man consumed like sacrament. They cleaved, they soldered and commingled. It was a conjunction of broken hearts twined as much as it was two bodies enclosed self contained in each other. Death shows him the fires of hades but all the young man sees is unsullied incandescent light. 


I am self conscious by nature. My psychic argot is a confluence of self recrimination and precarious ego boosts. I like to believe that self awareness is a major strength for me. I don't like to deny reality its realness and sometimes an unvarnished truth discomfits me because it is diametrically contradictory to my self conception. But i persist in assuring myself that it is to unambiguous truth that i owe my allegiance to.

No matter how assiduously i see the mirror reflecting me, no matter how veracious my interchanges with the mirror i find myself oscillating between what i see and what reality is. I ascertain the reality yet can't relinquish the significations the mirror reveals to me so unmitigatedly. Well i know i desire women. I thrill with lascivious joy when i contemplate a commingling. Yet i must first validate myself to myself, to affirm the centrality of my inescapable beauty. The mirror very kindly shows me what i want to see.

But even in this prepossessing  colloquy i feel a lack. All my introspective loquacity dissolves when facts appear unrelentingly before me. I am tired of the mirror's self reflexiveness. I am sick of the blueprints it proffers. When its gilt edged frame glows opalescent i want to smash it. The lack is in me and it is a primal dissolution i want to yield unresistingly to. Any becoming i cast on my being is inadequate. It seems a state of undifferentiated blankness is preferable to the ceaseless self delusions of becoming. Often i get depressed and can't think beyond the mirror. My adorned countenance reflected back to me suffuses me with eldritch feelings of self annihilation. It is a symbiosis i feel increasingly unable to break through.

One day i see her reflection. My initial response is unadulterated anger because the worldview i resigned myself to, however circumscriptional, is now shattered. My disillusion folds in on itself. But i see snow white and her reflection, with its incontrovertible singularity takes me out of myself. The specular solipsism i inhabited is deliciously surmounted. I am buffeted by vertiginous feelings of terror and release. I get up, rush to her and kiss her. 


She was an anomaly. Her incongruousness marked her out. Consigned and relegated to a solitary life she cultivated eccentrities and oddities that would make her an object of fear. The absence of love, the impossibility of reciprocation made her vindictive and vituperative. She abrogated all pretenses of humanness and felt justified because the humanness she relinquished was hypocritical, conniving and deceiving.

She saw him steal rapunzel and subsequently was rewarded for her ungracious giving with Rapunzel. As she held the young baby in her arms her bosom heaved. Fusillades of pent up love, contained so long, spilled forth abundantly. Yet she feared that the outer world would snatch Rapunzel from her and make her fallible. She placed her in a tower to which the only entrance was Rapunzel's long locks. So she tended to Rapunzel like a young rose, seeing it blossoming. Rapunzel grew up to be very beautiful and she began, on seeing that beauty, feel stirrings of erotic passion. She longed to suckle contentendly at the pink nipples running her tongue around them. She longed to press her teeth gently on those pink lips. And so she did actualize sexually all her fantasies.

Rapunzel she kept close to her and disallowed any encroachment on their self sufficiency. So when she would out about the prince and his insidious, stealthy incursions into their life she blinded him and sent Rapunzel to the forest. Though she had obliterated all temporal reminders of her failed love life reams of repressed and aggreived emotions churned and roiled impetuously. Self recrimination displaced vengefulness and contrite, repenting she went to look for Rapunzel, winning her over by expostulating and demonstrating the veracity and integrity of her feelings.

Rapunzel was living happily ever after with the prince and the prospect was unbearable. She went to the tower, used a crowbar to loosen the grills and upon making sure the entrance was unbarred jumped out and annihilated her doomed love which myth rendered impermissible and custom unconsummated. 


As a tabula rasa i inscribed myself into my being. It was a process of self determination that, with time, crystallized into a tremulous yet durable sense of self. My pearly while skin shimmers opalescently in the penumbral dusk and by night, under the luminous shadow of the moon gleams. The moon, repository of nocturnal being reveals to me, through its own imperfect perfection, a presaging of unequivocal beauty and its attendant precariousness.

So i've never taken it for granted that i will stay beautiful perennially. The halo of goodness i inhabit will be unaltered but my form will undergo temporal configurations. I feel less arrogant than i would have had unmitigated confidence in my being had buoyed me against mortal depredations. Because such self assurance, compounded of self deception will lead only to labyrinths of darkness.

In this respect i differ from her. The shadow the moon casts is a reflection of my reflection. Any movement and the edges fray, the outlines blur or i superimpose through my aegis subtle transformations. She, in possession of her inviolable beauty likes ratification. Constant reinforcements buttress her. I think what she fears is negation but what i am irresistibly drawn to is the self same negation.

I love her yet i know she loves herself. It would be presumptuous to excite even a remnant of passion in her solipsistic breast. She inhabits the mirror as her unconscious inhabits her psyche. What she finds validated are her own psychic blueprints. I have seen her gaze at me with omnivorous vindictiveness. Her restless eyes rove over me. Am i wrong in discerning a smoldering passion there, a burning, raging fire.

As i grow more beautiful i see her  contemplating scrolling hieroglyphs in my putative blank slate. My ingenuousness is written over as causality, through her mediation, decrees me a eventful fate. Her mirror, as i glimpse it across the rim of her perspectivation glows silvered and its  circularity  reveals to my surprised gaze, myself. How did my experiential blankness overfill with this spillage. Her breast heaves in contemplating my beauty. Accustomed to her jealous rage i try to slip away unnoticed. She catches a glimpse of my receding back and rushes out. I stand petrified, expecting a sharp slap. Instead she gives me the sweetest, most langourous and erotic kiss. Dumbfounded i ask her why. Her only asseveration is that she is free of the circle of self regard that circumscribed her. The mirror was the other yet her and their symbiosis replicated her tautologous narcissism. She needed me, needed the evidence of my love to step out of that suffocating hell hole. The circle has been broken. 

Wednesday, January 22, 2014


When i was young she seemed a redoubtable figure i looked up to and worshiped. She was perfect, gracious, elegant and incredibly beautiful and i was inspired to be gorgeous like her one day. In a sense she was the image in my mind's mirror and i desired and saw as ideal what was reflected back to be. My feelings were unambivalently ingenuous , untainted by any subtler emotions.

As i grew up and my beauty burgeoned the image i saw in the mirror, which was hers became doubly desirable. Curded with transparent skin her luscious breasts were observable beneath her tight bodice. The cleavage jutted out ensconcing her bosom into perfectly rounded curves. Her soft lips were voluptuous. When strands of hair unraveled from her their iridescence dazzled me.Her physicality, concealed under the patina of  childish innocence suddenly became fleshly and irresistibly enticing. I looked at her yearningly hoping for reciprocation but encountered impassivity and indifference.

I heard an anguished scream from her one day and saw that her mirror which reflected her luminosity to herself now reflected me. My coalescence to her narcissistic gaze was irreducibly enthralling. She, however, seemed dispossessed. Since then her palpable hatred of me, which surprised me no end became a raging obsession. She seemed to try all she could to obliterate any traces of my existence. She wished to consign me to the oblivion of non being. Hoping that her heart would change i escaped her clutches and cohabited out of expediency and my exiguous circumstances with the dwarfs. She came disguised to feed me an apple and knowing how foredoomed and irrevocable my love was i consumed the poisoned apple.

I succumbed immediately to an enervating stupor. Hopelessness, helplessness and frustration rendered me inert and non existent. Amid the interminable atrophy of nothingness i inhabited i felt, in retrospect, after dredging up feeling in the face of my numbness the kiss of chapped, withered lips and opening my eyes saw her desiccated and shrunk countenance revivifying. The uncreased brow, seamless skin and perfect physiognomy united me to her. I hope guilt and self recrimination brought her back to me though i don't know with exactitude the circumstances in the transmogrification of her aegis. Through some miraculous prestidigitation we have cleaved. And our crepuscular evenings are spent in being entwined and enclosed in each other's being.

Finally the image in the mirror, which when occupied by her idealistic image now reveals to me my own incandescent countenance. She gave me being but i have now become. 

Monday, January 20, 2014


The quantum mass is a revivificatory process. The quarks configure, metamorphoses occur infinitesimally and a new entity is instituted.
The black hole, ostensibly dead, undergoes latent transmogrifications, indiscernible. The structure of the cosmos changes.
Time moves in myriad directions. Temporal contingencies intersect and a collectivity of consciousness proliferates.
Memory, colluding with time yet defying its constituents revisits each hue but with a different contextual aegis.
Space stretches immeasurably yet is self contained. It is both retractable,in its ethereal emptiness and stretchable into nothingness.
Yet all these phenomena don't reflect ultimate reality. Nor is ultimate reality a phenomenon.
The ultimateness of ultimate reality is its indeterminacy. Its indeterminacy is the causality of its apprehending.
What can't be known is not necessarily unexperienced. Experience is a measure of that which can be known but is inarticulable.
With all this vast immensity, human consciousness shrinks. As the universe expands, our pettiness and envies permeate.
Being is cleft from becoming and rendered redundant. The redundancy of being is the fulcrum of becoming.
There is a vast blank expanse out there. It contains the ineffable. The ineffability is the vast blank expanse.
Art mirrors the tenuousness of ultimate reality. It is because it can grasped through intimations and intimations ratify the tenuousness.
The fathomless panorama of blankness is a vertiginous precipice. Its spatial vastitude, borderless, timeless, measureless is its immeasurability.
Moments when the darkness is traversed, the nothingness is recoiled from. When the darkness is embraced, incandescent light glows at tunnel's end.
Metaphysical speculation irradiates the here and now. The quotidian actualizes the metaphysical. They are symbiotic.


A young man was asked to go to the forest and find a palimpsest buried underneath a tree. His family were annoyed at his desultory lack of even a modicum of inquisitevess about his identity which they understood palpably yet were fearful of disclosing unconscionably to him. They rather preferred to lead him to finding being himself and illumine the filaments of that being with self realization. The young man, rather indolent and unrealistically self confident who, though dwelling in ignorance believed himself to be in full possession of the most arcane of knowledge was sure that he would decipher the hieroglyphs and discover the knowledge encrypted and entombed in the palimpsest.

On reaching the forest he moved to the tree where the putative palimpsest lay. He began digging assiduously, taking intermittent breaths to catch his breath. He dug deeper and deeper, sifting through the muddy layers. As piles of mud accumulated on either side of him he found, instead of the palimpsest he had been told to anticipate, a pool  which, on this clear moonless night and as a result of his ferocious digging glowed pellucid . The moon reflected the water and was reflected in the water. The young man, fatigued by his efforts saw his sweaty countenance in the pool.

And it was then, through some nebulous alchemical transmogrification, he found himself gazing into the pool, seeing himself reflected. The water stood standstill and his reflection was unambiguously unwavering. As his face glowed palely and wanly back he saw in his eyes years of willful negation. He had been suppressing knowledge of his being from himself because in the interstices of the normative and the vertiginous nothingness on the other side lay the key to his being to which he, intractably foreclosed, was the lock. Though turning the key in the lock would require unraveling layers of integument to get a glimpse of the soul within. He saw, in the pool, amid the star studded sky, in this odoriferous forest, slivers of self knowledge insidiously but welcomingly, creeping in. It was himself he was to find  and he held the key. He discovered being, he figured out his identity in the luminous forest where freed from the restraints both of ignorance and deliberate abrogation of truth telling, unspooled the yet to be discovered  core, the fulcrum of who he was which was, in essence, both the key and the locked center.

He discovered through his own history which, in conjunction with temporality and history, the obliteration of the history of his kind . He discovered the erasure and repression to which his lot had been consigned peremptorily and unceremoniously. He discovered how the ostensible incongruity of his own being that, through years of suppression and self negation had snuffed any possibility of existing comfortably with the self. Through the mediation of the mirror he came to be. He became.

But he had only scratched the surface. The actual finality of fully realized becoming, which would take years of actualizing, still remained to be unlocked. Again he held the key. He anticipated expectantly  the treasure trove of his heart to unearth its contents. The mystery buttressed him. 


A young man who, constrained by circumstances and being, found himself to be an oddity was asked to go to the neighboring village and talk to and engage with the young woman who he had been foredoomed to  marry . He resented bitterly the curtailment of his youth but with inexorable finality proceeded, rather sulkily, to the village. To reach the village he had to pass through a forest which was deemed to be a repository of illicit carnal pleasures.

On reaching the forest he felt cold and desired another body to warm himself with, in the absence of making a fire in the cold frost. He ran into another youth from the village and they began discussing the restrictions of families and how circumscribed they experienced circumstances to be. As they traversed the crepuscular dusk they found a cave where they managed to light a fire and then proceeded to go to sleep.

In the cave, within the physiognomy of his fellow traveller, the young man found a lock to which he only had the key . As the unclothed countenance of the sleeping man glowed in the gloaming and the luminous warmth of the fire our young man found the possibility of a fortune and answer to life's foundational preoccupation. He woke up the other youth to reveal to him the golden contents of his findings. Together, they would, he asseverated, with reciprocal consent, find  the subterranean treasure behind the key and the lock it would inevitably open.

The young man's senses were inflamed by an insatiable curiosity. He was engorged with excitement and wonderment. The other youth turned back, surrendering himself, albeit complicitly, towards the unraveling of the lock  to which the other man  apparently held the key. The two men commingled in their search. The lock was found immanently in the youth. As the innards of the mortal frame unraveled the lock was plunged into, penetrated and cleaved with the fruit of knowledge irradiating both men. What was discovered was love.


Her heart beat with maternal possessiveness. The two girls were incontrovertibly ugly and foiled any life design she might have had for them. As they grew up and their disagreeable lineaments dispersed grotesquely around their physiognomies her sense of frustration intensified. Their future worried her. She also wanted to keep these two close to her, never having to be cleft. They were extensions of her, distillations of her singular pride in bearing them. The thought of extricating them from her was inconceivable. A primal energy cleaved them to her. So she coexisted with two contradictory imperatives, that of seeking  for them a future separate from her or of keeping them within her skin.

Eventually, as her fear of loneliness and old age compounded with imminent ageing she preferred to keep them close by. Her ingenious idea was to make them love each other as two women in a world where their ugliness would render them heterosexually  unacceptable. This incestuous commingling pleased her immensely. She saw the girls are mirrors refracting from her into twin sets of reduplicating and dialectical images which would reflect each other and ultimately reflexively validate her own gaze which was both erotic and parental.

But the two hated each other. And she hated cinderella whose inescapable beauty was a sore reminder of the lack in their  own life. By making cinderella the fulcrum of their loathing she strove to bring them closer. She could see, with helpless resignation that while that hatred did unite them in so far as their loathing manifested in inundating cinderella with horrid tasks their actual feeling was self loathing. Each hated herself and projected it on the other to prevent self annihilation.

She took them to the ball and they both fell for the prince and yet the prince was pirouetting and pealing forth carillons of joy with this beautiful woman whose beauty was a counterpoint to her daughters unlikeable accoutrements.

Well the shoe has fit cinderella and off she has gone with the prince and again she is buffeted by a variegation of different emotions. She feels angry at the opportunity denied her girls. She feels glad that the luminiscent cinderella was out of their lives. She was glad that things had reverted to a desirable state outwardly. The girls, however squabbled ceaselessly and interminably and it seemed that missed chances would make inevitable and crystallize intransigently both their self hatred which they transmuted to each other. So though things were different  they were no different. 


I have made certain choices in my life and they have unequivocally been compromises. There is something irrevocable in our journeys through life, a predetermined finality. Could i have willed things differently perhaps i would be happier than i am now because it is undeniable that i am unhappy. But i am content with this compromise. Contentment presupposes an abrogation of free will and this predestined outcome is perhaps the only self realization that i can envisage. I can't revisit my past because it is too painful. I would, however, like to revisit certain mnemonics in the hope that any reader, familiar with my iconographic mythical status will put together these facsimiles into a coherent account.

Well i'd say it from the outset, they were ugly, hideously ugly. But their ugliness was, to me, a putative sheath that underlay the beauty within. Their fat lips pout sullenly, their huge bosoms jut out unprepossessingly, and imperceptible but lachrymose signs of puckering striate their pubescent things. Yet, to me, these signifiers of ugliness makes them doubly beautiful. I think of those thick lips straddling  my rosy ones with voluptuous langour. I think of the crenellations of those breasts becoming spaces for me to burrow into and nestle. I think of tracing with my forefinger those puckering streaks.

Though they hate me. They make me do menial work. Their undiscerned unawareness of my feelings is painful. However i work hard, i expend tremendous effort, i enslave myself hoping that shards of compassion would irradiate their intractably inimical countenances. My fingers flatten and my skin sloughs off in excrescences of fleshly unraveling. My forearms ache but still i continue indefatigably, hopeful.

The fairy godmother's boon leads me to the arms of a handsome prince. I don't feel desire though his tumescence demonstrates his ample need.The prospect of being discovered and eviscerated terrifies me though i hope that seeing me so adorned and opalescent would excite their wonder. At the stroke of midnight i flee.

The shoe fits me. This is my comepuppance. At last i have made them jealous, in whichever way possible. So i marry him though i don't live happily ever after. I have just borne a beautiful, blond ringleted girl and i love her unconditionally. When he fucks me i feel empty and nothingness assails me. To please him i inhabit a parallel fantasy life with them while i succumb to his practised arts with a simulacrum of passion. Sometimes i wonder if i could have asserted myself. Would my life be different? But i have chosen, despite my immanent propensities, a life of heterosexual materiality. The possibility of the unmet being actualized buttresses me but currently i embrace with fortitude what i have. Could i have had a choice otherwise ?


We, though singular, are in many ways indistinguishable. Hence the narrative voice we proffer begins with 'we'. It doesn't mean that we are essentially undifferentiated. For the purposes of expediency as also considering the sameness of our feelings for cinderella and the exiguity circumstances force us into our narrative takes the form it does. But form isn't merely an encapsulation, it is a spillage too. We are sure that the sheathe we contain our narrative in will inevitably unravel in unguessed directions. Our intense self consciousness renders it ineluctable. For whatever it's worth, here it is.

We are forced into complicity with our mother. We visit on cinderella the utmost tortures and discomfiting tasks. Firstly our mother would consider any other feeling inadmissible. And secondly a simulacrum of acquiescence gives us space for our furtive colloquies. As we are mirror images of each other our love for each other is an extension of our self love. But she, who is the 'other' gives us opportunities for absorbing her beauty and nursing fantasies whose acknowledgement would cosign us, should our mother even suspect knowledge of it, into oblivion. Oh, the softness of her lips, the unsullied whiteness of her teeth, her burgeoning womanhood even when dressed in rags and the detritus of our discards is irresistibly enticing. We throb with unfulfilled longings and atrophy our oleaginous cores with drying remnants of unconsummation. But our minds nurse illicit thoughts of commingling. We are so grateful that we have each other to validate our psychic blueprints.

That cinderella though, wears her victimhood with a woebegone yet becoming stoicism. Her pliancy annoys us incredibly. She sees our visitations of meanness but can she she not discern the subterranean eroticism in our eyes as they smoulder in appreciation of her voluptuousness. Her imperviousness to our nascent desires is insulting. Her sense of being a plaything redoubles her self containment. She radiates arabesques of luminosity which we want to make into a threesome mosaic. Yet the slivers she sloughs off collapse into her own haloed incandescence making her doubly desirable.

We go to the ball but we hate it. The bloody prince thinks through his dick. To him our gentle,womanly ministrations on feminine bodies is repulsive. We recognize cinderella dancing with him but we keep it to ourselves. Her utter gorgeousness and ravishing beauty is so ennobling to watch yet we susurrate with immeasurable jealousy for the prince who will, we know, carry her off in his arms. We know the inexorability of fate but still we entertain hopes for our own apotheosis.

Shit, the shoe has fit, she is gone. Mum's rage is unconstrained and uncontainable. That phallic nightmare will impregnate her and turn her into a torpid, slovenly queen. We doubt if she'll live happily ever after and frankly we don't care. The object of our desire has become a subject of unactualized propinquity. We are back to proximity with our mirrors. But at least we have each other.

Sunday, January 19, 2014


It is perhaps a trick of fate that slivers of passion radiated for me with both of them. She, who brought my being into being and he who made me what i became. In both instances a process of birth which is actually a rebirth was established. Being comfortable in inhabiting my integument i have relinquished the possibility of choosing though a choice must inevitably be made. If i could amalgamate the irreconcilable choices that assail me, if i could seek a convergence of both worlds i inhabit i could, perhaps incandesce my becoming and irradiate the filaments of my burgeoning womanhood with transcendence. But a loophole in history, or perhaps a lacuna in the metaphysical disallows such apotheosis.

She, to whose intervention i owe my being gave me life, through the mediation of her luscious garden of delights. My earliest recollections are of her gnarled face bending over me with fierce possessiveness and such powerful love drew me in. She seemed timeless, though age had wrinkled her. Yet i trace the lineaments of her face like a cartographer. Her sharp, pointed molars dig seductive indentations on my pliant lips and when she touches my core she brings forth such a fusillade of inexpressible joy that i feel constellations of color explode before me in coruscating refractions. Though the years mark her her vitality is indomitable. She is my anterior, the cave, the amniotic womb in whose flames of flickering shadows and saline warmth i lie enclosed, encased, entombed in the precarious yet durable skin of my own being.

He made me come to be. He dredged me from the tenebrous cave where i felt secure and wrenched me to the real world. He demonstrated the possibility of a love i had hitherto been unaware of. He wrested me from the penumbra of sameness to the iridescence of variegation. Unlike her, his youthfulness, ardor and suppleness draws me in irresistibly. If she, through her preternatural ministrations, gave birth to me then he, with his scrolled heraldry made me who i am. He suffuses me with indescribable passion. His arms encircle my rounded curves with utmost gentleness. I savor the ambrosia his lips expend. When his fingers traverse the runnel of my spine i susurrate and throb with jouissance. He gives me, in the state of innocence i inhabited, the possibility of knowledge. If she is my apple, he is my serpent.

I don't however, seek a homogeneous cleaving of thesis and antithesis. Nor do i seek an undifferentiated soldering. I want to partake both of prelapsarian ingenuousness and postlapsarian carnality. I don't want my being and becoming cleft. I would like my telos to be unalterably durable yet i would like to keep the possibility of fluidity as well. Circumstances though and the inveterate propensity of my story towards mythopoeia make choice ineluctable, indeed incontrovertible. The two worlds i so thrillingly occupy will intersect and ricochet. But while things continue as they do i intend to savor the crenellations of both experiences and dapple my experienced experience with luminous polymorphousness. I'd prefer not to think about what happens next. What will come, will come.