Friday, February 7, 2014


Hansel raped me. He ruptured me, shattered me. I kept thinking that in the witch's house, away from family, we would, as sister and brother, be a source of mutual solace to each other. But it seems that prolonged incarceration has deranged Hansel. He calls this forceful fucking an expression of love. I call it an abuse of the organ. Well, in any case, i've seen father force himself on my jaded mom and how uncomplainingly and stoically she endured his violent incursions into her body and spirit. Hansel replicated father's behavior patterns and i'd rather die and be eaten than be touched by him again.

I've , in my propinquity with my father and Hansel, witnessed horrific male supremacy whose depredations, i hear, cut through cultures, or at least many of them. The witch, though largely truculent and uncommunicative conveys an impression that she's suffered at the hands of men. Moments when her wrath is most palpable is when i wish those puckered lips on mine. I want to peregrinate those lines of intersecting wrinkles. She is going to eat us both up anyway. Finality renders this incontrovertible.

One day oleaginous reams of whipped cream are put into a boiling pan. Sizzling, unctuous butter floats semi congealed in the gravy whose savory aroma inundates our nostrils. I know that this is the moment but Hansel, rather deluded, anticipates another repast coming his way unaware that he will be repasted himself. Hansel, drawn irresistibly by the smell of gravy moves closer to the pot. He peeks his head in, peering into the gravy' curdling depths. I take this opportunity to give him a sharp push and he falls into the pot. I hear his anguished screams. The witch comes running back, hearing Hansel's unconstrained screeches. She sees what i have done. I expect a rebuke and an attendant push into the pot but i see that her gnarled face is wreathed in an almost beatific smile. Her eyes gleam mischievously iridescent. Merriment unspools from her. She laughs uproariously, voluminously. I stand petrified. She grabs me and i close my eyes, waiting for annihilation but feel her kisses gently caressing my eyes, cheeks and lips. 'Down with the men', she ululates triumphantly and i warble my tremulous agreement.

Hansel tastes delicious. I suck the meat of his bones and prepare myself for my own conjugal repast. 

Thursday, February 6, 2014


Temporality is my point of annihilation. And desire is my antithesis. I exist in a void, outside of time. I have divested myself of temporal appendages and defied mortality by embalming myself as artifact in my own mythology. By making time and space become points of immovable fixity, the haloed incandescence of my infinitely protracted apotheosis is rendered immutable. I eschew desire because desire ambushes, catches me unwary. I succumb to its capricious visitations and lose my fulcrum. I dissolve in the other, subsuming my being. Unlike other lovers i don't find myself through submerging but actualize myself through detachment, dispassion.

It is, therefore, ironical that though desire is counterpointed in me by intractable reserve it is the point of focus in my cottage. I draw the guileless in through delectable nourishment. Ingenuousness excites me. The pot simmers, the brew stirs, raising soapy bubbles that burgeon and burst and rise up again, awaiting the intercession of flesh to become, to come to be, as an object for my consumption.

Currently i've caught hold of two kids who seem unaccountably, incestuously fond of each other. The boy Hansel i can't stand. He gorges incessantly, his cheeks puff up and his stomach balloons as he ingests the sumptuous repast i set before him. He licks chocolate of his fat forefinger, stuffs his mouth with cakes and the prospect of such gluttony makes me feel relieved that soon i'll have the final comeuppance.

Gretel though, has pale, wan cheeks, rather bloodless. Whiteness attaches itself to her soul with blameless probity. Her lips are a luscious red and her young budding breasts beckon with incipient bursting into bloom. I don't want to eat her up because i want to be eaten up with her desire. She eats daintily, dabbing her mouth gently, picking off crumbs assiduously. She is opposite to Hansel in that he exists in a perpetual present where the gratification of his desires is his only concern. Gretel abrogates the present, conjuring up unexplored vistas of the past and untapped possibilities of the future. So far she has been impervious to my ministrations but i think i'm getting through. Her freshly flavored breath tantalizes me, her quivering young lips makes me want to press mine on hers with gentle indentations. I want to streak that pale arm with langourous kisses.

Her commingling with her brother worried me initially but as i said i became, through the mediation of my consciousness, a mirror for Gretel. She began to see the world as i saw it. Though initially overlooking it the importunity of Hansel, the way he'd expect her to be his sole possession  discomfited her. I am an old woman and i know how men think. One day i left the cottage to look for herbs and returned back to find a bleeding, disheveled Gretel. Hansel fingered his prick with voluptuous indolence. I cleaned up Gretel and a scream of outrage emanated from me. I grabbed Hansel, felled him with an axe and boiled him up.

Gretel and i sit by the hearth, partaking of Hansel's flesh like sacrament. The bed awaits us.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014


Snow white- The significations etched around my being transmuted me from living flesh to symbol. In the iconography of the fairy tale i was entombed.

Cinderella- Yet have there not been retellings. The old symbols are constantly configuring. They become dissonant with an age's lived experience and undergo metamorphosis

Rapunzel- The form remains unaltered though, does it not? I feel like a tabula rasa where narratives of my becoming are etched and interred.

Cinderella- It is a testimony to the fact that the form that formed us remains fluid. While the retelling draws attention to the act of its own retelling it also brings into being the artificiality of the original form.

Snow white- In that sense i feel performative. I mean, i've always loved women, in all senses yet that narrative of love lies subsumed under the integument of my grand narrative.

Rapunzel- But are not grand narratives constructs. I don't regard my lesbian identity as my ontology but then neither do i circumscribe my fate to the narrative that has determined me.

Cinderella- Any retelling is basically stretching of the sheathe that encloses us. The garment can be seamed, restitched, rewoven, billowed, tweaked. Does it mean that the mortal frame the garment contains is still inviolable?

Rapunzel- History is complicitous with myth yet challenges the myth's hegemony. The filaments of history bring to the forefront both causality and constructions. The causality renders events irrevocable , the construction renders their veracity apocryphal and myths, embalmed as immutable show, through the cracks in history, the mythopoeia of their own nature.

Snow white- It would be fallacious to make final any narrative that explores our being. The fact that rereadings have and continue to occur keeps us revivificable, transformable. It is really that elasticity, that protean quality that i wish to cherish

Cinderella- Each time time changes, each time times change newer ways of exploring our subjectivity will come into being. In that context, our being is inseparable from our becoming in that we become through the process of transmogrified being and are what we become each time around.

Sunday, February 2, 2014


She castigated herself for her complicity, berating herself for propelling the robbers into excesses of more atavistic violence but felt constrained, a constraint compounded by the sheer need for survival, that led her to collude in the annihilation of the robber brides. It was, therefore, with great compunction, considering, as well, the increasing encroachment of mortality, that she deemed it wise to circumvent the course the robbers had writ for her. Hers was a lifetime of repression and thwarted desire. Unable to articulate, for how can the inconceivable be articulated except as inconceivable and sheathed in amorphous wisps of self abnegation she frittered away her youth, squandering the ripe pleasures of mellowing middle age and culminating now in this state of decrepitude.

As soon as she saw the young girl she resolved to break the uncharming circle of the claustrophobic integument. She made her hide behind the barrel and dissembled impeccably in front of the robbers who, sated with lust on the other girl they had feasted on, bloated corpulent on the constituents of their necrophiliac remnants, revelled and drank and unaware, that the wine they consumed was sweetened with a sleeping draught snored away complacently.

She realized that the young girl evinced an unforeseen perspicacity in creating a trail of peas. Following, or rather retracing  the path where their imminent and immanent destinies reposed they proceeded with cautious joyfulness. She delivered the young girl into the hands of her father.

It was discernible, however that this homecoming was a homecoming in more than one way. It was, for her, a reversion, a renavigating of her primordial being. Self knowledge is indwelling, it can neither be wished away nor unmitigatedly repressed. The whole raison de etre of what she had just done in this rescuing was, both an act of bravery and a form of self actualization. It was a baptism by fire both for her and the young girl. The father's profuse and garrulous outpourings of gratitude were agreeable portents. She decided, on impulse, which was really a timeless decision, brought into linguistic dimensionality through words, to give form to her latent desires. Slipping of the ring from the dead forefinger she asked for the young girl's hand in marriage.