Saturday, February 15, 2014


I lead a rather lonely life. The fir cones slough off ice, the trees are covered in snow and white, dripping stalactites hang from them, pendant, creating a frozen canopy. The sky is perpetually subfusc though slivers of sunlight intermittently irradiate with a wan light. All this i see from my window. My varicose veins disallow mobility, my arthritic knees swell and pain in the winter. In this penumbral landscape there is very little to look forward to. But the occasional visits of my granddaughter are my only reprieve. Her young, rosy cheeks, bitten by the wind and her youthful countenance reminds me of my own ingenuousness as a child.

Today is an especially lonely day. I am afflicted with a slight fever. It is not incapacitating but very tiresome. How i long for soup and cake. How i pine for the smell of fresh flowers.

I hear a knock at the door. I call out. It is my granddaughter. My heart beats with anticipation as i querulously tell her to open the latch. She comes in but instead of her i see a she wolf. Her wolverine teeth gleam with spittle, a primeval musk emanates from her, her eyes are rimmed red. I am terrified immeasurably.

But i see the muzzle, soft and moist, i see the seductive incisors indenting  my wrinkled skin. I see her dark nipples and i throb with an excitement never felt earlier. Eroticism fills the rim of my consciousness. It feels as though a mirror, covered by a damask cloth, has suddenly revealed itself and in its depths i see my unconscious desire, transmuted to the she wolf. She is my synthesis, my being is the thesis and my becoming the antithesis. I desire an amalgamation. My moist core susurrates and pulses with uncontainable excitement.

It seemed to me  that she  would eat me  up. I reach out my hand and stroke her wet muzzle. I stroke her nipples, fingering their hardness, pinching their truculence beneath my fingers. I look deep into her eyes , looking for indiscernible intimations. I lick off her pelt of fur with my tongue, i place my lips underneath her sharp molars and erotically press it against them. My erotic ministrations seem to have an impact. Her tongue, abrasive yet soft licks off pore after pore of my integument. Her hind legs rear as she reaches up to kiss me. I take her with me to the bed. We live entwined, enclosed in the rug. Her wolf head reposes tranquilly in my bosom. The snow outside and the glittering ice ratify the image in the mirror which is a concatenation of my being cleaved to my becoming, entombed in her.

The doorbell rings. It is Red riding hood. 

Thursday, February 13, 2014


When the princess's golden ball fell into the pond the frog  retrieved it for her. He then proceeded to make the princess yield to her promise which was to make him her companion. The princess desisted and ran back to the castle while the frog was unanticipatedly unsurprised.

The gates of the castle opened to the frog. The kind, widowed, on hearing the story reminded his daughter of the necessity of keeping promises and that to abrogate on it would be calamitous. The princess made a grudging show of acquiescence but succumbed to her father's gentle remonstrations.

Her treatment of the frog was perfunctory, dismissive. Wrapped in the solipsistic colloquy with herself and her idea of herself in the mirror she was intransigent, non supportive and hostile. All entreaties by the frog, all reminders of her preordained promise were to no avail. The intractable princess persisted in seeing the frog as an ugly, repugnant and loathsome creature. So intense was her hatred that she was willing to forego her promise, willing even, to court retribution only if the utterly disgusting frog could be got rid of.

The frog went to the king with the intention of voicing his complaint. The king heard him out patiently. While the king heard and oversaw the lugubrious utterances of the frog he saw the frog's pellucid eyes glowing in the crepuscular dusk. He saw the forked tongue, protruding and retracting. In the gilt mirror opposite he saw the frog's convulsing mouth and hungry eyes reduplicating, hinting at a regression that would be irrevocable. Unwilling to constrain his disgust the king threw the frog against the mirror. The mirror splintered but what came out was a handsome prince.

The prince kissed the king. He tasted the soft lips and the striations of beard that the king has grown so luxuriantly. Their cleaving was tender, passionate yet intense. The king found a husband, the princess found another father. 

Tuesday, February 11, 2014


I burn in the fires of hades. My sagging flesh putrefies and then is singed. Memory, once a palliative, now becomes an encumbrance. If i can blot out consciousness, erase all remnants of reminiscence i would be reprieved. But treacherous mnemonics encroach insidiously, subsuming me in an uncontrolled cavalcade of remembrances.  The after life or life after life is a condition i am familiar with. I relinquished all significations of humanness but Gretel's gentleness, guilelessness made the entombed humanity in me to resurface. My heart palpated, i throbbed with love and by thus, abrogating what i had become, came to be.

Initially i captured Hansel and Gretel to sate my voracious appetite. I wanted the villagers to know, through this capture, the bestiality inherent in me. I wanted to be an object of fear. So far a patina of fearfulness constitutes the villagers and i try, each moment, to crystallize and rend the veils of hypocrisy that is unbecoming i them.

My delectable offerings seduced Hansel and Gretel and once i inveigled them into my domain i proceeded to fatten them up. Little did i realize that Gretel's blond pigtails and ingenuousness would break the chip of ice in my heart. I wanted to be submerged in my desire for her, to be consumed, to consume. My propensities in love had consigned me as an outsider and now that i had embraced with vengefulness the state of my marginality i felt i could do what i wanted. And it was Gretel i wanted, Gretel i desired.

Call me broadminded and yes in general, the depredations of human beings, to most people shocking, are quite unsurprising to me. Without batting an eyelid the entire appurtenance of human folly passes me by, leaving my uncensorable feelings unscathed. But even i, with all this openness couldn't suppress a shiver of repulsion when i saw Hansel and Gretel together. Ever since they've been here Gretel's beauty is deepening as are her curves thickening and filling out. I suspect Hansel and Gretel, aware of the doom that awaits them make love, transmuting to the flesh a desire which, forestalled by annihilation, would never be theirs. And i burn with anger and helplessness.

I stir the pot, adding spices to the gravy. I  lean over, peering into the pot, to catch the effluvia of the sauce which simmers. I feel a sharp kick on my behind and land into the pot. Screeches of outrage and incredulity emanate from me and as my flesh is consumed by the fire i ready myself  for the after life.

Here i am, as unfulfilled as i was in life and with an unconsummated desire that is forever negated to me, by me. For what it's worth Gretel's luminous countenance floats before me. And in this realm, that is something. 

Sunday, February 9, 2014


I exist in tenebrous nullity. It is because i am not, that i am. It is also that i am not because i am. Uncertainty unspools from me . Incertitude constitutes me. I could perhaps seek a being solely mine, seek those inchoate filaments that would determine me yet not 'determine' me. Have i made myself what i am or was i made to be what i am ? Did becoming causally make being possible or being laid out, by itself, the blueprint of becoming.

I gaze at the mirror. I tame my unruly hair. I rumple my tufted spikes with the comb. I readjust my scruffy clothes by reassembling them into linear patterns of uncreased coherence. My scuffed shoes leave piquant indentations on the carpet. But mostly i gaze inwards, hoping to traverse layers of consciousness, trying to find a fulcrum. I evince the propensity of congealing illusion. I also demonstrate unambivalent truth. I contain in myself what there is though i reconfigure myself to correspond to the significations imposed on me. I like to believe in pleasing everyone but if, under the pressure of a disagreeable fact, people choose to be irascible or petulant i am unable to augment their chimerical belief.

Being possessed of a fundamental honesty i try to speak the truth. I examine myself scrupulously. Sometimes it seems i spawn illusions, proliferate patinas of facticity ,while other times the unwieldy burden of the revelations i am assailed with encumber me immeasurably. My postulates would, in any case, be hypothetical unless they were underpinned by a realistic conception of being which would self reflexively deepen. The thickened rims of the mirror fade in the opalescent dusk but the neon illuminates the artificiality of the form i impose and how i, too am formed by what forms me.

Being oneself, being one's own authentic self, being what we make ourselves or being what we've always been takes courage. It takes guts to be veracious. performance is easier because it entails a dissimulation. But as you have gathered, i occupy this dialectical space where what there is wrestles with what there should be or could be. With me, only ambivalence is possible. Ambiguity is my sole being.

I am what i have become or i have become what i was. you must be careful what you ask for because with me what you see will be more than what you see.