Thursday, May 8, 2014

me and him

I was mystified and baffled by him.He was like an archaic hieroglyph,unfathomable.I simply could not plumb his depths.The more i tried to discern his wholeness the more he deconstructed himself into his component parts so that all i could see was a tantalising glimpse,a blurry outline,and disconnected fragments.i wanted not just his tangible physical self but his impalpable inner being as well.I wanted us to absorb ourselves in each other except ,of course that we couldn't.
It was a failure of nerve on his part.Like measured sips he would give of himself slowly but always holding something back.The absorption i envisaged for us he perceived as a relinquishment of self.He didn't wish to be subsumed.He viewed my theories,for to him they were mere abstractions as belonging to the realm of the impossible.He believed wholly in the concrete.For him life was a seamless rite of passage from moment to moment.He perceived my wish for our toghetherness as a form of annihilation and reckless self abandonment.
He was a connoisseur of the here and now.Life for him was a gradual,imperceptible yet inexorable progression from one dimension of time to another,chronologically.Not for him my circuitous circumlocutry  whorls of randomness.I  operated from an ideal space ,for him everything had to be pragmatic.
yet,time as we know is not linear.Memories ,dreams for instance defy the forward propulsion of time.What amazed me was his unmitigated denial of this loop,that is time.Was he going to deny me my memories of our togetherness,our iridescent moments of being perceived for their piquancy than their synchronicity.Our there-ness has become a penumbra.what used to be incandescent has now become shadowy.This unperceived metamorphosis is confusing.He,perversely enough put me first in order to give supremacy to himself.For in the fulfillment of my small pleasures he derived happiness which was selfish because his self abnegation carried him en route to the alleyways of self satisfaction.All i have been able to put together here are random bits and pieces in deference to the multiple movements of inner time and temporal,spatial arbitrariness of the mind.
Try as i might to grasp his elusive,quicksilver personality,i am bound to fail.
Is it because our love is the love of like for like?


He was in love with her image.He had seen her on screen.It began as an attraction,an attraction for her physical beauty.This physical electric spark often characterizes such romances.However the image very soon became his reality as he began to enter a dimension of love that encompassed all it's aspects.It became an unhealthy obsession that consumed his days and nights.He began to entertain fantasies of marrying her,of spending the rest of his life with her.This fantasy took up so much of his time that while her reality became his own he began to lose touch with his own reality.He let himself go.The screen created for him an illusion of a space to exist in which was so utterly captivating,so enchanting that a feeling of unreality seeped into the world he inhabited.He walked around like a zombie,moving around like a marionette attached to strings held by this woman who barely knew him but dominated his existence.
As the obsession grew,his reality became more and more tenuous.He had always had an amorphous sense of identity which with the passage of time grew more formless.our hold over ourselves decreases in direct proportion to the illusions overwhelming our lives.Memory also distorted the actual with the imagined so that what happened,what he thought would happen and what he wanted to happen became blurred.He became fractious,petulant and peremptory to his loved ones.His peremptoriness grew as he weird notions were challenged.His intractability increased more and more as he was dissuaded and entreated to relinquish these wild dreams.The image filled the length and breadth of his existence obliterating even himself from an awareness of who he was.
As the fantasy grew his dreams,ambitions and hopes from life reduced drastically in their intensity.Life became a baroque nightmare suspended between a feeling of triumph between what he could get from her and fear that his desires might be unconsummated. This is the dangerous appeal of an unrealistic dream.It exerts a powerful influence and has devastating consequences.Sexual fantasies in particular,in imagination may possess a simulacrum of reality but in actuality have barely a modicum of realism.He became increasingly frustrated and intransigent.As dreams of putative reality slipped away the imaginary came to dominate his existence.Very soon,the imaginary took over and reality slipped away altogether.He began to peregrinate schizophrenic realms unsure of who he was but sure only of the imaginary universe he wanted to make his own but which ironically could never be his.never was or could ever be his,ever.
He sees her on screen,self pleasures himself,looks into her eyes,deep as pools and submerges into them,losing himself into them,going deep down,down and down into the hinterland that we call a parallel universe i.e madness


How deep is depth?how intense is intensity?Such were the unanswerable imponderables that resurfaced in my consciousness.The day was subfusc ,with light prismatically refracted as though through a mist.What i was actually ruminating over was him.And thinking about him gave rise to certain philosophical speculations.Our relationship was like all others a combination of self assertion and self effacement.We could inhabit both imaginative spaces at one and the same time because one proclivity was immanent in the other.We were like mirrors.We had the illusion of seeing in the other's eyes the unambivalent truth but what we actually saw was ourselves superimposed in eath other'e eyes.Each saw the other in relation to themselves so much so that the concept of arriving at an understanding of the other seemed impossible to attain.Perception of the other was cluttered with our own desire to see ourselves as being incontroveribly right.
He progressed desultorily from one ream of being to another.He suffered from apathetic existential boredom and saw life not as  a sunny beach where one could bask but as a dark,dank,dim passageway obstructing light.Sometimes i felt he viewed our togetherness with the same bleak inevitability.Our being conjoined was for him novel,perhaps it freed him from the spasms of self alienation that assailed him from time to time.But if i was simply a distraction what was my worth in his eyes.I often found myself cogitating over this.He certainly did not judge me and indeed seemed to accept me for what i stood for without wanting to mold me into the image in his mind's eye.Maybe this was the only form of love he was capable of manifesting.
In any case a carapace or patina of perfection seems to be the order of the day between us.How much of another person can one truly deep can you go into the soul of a fellow human being.The ultimate fathomability of a person is a metaphysical abstraction.At the end of the day this unknowing seems to have worked best.If both of us can coexist,making the necessary compromises,being there when needed then nothing matters more.As for his boredom it is an amplified form of perceiving the world philosophically,a malaise which afflicts me from too.Being with him is vertiginous .There is the thrill in it which transcends the superficiality most relationships are constituted of.We may not share everything but are secure in the dimensions we occupy.No point in extrapolating into either the past or the future.The sheer joy of unison is enough.
I may not grasp his essence or maybe there is no essence.There is just him,the unequivocal him,the reality of which is immitigable.
for now,the present extends to eternity ,time stands still,existence carries itself forward and we move in step from moment to moment unaware of what lies ahead.


When i knew him back then, he exuded enigma. He evinced loquacity, erudition. He was like a mirror in that he reflected himself in my aegis as a becoming i wished to solder to. His knowledge of things was fascinating to witness. One day he rattled of a unceasing discourse on psychoanalysis that took my breath away. I regressed into pliancy, unquestioned submission and capitulation.

Frequent incursions on my flesh reminded me of his masochism yet encased in the aureole of self abnegation i overlooked the forebodings his visitations precipitated. In the penumbra of introspection self awareness would redouble my self loathing because knowing consciously the shame of my predicament coexisted with my inability to alleviate my suffering.

But it is not so much the indeterminate though fortuitous intersection of forceful flesh on passive self that interests me. What fascinates me is his cast of character. That he could demonstrate great knowledge about the world yet retain blissful self unawareness i had discerned early on. What i marveled at was the intensity of his self deception and the conniving intelligence that underlay it. It wasn't simply unambiguous projection which would have rendered his psychological anomalies conspicuous. It was, rather, a circuitous way of putatively alluding, skillfully circumventing and unconscionably repudiating that shocked me. As if the incongruity was simultaneously ruminated on and abrogated as superfluous and extraneous.

I said earlier that he was a mirror. He was a master connoisseur, who, through dubious sleight of hand, proliferated shimmering reflections of becoming that robbed me of any contingent being i may have possessed. He proffered thrilling apotheosis but a transcendence underpinned by grotesquerie and compounded of self deception. He was like a tenebrous cave where i regressed into my primordial constituents.

I understood him quite competently subsequently. The appellation NPD was particularly befitting. Yet even today the nebulosity of his essence remains unknowable. Does he have an essence. In the mosaic of my self constitution which involved a remingling with my being, he occupies an arabesque at once irreal and supra real. And that remains , to this day, my impression.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014


The encircled red fruit looks delicious. Adam says it is an apple. The quest for knowledge brought me here. I came into being through negation. I was a tabula rasa who was brought into being through the rib. Is that where my putative soul reposed, from whence it was wrenched and made to become. I am destined to be the helpmate, the subordinate other. My being is contingent upon his being. Yet the version that actualizes me leaves essentials unexplored. My parthenogenesis leaves unanswered the constituents of the void that made me materialize because to trace my anteriority means reclaiming the void that has created me . What i remember of existence is the salty tang of the womb where i swam, inhaling the saline warmth , letting it suffuse my nostrils and through the mediation of the forces of simultaneal annihilation and creation, irradiate my amorphous filaments of perception. I lay coiled like a foetus, like the serpent coiled in around itelf, its tail and mouth intersecting. In a sense i feel closer to the serpent than to adam because the serpent owes its existence to the nebulous world of the fortuitous and the erasure,with no grand design except to function as an antithesis, a diametrical opposite to the probity of the ostensible good.

Hearing the serpents expostulations on the subterranean charms of the apple is like hearing my unconscious voice telling me to break free. Cogitations, reposing underneath, like indecipherable hieroglyphs are assuming a tangible shape, assuming a form and that form is the formlessness of pre history. The more unformulated my being becomes the more irresistible original sin becomes. I could either retract and avoid this catastrophe or take a plunge and plummet into the nothingness that has been constitutive of what i am.

The serpent's voice is cloying, sticky, like cotton soaked in honey. It rasps deliciously around my spine, abrading me, making me purr with unconcealed delight. It betokens knowledge. Yet what, ultimately is the charm of this knowledge. Is it that ultimate reality will be unearthed or will the irreality underlying phenomena emerge. Will the knowledge of indeterminacy sheathe me in the blamelessness and sinlessness of my act or will it unleash on me the wrath of those whose grand narratives epistemology obliterates all remnants of any telos i might have conceptualized for myself. Fruitless speculations and the destiny of my lot, foreclosed yet propulsively transgressive, etches its own indelible moments of being through this moment in time.

I open my mouth, take a bite and the sharpness of my teeth leave serrated indentations on the apple. The cosmos awaits, destiny explodes.