Saturday, July 12, 2014


Today is my first date. A formal event, enshrining months of tremulous on -off intersections. I woke up in the morning with a pleasurable anticipation. My mind, blotted into oblivion by sleep, took time to gather together and apprehend the cause of my happiness. My mind groped, cast here and there and finally chanced upon, with the willed deliberation of incontrovertible memory, the reason for my jubilation. And it was inescapably, inveterately my first date.

I had met him at a pub where nursing a diet coke, i was ,with desultory aimlessness, looking at the gyrating bodies under the strobe lights. The neon flashed and splashed faces with lurid, spangled light and in he came, from the discotheque, to have a vodka. Our propinquity ,at that point in time, was nebulous, punctuated by interspersed formal colloquies where the solicitation was more significant than the answer sought. It embalmed our interchange as tenuous, but a tenuousness possessed of durability, authentication.

We exchanged numbers and i recall, with uncontainable ecstasy how my fingers trembled when i dialed his number. Our association was too transitory, my sense of morality too irreproachable to permit a precipitous commingling. But despite the protracted avowals and immediate importunate denials there was indubitably a spark and i wanted to extricate this subterranean emotion of all its repressed furtiveness and bring what it so assiduously camouflaged out into the open. I wanted all withholdings cleft, all unforthcoming ness divested .

So i took a long, leisurely shower. I soaped, shampooed, every crevice, every pore of my integument. I wanted to drown myself in intoxicating odorousness and dispel all remnants of lassitude the night may have inveigled on my physiognomy. I doused myself with perfume. Possibility, unlimited opportunity emanated  from every pore of me. I was alive to the limitless potentialities the occasion would occasion. I wanted to surrender, surrender years of uncertainty and self abnegation to a seductive, fulfilling and stimulating encounter that would not only set my senses but my entire consciousness aflame.

He does not yet know the substratum of my desire for cleaving. Today is the day and today is the day i am coming out to him. 

Friday, July 11, 2014


Yesterday i met my therapist for the last time. We were wrapping up a three year intense relationship and all the paraphernalia that constituted our intersection. I felt rather relieved because being independent by nature the prospect of therapy as a crutch had discomfited me, attuning me to my vulnerabilities and weaknesses. Now that the time to move on had come i felt enlivened, reprieved and frankly desirous of moving on.

So today i sit in my dark flat. And i wonder whether the articulation of experience occurs after the experience is experienced. Whether it is possible that i narrate and experience at the same time. In inner time such a feat would be possible but with a linear structure such incongruities are left unavoidably unaddressed.
I always feel that the intensity of an experience, its thereness is contingent on the intensity with which that experience is felt at that particular time. A slight in childhood, passed over without being engaged with can suffuse with mortification when recollected. So then is what happens when true or how what happens when impacts us which is. Ultimately it is the depth of feeling the experience is imbued with that makes it come alive, otherwise empty clods of causality stud our temporal existence, unrevealing and insoluble.

Going back to the therapist who was not, in retrospect, altogether unintelligent, did help me. I was confused and bewildered, the misshapen lump of my life before me. I sought answers or more accurately a reason to exist, to be. She helped me find that through the therapeutic process. I never felt attracted to her, she was too old for that ,old that is, in her spirit of a worldly wisdom that was alternately enervating and inspiring. But i did become infantilized in her presence, seeking her approval and ratification, sometimes dissembling and camouflaging experience to correspond to the tenors of her cognitive consciousness. I think she saw through my performances but judging by the secretive, sly smile such performances elicited i was unsurprised to observe that she was secretly flattered.

The impossible feat i alluded to earlier, that of writing and experiencing simultaneously, is now being actualized. I can feel prickles of perturbation, but prepossessing perturbations, inundate my being. As the words pour forth, the heartbeat quickens, associations proliferate. In my writing i pour my being, rendering this inchoate mesh plausible through the written word. But is what i write reshaping what i already experienced retroactively and am regurgitating or do i write as i feel ,what i feel, how i feel. Are there layers of consciousness which experience traverses and a conscious knowledge is only a substratum of a larger knowing. But this discerning, perceiving consciousness, with its limited time space coordinates is all i have so i will myself into believing, with the full awareness of the provisionality of the truth i refer to, the inescapable commingling to experience and expression.

In a way this ceaseless interplay replicates the therapist's couch. A part of me knows what it's doing, a part which  without knowing, acts out what i'm thinking and there remains, even in my most assiduous veracious moments, stipples of untruth or an undiscerned greater truth. So i speak ,so i write.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014


Now i see you straighten up self consciously as though my gaze has penetrated your being. All at once it seems that you have ,in your consciousness of yourself changed the architecture of at least your outward being. You don't directly look at me though i notice you straining with the effort of nonchalant indifference. But the fact that your eye has a self conscious gleam and your physiognomy an alertness, a piquancy suggests that my presence  have been noted.

Your aquiline nose is highly agreeable. From a distance the tan you have attained through months of gardening is highly prepossessing. You are unavoidably yourself but the demonstration of your being, inveigled as it is through the mode of my gaze, sparks of  associations that i can't trace but experience. My tumescence, i hope, doesn't misguide you into assuming lechery on my part. It is simply that certain nerve ends have been activated. From whence they sprung up, from which memory they emerged transmuting into this tumescence remains indeterminate.

But i notice the flush in your face, the mortification in your eyes and i hastily tug my pants down hoping to camouflage the bulge. Are you flattered or embarrassed ? I somehow can't discern one way or another. But there are certain things which are palpable. The gentle flirtatious posing i've seen you do when photographed is being revealed to me. Your assiduous ministrations to the rose bed betoken a sincerity which was never in doubt but it is endearing to watch you put in this effort, for my sake perhaps. You are rendered performative through my eye. With incredible self consciousness you seem to be doing things to create an effect than doing things for their own sake. And where, amid all this becoming you proffer, is your being? How do i tap into the inner core of your being. At best i can glean, through the interstices of your performance, certain nuggets to incandesce your being. Or i have to assume, though it goes against my philosophic nature, to assume that what you represent is what you are. The search remains nebulous and my conclusions mere projections.

But then if you are metamorphosing under the aegis of my gaze so am i transforming through your indirect but conspicuous counter gaze. Your consciousness reaches out to me, with the laser vision of a powerful beam and makes me self conscious. I notice that i am foreshortening the intensity of my look, that i am endeavoring to evince the same nonchalance that you did. I am concealing my inner tumult, the rippling of my integument yet i am trying not to appear entirely inattentive and indifferent. Caught in this interplay of gaze and counter gaze dissimulation is being extracted from us, by ourselves. But at the end of the day i would choose rather to appear before you in the form i choose and i am certain the same holds true for you. You turn around, smile and return to your gardening. I walk briskly, after rapt contemplation, towards my car.

Monday, July 7, 2014


There have been often, in my life, moments when a greater truth was revealed in a way entirely unexpected. There i'd be, ruminating away and suddenly ,in a flash, a vision would shake me to the very roots of my being. And that day, which i recall vividly, sitting in the garden, i had one such epiphany.

But epiphanies are suspect, aren't they? Often, a completely commonplace reality, something out there but undiscerned by us ,moves us with the urgency of its discovery, of being one of the rarefied few who actually discovered it. And then, the belated, retrospective realization that the thing whose luminosity irradiated was a quotidian fact. While the pleasure of discovery such epiphanies have suffused me with is memorable it it, in hindsight, even in the moment of its being experienced, rather valedictory.

So i was sitting in the garden seat that day and i saw an ant carrying a grain of food ponderously on its back. The breeze lifted the leaves and swayed them to and fro. The sun glinted on and off refractions of variegated colors in the garden. The flowers were animated, their petals dazzling incandescently. Earthworms zigzagged across the turf, severing the sand with their oleaginous bodies. The day was agreeable, the moment perfect for deliberations on nebulous subject matter.

Is there a moment for deliberations though? Is not the moment unbidden. It catches us by surprise because it is unanticipated. Is it altogether unanticipated? A residuum of substratum of awareness is immanent ,though not brought to the conscious forefront. There is both an inevitability and the incredulity a vision contains. And the two are not necessarily contradictory. What is observable though is the sense of abandonment and freedom as though years of attrition into non being were suddenly dislodged and sheer joy of being inveigled in, like a lover ,in a fit of recklessness, demolishes all the mnemonics of the one who betrayed her and symbolically obliterates the unutterable grief the experience had given her.

In the garden i was, then, cogitating. Crumbs of sand were falling off the old bark of the tree, dislodged as the ant ascending the tree traversed that sediment. The birds hopped on the branches and chirruped joyously, their carillons of joy sounding delicious in the open air. The vast canopy of the sky seemed boundless. It stretched infinitely. I thought of the newspaper i left behind in the deckchair where i had read distressing news about the proliferation of mental illnesses.

And a mental illness is what? an indescribable distress that is unutterably painful and traumatizing? a realization that the coordinates of what we take for granted in the world isn't incontrovertible but provisional? It seems that,given the fragmented culture we live in, the permeation of neurosis is unavoidable. Young people are so unhappy these days. And this fragmentation which necessitates a need for unification will be what novelists will talk about. The crises of our day and age will be subject matter for our artists who will, through the medium of their work, pave the way forward.

And what was i, sitting in the garden, watching nature unravel its beauty ,thinking of. I was thinking, yet again, of moments. How a moment cannot be withheld, is experienced infinitesimally, inhabited in the very momentousness of its momentary temporality and there, like quicksilver, it is gone, as whole landscapes pass one by fast and furious as one travels by the metro. Such is the perpetual rush of life. And amid these wavering leaves, singing birds and undulating flowers what i most wanted was to capture the momentous moment and embalm it so that this segment of time, uncapturable, could, through the aegis of the experiencing consciousness, be captured and held.

The moment when i sat and thought through these phenomena was my mind at work. It was an endeavor to crystallize an ephemeral time present. And with this time present, which has become time past,i set this narrative for time future.