Thursday, August 7, 2014


Days where the sense of purpose predominated i wrote furiously, impelled by an uncontrollable impulse. Such days often seemed unprecedented. The fact that the interludes before their reappearance lengthened didn't diminish their power. Rather anticipation, even before the execution through inspiration, boded well.
Of course having a disciplinarian rigor implies, among other things, an observable pattern whereas my own pattern was indeterminate, contingent on fits of inspiration whose irregular reemergence coexisted with the fear of losing them altogether. Dependent as my creativity was, and a creativity i hoped to earn my living from,on so precarious a situation, my frustration mounted. I craved inspiration, desiring the muses to descend on me, shower their plenteous beneficence constantly but the protracted nature of these moments caused me grave concern.
What compounded the problem was my awareness that these inspired scribblings were inchoate. If i knew in advance, in my unconscious mind, what i had to write then the form that was to hitherto emerge was unforthcoming. There were mnemonics, capricious blueprints but they, in the lucent light of novelistic clarity, dissolved into oblivion.
Moreover in the absence of form, a structure i found my unconscious playing cruel tricks on me. I became subject to tautologies, repetitions. My story, to be told yearningly, piquantly, began to bore me. And that is the attrition of creativity most inimical to the artistic temperament. Sometimes i wondered if my passionate desire to write was not, perhaps, an obdurate perversion, irresistible. Or whether the anodyne spurtings of my intermittent imagination in love with the myth of the narrative they entombed so ineffectually.
So when push came to shove, i gave up. I couldn't prolong the deception further. The amplitude of plenitude writing filled me with i dismissed with precipitate promptitude. Perhaps i was not meant to be a writer and this was a failure i was willing to acknowledge and accept. It was not resignation because i hadn't yet given up entirely. What i had given up was the ability to be able to write. It would behove me, in all justice, to turn my focus to write about the failure to write.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014


My mind is not a prepossessing place . It is gravid with preponderant suppurations that threaten to burst their pus filled sores. Imagine if such a thing were to happen. What a gelid malodorous emanation there'd be. And imagine that unctuous bitterness. I can feel the bilge rising up in my throat even contemplating it.
My unconscious is a tangled shrub. Spores of flora, such are my memories, stipple the shrub. The occasional thorn pricks as a painful memory. The pulpy mess that is my brain, in response to these prickings, oozes green blood. There are frayed leaves, discarded memories that swirl and whirl. And sometimes my conscious mind like a giant foot crunches them, powdering them into infinitesimal remnants.
Concatenated around this shrub, the frayed leaves, healthy leaves, thorns or perhaps memories, deliberations, thoughts is the shape of a mosaic. My brain is the mosaic. There are arabesques, compartments which constantly reshuffle as the waves of memories ebb and flow, roil and churn. But this mosaic is soggy, sodden, dripping green blood. Sometimes i get the desire to shred this sodden mess , crush it and drink up the oleaginous residue it leaves. My conscious keeps the whole thing running outwardly. The tangled shrub is the kaleidoscope which whirls up randomness, vertiginously. As something is thrown up, an indentation is made in the soggy mess. I imagine putting my finger in there and licking the ooze
Perhaps this misshapen lump will be embalmed for futurity. It will continue to drip its oily residuum's . My body will be floating, somewhere in space.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014


The dials of the clock gleamed phosphorescent in the dark. The movements of minutes was punctuated by the ticking of the seconds. The hour dial moved slowly, almost imperceptibly to me. And all of a sudden my mind bulged. The clock expanded and fragmented. Hours broke up into tiny pixels, minutes even minuter and seconds infinitesimal. My nervous filaments too, simultaneously enlarged, attenuated and burst into tiny blood vessels that throbbed in my head, pulsed with a crackling energy, uncontainable, unconstrained. The clock was now within me.

As the dance of time syncopated to the beat of the hours passing my nerve ends jangled. A vertiginous precipice opened up before me, rendering me dizzy with the kaleidoscopic movements of each arabesque. As the imagination soared, fragments of reason reconstituted and dispersed, worsening the abyss like feeling. As my mind roiled and my head churned my innards started disgorging too . Regurgitated remnants of vomit, streaking the pillow, moist, malodorous brought up further retching. And suddenly the mind stood still, the stomach heaved, contemplated further expelling of ooze and sank back, like a retracting wave, sonorous, recumbent, pregnant with residue.

Gradually the splintered mosaic reaggregated. The arabesques tremulously took up their allotted space. The nerves settled down. The thrum ceased, dwindling into a potential migraine . The dials of the clock clicked back into their respective positions. But something had happened. A journey, perhaps. And all that was left of me was my jaded countenance, enfeebled frame and an untapped energy that coursed through my veins. 


He had an inveterate habit, when he murmured endearments to present our countenances before the mirror. He liked, he often told me, for me to discern the sincerity of his regard. And indeed his probity was undeniable given the warmth that emanated from him, the abundance of love that overflowed. As his eyes lit up, brimming with passion my own rims would be teared. The mirror revealed to us our unfledged integuments and i ,in a cocoon of self regard, susurrated with primeval lust.
Subsequently,with the passage of time i started doubting his regard. He didn't show by any gesture that his love for me had abated but for me, the kernel of doubt grew stronger, more palpable. And i think it was the mirror which crystallized my suspicions.
It was an oval mirror, gilt edged. It was rimmed with an iridescent silvery sheen. Throughout our avowals and protestations of authenticity it was impassive, a noncommittal witness of our mutual solipsism. And i use the word solipsism very carefully because when i say that his regard was unambivalent it was because i wanted to believe,i my heart of hearts, that it was so. So i superimposed my own aegis on his being, interpreting it the way i wanted to. He projected to, it was impossible not to. And for him it was an illusion redoubled as both his self conception and my unreflecting reflection of it back to him contributed to buttress him.
So i think it was more a growing disenchantment with the illusion the mirror was spawning that got to me. I wanted to smash his own mirror, penetrate the honest core of his being. But i was terrified too, terrified that such knowledge may be inimical for my own mental health. Besides the comfort of an illusion is that it keeps reality at bay,through a willed negation. The comfort of such illusoriness, given my own disillusion, atrophied  the faith i had in him, or rather myself. Because, really, what i loved was a simulacrum, a product of my own fancy. Where was his being, in all this? Where indeed, was my being?
However i kept up appearances. Our mutual regard/disregard persisted awhile . I was unwilling to to be forced to relinquish my illusions about him. Besides i wanted to spare him any hint of my growing skepticism. So we performed, i, consciously and him, in a realm of consciousness in the interstice between the conscious and the unconscious.
The mirror reflects what it does, faultlessly, faithfully. On its silvered edges repose our unconscious blueprints. But we preserve our togetherness by scratching our surfaces but leaving our depths unplumbed. That's how i prefer it, anyway.