Friday, August 22, 2014

WHY?

WHY?

Because you are handsome enough to radiate an energy that envelops me. I would say that i am being forced to leave because i am attracted to you. Transference is what most therapists both anticipate and dread, isn't it? Well rather than put you in an invidious position i choose to render , by my voluntary, volitional leaving, the balance righted and unretractable. I don't know why i fell for you. Mind you,what i feel is not sexual. I don't want to sleep with you but certain proximate corporeal imaginings render my departure unavoidable. And it isn't as though you are particularly intelligent or sensitive. There is a dogged self righteousness about you that i find despicable. My intelligence, and i don't postulate this boastfully or egoistically, but with sufficient equanimity counterpointed your less than intelligent navigation of our entire relationship. It seems incongruous to me that i feel for you this attraction which is both sexual yet not sexual or, at any rate, not sexual enough. And i know you like me, admire me, respect my intelligence and sensitivity, all those qualities,in short ,in which you are conspicuously deficient. And i am emboldened to strike out and speak the truth in this because i am leaving. I pause before classifying this departure as an irrevocable breach. But i have no doubt that given your high sounding therapeutic principles you'd never see me again.

WHY?

Because even though you encourage me to talk about this transference with you which i have tried to articulate as dispassionately as possible, you would notice, inveterately, a wall between us. Things would get awkward and i'd become self conscious. I would dissemble, prevaricate, construct an image before you that is completely at variance with who i am. And because you are so impressed by me, impressed by my knowledge of psychoanalytical theory, you'd fall for it too. I am very capable of using your theories against you, manipulate the constituents of your epistemology to conceal, camouflage and dissimulate. A fundamental falseness would constitute our relationship. Whatever need binds you to me is something you have to figure out how to deal with. It really doesn't concern me in any way. Whatever counter transference there is and i do get hints of it in the slippages of your responses to me is something i choose not to dwell on. I want to get out and go to another therapist, preferably a woman where the transference would not take a sexual form.

Why?

Because it must be obvious to you that all this circuitous conversation i'm having with you attests to the reality of my sexual orientation and by failing to grasp it you demonstrate your habitual obtuseness. You never caught on, did you because i never told you. Your invitation to complicity and collusive , cosy chats on transference and counter transference fail to impress me in the slightest. We can sit and excoriate, talk all kinds of theoretical obliquities and recondite reasonings but the fact remains, incontrovertibly that sitting before you in a session , witnessing your handsomeness, discomfits me immeasurably.Because i am beset by longings i am unwilling to explore further for fear of discovering disconcerting aspects of my unconscious. I choose, rather, to let you know, that i will not be coming back. I hope you will understand.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

ON THE PHONE

'Hello 'says the voice.

And instantly a welter of associations bubbled in my mind. The voice touched some deep core of me. Yet the conversation that would ensue would touch, like a butterfly, with a light touch, even on weighty subject matter. A need for colloquy, however transitory would be appeased so i said 

'hello ,how are you?'

soliciting which query satisfied my need for information about her well being though onerous considerations would be subsumed for the sake of expediency

'yes ,the gaza issue has brought out the worst in many'

i bethought myself of facebook and online spaces where the divisive opinions the issue generated had caused many a squabble. How vainglorious human beings were, full of folly, alloying happiness with self interest and how you, speaking to me, unbeknownst to yourself, partake of the same self righteousness

'you're so right, i asseverated, we are , as a species, a dreadful lot.'

It seemed, in that precipitate moment that we really connected. Though only partially aware of your circumstances i could see your soul, embittered, disillusioned and my own jaded consciousness responding, in the form of messages i relayed non verbally, of the environment, the political shenanigans.

'No i don't think you're fragmented, though perhaps you are'

The connection deepened . Misgivings which i had harboured about my own lapses into non being mirrored your own. Suddenly with the chasm still vertiginous, we found solace in thus being able to talk honestly about how scanty, sordid, unutterably incomplete we both felt. Custom dissolved, convention receded and our naked, primordial beings, intersected and communed profoundly, in a delicious moment of unalterable collectivity.

'I don't know if i think he's all that bad, much that is good in him'.

And suddenly the evanescent interchange of intimacy, the moment of poignancy collapsed. We were after all two beings, separate, sheathed indivisibly in the integument of our self containment. Though we had blended we were now irrevocably severed.

'Bye, take care' And i replace the receiver.

Monday, August 18, 2014

PURPLE AND PROSE

The ink drips spurts of ink which mass themselves as blots, liquid blobs, reposing or else hanging pendant from the pen. The paper sprawls below, both as canopy and destination. The black fountain pen shivers and trembles in the act of being turned in to writing. The pen wavers, the ink drop shivers. Perpetual replenishment from the inkpot keeps the nib juicy and blue, a rather purplish blue from which purple prose will emerge, iridescent gems gleaming luridly against the whiteness of the paper, self contained, enclosing their own blank nothingness.
Prose
The ink is dried. Words , through the pen as conduit, have funneled out, leaving the mind empty. With this severing of thought and word a sudden emptiness prevails, the mind a tabula rasa. Though words are scrawled their significations are still hieroglyphic. They are gossamer, entombing nebulosities. The blank sheet, like the blank mind is a vast palimpsest. Overwritten are remnants of a residual perceiving consciousness. Before the writing was a vast hinterland which stretches indefinitely after it is done. Both purple and prose are out, the reader has now come in.