Saturday, August 30, 2014


The day he left me to carry on with another relationship i felt relieved and reprieved. Our acrimonious sniping had persisted long enough for us to long for a release from monotonous squabbling and scoring points off each other. Ours was a battle for ascendancy and supremacy of suffering and the more we sought to establish ourselves as sufferers the more vituperative our eviscerations became.
When he left that day my relief was accompanied by a strange emptiness. Quarrelsomeness is grating but proof of propinquity, however incompatible and this sudden silence, a silence as much existential as circumstantial, left me bereft. It was strange that i was buffeted by contradictory feelings of liberation and self containment, a containment where my solitariness would be an essential, inescapable accompaniment.
There were moments when i longed to call him back, repatch our tumultuous relationship, accept that i was wrong and could we please carry on from where we left off. But such self abnegation was inconceivable to me even in this moment of weakness. Throughout my adult years i've been in one relationship or the other and i've rebounded often with great rapidity, precipitated into seeking closeness, only to be foiled repeatedly.
So an unpartnered residual loneliness was unavoidable. And frankly i was tired of all the searching around for a perfect partner. I wanted to lick my wounds in peace, contemplating, with growing equanimity, the prospects for my future which seemed strangely indeterminate and suffused with untapped possibility.
But the day he left me was spent largely in rumination. When we were conciliatory we were our better selves and when we fought the worst came out of us. In the midst of this oscillation between the was and should be our true selves were obliterated. And i suppose by a true self i imply an unequivocal awareness of conscious motives in the unconscious mind. But fidelity necessitates compromise and being an inveterate procrastinator i succumbed to the vagarious tides of feeling our relationship engendered and going by its shifting hues changed my stance of allegiance accordingly.
The decision he took to leave was taken the very morning he left. He was surprisingly humble, willing to take on his fair share of blame. I was rendered inarticulate as though the incessant din of our arguments was replaced by a disorienting interlude of unmitigated silence . Habituated to belligerence, acquiescence unnerved me. And before i could formulate a suitable rejoinder he'd already left.
This importunate gesture on his part left me confused. But i intend to sort things out in my mind. After all i've been neurotic long enough.

Thursday, August 28, 2014


After his mother died he was inconsolable. He lost weight, ate minimally and lapsed into a torpor of unbelonging . It seemed he was cast adrift. The delicious ironies and circumlocutions that constituted our earlier interchanges were now reduced to monosyllabic colloquies usually uttered by me, only to be met with his bewildering unresponsiveness.
I tried to talk him out of it, presenting the naturalness of death as an antidote to life's greater mysteries. In bed he was cold and my erotic ministrations were disregarded. Never had i witnessed such unmitigated mourning and try as i might to reach the core of his grief i would never succeed because he was in another zone altogether, unreachable, cold and distant.
I trusted to time to alleviate his misery, hoping that an observable duration would palliate the intensity. At the same time i decided to exercise vigilance, to be observant of subtle changes in demeanor and circumvent them before they were eroded by attrition. Clearly he was deeply attached to his mother and the loss had hit him hard, brought out the vulnerability immanent in him.
As far as my reflections were concerned he seemed to revert to a primitive state. It seemed to me that the ineluctability of death overrode its finality for him. The death had occurred had struck a blow from which he, insensate, irretrievably enmeshed, refused to recover.
I do not know the exact nature of his relationship to his mother though i do discern a closeness, an inviolable propinquity that drew them close to each other. Is it the fact of her absence or the unavoidability of his protracted presence in her absence that grieved him thus? Did he wish to subsume himself to the depredations of self annihilation to restitute the misery her death engendered? Such speculations, fruitless though undeniable surfaced in my consciousness inveterately.
Slowly he recovered. We started having sex again. Yet the ardor, the fervor was missing. Though a resumption of the quotidian was outwardly accomplished an inner withering had taken place. As for me, who claimed to know him there was not only the realization that there were aspects of his being i could never understand but that a part of him, with her death, had died to. And with this shriveled togetherness i'd have to contend and be content with.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014


I am entombed in legend as a symbol. Irrespective of what i symbolize it is my incongruity that marks me out. If a blinkered vision, a limited perception is the aegis with which i am  eviscerated then confessing to longings of love and desire redouble my anomalousness. I am thrice removed from apotheosis i.e by my gender, my sexuality and my bestiality.

I don't crave flesh, flesh is not the thing that motivates me. Putrefying flesh smells rancid and the blood, with its metallic stench makes me retch. It is when i think of love,a body beneath me that my spittle gleams in the moonlight, my molars coruscate iridescently and my female musk deepens, becomes more sexualized, reeks of lust.

But, as i asseverated earlier it is not bestiality which constitutes me but humaneness. I represent the primal woman, strong, self aware, unafraid to flaunt her intelligence and sexual energy. I symbolize intuition, grace, empathy. In a sense though my integument is bestial my consciousness is ethereal, rarefied, almost angelic. I straddle the worlds of corporeal fleshiness and transcendence. In a way myth embalmed me as a signifier and it is as an intimation of incorporeality that i conceptualize my sexual being.

I run across her granddaughter in the forest but i hasten to the cottage where she'd be. I impersonate the granddaughter's voice with a quivering falsetto. She tells me the latch is open. And thus i let myself in.

Her response on seeing me is one of incredulous horror. She mewls piteously, spittle foaming her wrinkled cheeks. But it is not the senselessness of her terror that excites me. The filigree wrinkles are soft to the touch, like silk. I abrade it with my tongue. Beneath the smell of powder and sweat is her primeval smell of wisdom and depth. Seeing her is like looking into a mirror and finding an anthropomorphic equivalent of my own humaneness. My darkened nipples harden, my breath quickens and i indent with my incisors, albeit gently, the engorged tips of her nipples. As my tongue licks away her puckered flesh the wolverine in her is aroused. She pinches my nipples beneath her fingers, kisses me tremulously.

And by the mirror by the bedstead is visualized not a wolverine and an old woman but two primal souls, conjoined, rejoicing that our mythic blueprints, with their respective indivisible ontologies, have now coalesced. 

Tuesday, August 26, 2014


I lost my husband five years back. I was a by and large loyal wife. ministered to his needs, particularly towards his calamitous end. I cooked innumerable meals across the years, ironed his shirts again and again. Unsurprisingly i find that not only do i miss my husband but i actually love him even now.

I met him at a poetry reading. He was tall, dark and handsome, the typical paraphernalia of what would subsequently attract me irresistibly and conclude in marriage. His poetry is muscular and dense. Yet it has this simplicity, this ingenuousness, this belief in the sanctity and beauty of art.

When he was diagnosed with lung cancer i discovered the depth and intensity of my love. I was fearful that he was going away but i knew that in this interlude between life and death the time i spent with him as immeasurably precious and valuable . I do so miss him.

He had a propensity towards depression. Things would be going well and suddenly imperceptibly his mood would darken, his attitude towards life become more infused with gloom. Then he would lash out, rage and utter unutterable expletives. Moments like these i hated him.

He had an affair in the middle years of our marriage. A casual thing he disavowed utterly as inconsequential. I met her at a party. She was beautiful, charming and very intellectual. And i could see why he fell for her. I could have killed him for this apostasy.

I circumvented his artistic abstractions by retreating to my own shell. He'd become inattentive, distracted and angry if he were interrupted. He wouldn't even eat a proper meal, preferring indiscriminate and voracious snacking to the more rigorous discipline of a meal. He felt distant to me then

We watched titanic together. We were in our fifties. He was impressed by the movie though, being disdainful of emotional display, he kept this to himself. While watching the movie i glanced at him and saw him teared up and the sight of this vulnerability touched me profoundly.

So my feelings for him were tempestuous and sometimes contradictory. But as i run through our moments of togetherness it is the incandescent i choose to recall than the tenebrous. I've run through the light and dark of our momentous intersection but he's gone now. I need to move on.

Monday, August 25, 2014


After father died, or rather the day he died, i met him. He was attractive, tall and muscular, not beefed up like an unprepossessing gym product but well built. I met him at a pub where after dad's funeral i ,in need of solace, sauntered in. In the impersonality of the pub i felt reassured, anonymous and indeterminate.
I was nursing a diet coke and i felt his gaze fall on me. Throughout father's protracted death by cancer i'd been having vivid sexual dreams, dreams i couldn't replicate in life for fear of desecrating his illness yet dreams which, with their disconcerting intimations of primal sexual energies, discomfited me, robbed me off sleep.
In the period while father's illness lasted i was stoical. My courage was commended, my unfussy imperturability appreciated. And indeed i greeted his actual death with considerable equanimity, prepared as i had been, in the intense phases of the impossibility of his recovery, with the prospect of inexorable demise.
The dusk was inclement and penumbral. We went back to my flat where we fucked, indefatigably, passionately and primordially. Given the nature of what had occurred that day my ardor must have surprised him, caught him unawares. As for me, i was staving off anxiety, purloining, with this furious lovemaking, any vitalization of life that life itself proffered to me.
The next morning he was gone. I had father's clothes to tidy up and dispose of. And i undertook this task with grim displeasure but out of an unavoidable sense of duty. Diffuse memories, non linear, cropped up, refracting into areas of dismay here, entombed as future misgivings there.
And this cavalcade of reminiscences i would sort out with my therapist. I looked forward to endless hours of colloquy, with ,i hope, not unprofitable conclusions. But for the moment, with the dismal hour veering irrevocably towards the crepuscular i wanted him again. He'd left a number by the bedside and i invited him over.
This night was a etiolated version of yesterday . My ardor was substantially less frenetic however, more circumspect. I gave less of myself and often, most surprisingly, saw in the window which reflected our intersection not his impassive profile but the face of my dead father.
In the morning we parted. Already father's death seemed less fatalistic. I felt emboldened to hope for a positive outcome, to hope for a future uninflected by my father's intractable being. The past would hopefully be consigned to oblivion.