Thursday, September 4, 2014


I am ticklish, disconcertingly and literally so. There is a space under my armpits which is my most ticklish part. Even a feather touch there rouses in me uncontrollable mirth which, expended on reiterated ticklings, settles into a stertorous catching up of breath that is both exciting and exhausting.

The reason why tickling has returned to my life is because my partner hasdiscovered this weakness in me. And he exploits it fully. I don't attribute it to malice on his part but a rather jocular playfulness ,manifested physically. In bed, with a sort of casual propinquity he starts tickling and leave me with helpless laughter.

This recalls my parents tickling me too, an undeniable proclamation of love. And indeed there is something ingenuous about tickling ,a space for shared laughter and joyousness, a communal thrill, as it were. As a child many such moments did i face and my valedictory memory of them is now a reality with my partner's ministrations.

Another memory that stands out is when the tickling went too far. There is a knife edge between pleasure and pain and what began as innocent gameplaying often became, unbeknownst to my parents, a deep pain, uncontainable . The tears they mistook as those of joy were not only byproducts of unconstrained laughter or exhausted happiness but those of powerlessness where i lay completely at their mercy, to be tickled at will and tormented thus. The spectre of my disenfranchisement and provisional existence affected me profoundly.

As a child i was often assailed by a sense of a prelapsarian loss. What constituted this eden was undiscerned by me and all i got were certain intimations, sometimes sanguine, often murderous. The adult world was a mystery, a hieroglyph i wanted to decipher so i could navigate it on my own terms and not feel hopeless before . But, child as i was, such deracintion as the adult world suffused me with was inevitable. I was neither here nor there, in the interstices of the otherworld, without knowing what it was and this world, without knowing how to negotiate it. And ticking represented, in its simultaneously contradictory significations, an emblem of what i never knew or lost but experienced pleasurably and the trauma of what seemed to be to be a space of volitionless fulcrum in a threatening world.

With my partner it is different. He is prompted by sheer playfulness. Though sometimes i do wonder whether,in a spirit of masochism he is punishing me for something i don't know i did to him.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014


Waking up from a slumber profound yet chaotic i remembered my dream. This is something i am habituated to do in the mornings . Even before i brush my teeth i sit awhile in silent contemplation, recollecting the dream i had the night before while i slept. Of course not all my recapitulations are accurate. Imprecision is very much conspicuous and because the whole experience of traversing realms of consciousness is so amorphous veracity founders.

And it is inevitable that veracity founders because it is an experience incontrovertibly mine. I don't have another person to share my dream with except for the indubitable phenomenology of dreaming itself. Dream content is sometimes pellucid, sometimes abstruse. But waking up or wakefulness which is a realm of consciousness can never accurately revivify the dream. Constructions are ineluctable, as is a certain falsity.

Yet the dream i had tried to recollect was both assuming form and dissolving into formlessness. The constituents were dispersing and attenuating but the manifest dream content was truthfully remembered. As far as the latent dream content goes it belongs to the hinterland of the unconscious, a space i am terrified of approaching for fear of unsavory aspects of my self which might, with their attendant dark neuroses, disconcert me.

In a sense this dream i had is like a memory in that recollection is contextual. I know that this is a dream i will remember at many future junctions in my life and each time, with contingent shifts, the experience of having dreamt, like a memory will imperceptibly transform. The integument of experience and the coordinates that constitute it would remain the same but a metamorphosis of context would dapple the dream/memory with a contemporaneous signification.

Memory recalls the singular and the collective and so do dreams. If a dream can be reconfigured and represented in a grotesque, unfamiliar form then so can memory be reshaped with subsequent rememberance. In fact dreaming is a form of memory in that aspects of being, experience and reality are peregrinated, reconstructed and absorbed into present forms. Or conversely memory itself is a kind of dream because it is an experience, sometimes repressed which, like a dream resurfaces unbidden and precipitately, sometimes spectrally. A dream can be interwoven with memory as dreams become memory by a remembering of past through present . The dream needs to occur for its memory to be entombed.

And even where dreaming and experiencing unconsciously intersect it is a retroactive experiencing of a predetermined dream because the network and lineaments of the dream are already set in motion, waiting for faithful recapturing.

All these speculations on dreaming emerged from the fact that the  dream i had was that i was having a dream. By transfiguring the process into language i have actualized it.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014


The vitreous nature of my reflection unnerved. Before my eyes i shimmered dazzlingly, as my reflected being swayed before my perceiving self. The glass was impassive but my consciousness had altered.
Outside the iridescent moon sent forth cool shafts of light. Meanwhile my breath, on this cold day expelled exhalations whose mistiness blurred my reflection momentarily before the very breath that created the mist was, with the accompaniment of a rubbing forefinger, dissolving the original blurring into the tenebrous night . And because the blurring was both evanescent and wispy, it reposed infinitesimally and then, with volitional blotting out, was obliterated.
But the thumbprint created a smudge ,its own reflection within the reflection of my self in the mirror. Except that it was both a reflected causality and the reflecting counterpoint to its own nothingness. With that smudge the true nature of the mirror, its impersonal arbitrariness was materialized out of nothingness, reposed on emptiness and like the subterranean underwriting of the palimpsest became, with its incertitude of non being, an indivisible reality of unreality.
My own image, dazed by the incandescence of my inner radar navigated the circumference of my inner being. Nothing concrete came up but certain arabesques, hitherto aligned in a certain pattern, were imperceptibly reconfigured. And with that life, reality, myself as i understood them lost their sharp edges, became impermanent and ephemeral, just like the mirror. The mirror and i coalesced.


He left me. Not that it matters . And even if it did there would be nothing i could do about it. And even if there were anything it would be ineffectual and fruitless. And despite the fact that it would be ineffectual and fruitless i tried to do something about it. And because there was something done it did something.
It did something though what it did was of little use ,given the fact that he was intransigent which led him to, despite my earnest expostulations, to reject me, a rejection whose weight struck me down irrevocably, with full force causing, at that moment as well as afterwards, a dull blunting pain that was irrecoverable, irretrievable, inexorable.
He left me, cleft me. He moved me, unproved me. He ,with his demurral  , made me corral . We cleaved though never interleaved. He hurt me, by being curt. I was undone, with his spurn. I was lonely because i was comely. He laid me and i paid him. With my love, far and above. Which he rejected, with anger ejected. So here i am all alone, cold as stone, with the desire to pick a bone.
Okay he's left me. So yeah what can i do. I am, like totally bereft. And you know, it doesn't really matter. I don't freaking care. He can ,like, whatever, do as he pleases. I am done, totally and he can go and like i care, find another woman who, anyways will dump him coz he's like ,like i said, a prick.
For whatever it is worth he has left and it doesn't really matter because he has by behaving obnoxiously shown that the faith i had in him has been betrayed and this predicament he has landed me in is of his making and not mine and i wish to move on and find a new life for myself and i will because i am strong and stoical and as far as i am concerned i have finished with him.

Monday, September 1, 2014

Variations on a phone call

He called up. Well, i feel a huge sense of relief. After our last argument i anticipated the cold shoulder and by calling up thus, resuming the sweetness of the salad days of our interchanges he has proved that he bears no grudge. Though i do wish that some allusion to our unmentioned argument be made so that my certainty would be redoubled.
Okay, he's called up. I thought that when i said those harsh bitter, excoriating words to him he'd find it hard to forgive me. I hadn't meant to eviscerate or humiliate him but in a fit of unrepressed rage i managed to utter expletives that i ordinarily wouldn't. It is nice that he is conciliating.
Whatever it may imply, he's called up. I told him on his face that our relationship was going nowhere. I made it palpable to him that if he expected either capitulation or dissembling then i am not the person for him. I think i was judicious in my observations, wanting the best for both of us which lies in our separation. For whatever its worth, polite of him to call.
He has actually called up. I am afraid that the ferocity of my vituperation might disconcert him. I was fearful that he'd leave me and in the face of that fear i demonstrated my irascibility and fractiousness. He seems to be offering the olive branch despite my terror at the irrevocability of my dismissal. And for him to call up thus, in the face of my importunity, is gratifying.
He has dared to call up. The sanctimoniousness and  ineffectual justifications . I told him that weak men are not my type. His inability to take decisions, make choices, assert his presence grates on my nerves. After waiting endlessly for a commitment this dithering and prevaricating suffuses me with immense anger. I've wasted 3 years on this relationship. And now, despite my strong injunction to let me be he has the temerity to call me.
It is better that he called up. Yesterday i a fit of remorse at my unresponsiveness i dissimulated, letting him augment his illusion that i loved him. But my tremulousness must have spoken volumes, despite my taciturnity. Today i intend to tell him, nicely, politely that i want to end it. And it is fortuitous that he called.

Sunday, August 31, 2014


Men scare me and i confess that at the outset. There is, in married men,an
observable staidness and steadfastness which frightens me. And it frightens me because an outward demonstration of fidelity conceals,i am certain, primal impulses that because they are repressed manifest themselves with redoubled ferocity.
So i choose the easy way out. I get into relationships and as soon as a pattern begins to emerge, a settled quality i scuttle away before anything eventful occurs. There are many unhappy marriages wherein a simulacrum of love is discernible which is also a travesty of it. Many men, during courtship are on their best behavior and my putative flightiness is a way of maintaining that fun side while avoiding all the pitfalls and contingencies.
Trust me ,there are very few as staid as me. In fact i'd like nothing better than to have a stable relationship with a single person. Comforting to me is the thought of coming home after a tired day and finding the one person i love, with the love too, conspicuous and expressible. This ebb and flow tires me no end , this constant flux is exhausting but i am escaping misery by choosing transience, by opting for impermanence.
Neither can i nonchalantly disavow the relationships i have ended. A part of my being, entombed in the one i loved for that moment, is obliterated, leaving in its wake an emptiness i subsequently endeavor to overcompensate with another partner. The pattern, tautologous, replicates itself and i , believing myself protected from harm, continue to damage the core of my being which, however nebulous, nonetheless, is.
Though a relationship in itself brings out the myriad dimensions of my self. There is the calm, impassive me, whose unperturbed demeanor brings a measure of calm in a man who, fearful of hysterics, in nonplussed. Then there is the hysterical side of me which, after the man leaves, indulges in an orgy of bingeing on chocolates and wine.Overriding it all is the skeptical believer in me who believes despite unmitigated reality and doubts despite the promptings of my inner self. Caught in these interstices i flit neurotically, apprehending my predicament, knowing the way out yet, and yet, remaining non involvedly involved.