Saturday, September 20, 2014


When Robert left me i was left with the memory of our furious parting words.

'you're a control freak. You were consuming me. You have an insatiable appetite for emotion. And i hate you for this'.

The 'i hate you' were the three words that dissociated themselves from his entire tirade and lodged reiteratively in my benumbed mind, repeating themselves in different variations until i though i'd go mad. These three words, feverishly obsessing me were, to me, points of sanity because contained in their maddening cadences was the incontrovertible fact of his having left. And it was this absence i had to accept, unconsciously as well as cognitively, for me to move on.

And move on i did. For some time, in a bland observance to the quotidian i immured myself in my daily routines. Truth to tell i was in a state of shock. All consciousness of my being with him was in a limbo. I, with frightening impassivity, presented a dour, stoical face to the world. Friends, commiserating, dropped in to proffer empathy but my stony profile must have distanced them because their ministrations,at best provisional, were terminated rapidly.

When i allowed myself to think and it was with a great unpacking of this wall of repression in me that i could i ruminated wistfully on his 'i love you moments'. Being loquacious, his demonstrations were convincingly sincere but i wondered if they weren't based on his lack of understanding of my actual nature.Because i do believe, with unmitigated fatalism, that there is in us, an intractable self, a compendium of our collective history and neuroses. That i was unsentimental, pragmatic, taciturn was ,to me, the essence of who i was. A lifetime of repression had crystallized these propensities and changing them, becoming more communicative, as it were, was inconceivable to me.

With inveterate finality my self doubt, immanent, reared up. I began to see Robert's point of view. He had divined, perhaps penetrated the essence beneath the essence i thought was my essence . My wordlessness must have conveyed volumes. And indeed this yearning, passionate hunger i felt for him, a hunger i never acknowledged as mine when we were together, convinced me that beneath my practicality lay a fount of passion and insecurity. That perhaps my commonsensicality was an ineffectual barricade against my more primitive desire to possess and incorporate.

Going to a therapist didn't help much either. I was excoriating a past that was irrevocable. And putative moments of clarity were,ineluctably, moments of homecoming because i knew, with unequivocal certainty, all that was being offered to me as interpretation. Robert's absence had, in my interlude of quiescence, inveigled a process of morbid introspection. The discoveries of therapy were anti climactic.

The more i learnt about my true nature the more i felt a need to conceal it and great was my terror at its being found out. I couldn't stop wanting and possessing an object of love but i couldn't also expect a subject complicit enough to submit to my expectations. I am prepared to forswear that a dialectic of dissimulation and denial will constitute all my future relationships and that i am an incurable neurotic. But i am what i am and i hope, earnestly hope, that one day i will meet a fellow neurotic whose capitulation to my madness will be predicated on my acceptance of his.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014


Impassive, largely noncommittal, the mirror reposes. Its silvered depths extend into nothingness. The sunlight, dappled yet shaded by an awning slants into the reflexive surface of the mirror. A reciprocative slant of light is reduplicated . The two lights are distinct yet part of a larger aura of incandescence whose alternate vitreous and fitful play makes the light peek in out, like a breath, indrawn and expelled. In those interstices a being, a consciousness of the natural world, unfurls nebulously.
A butterfly hands mid air, pausing to contemplate itself as itself in the mirror. The light, slanting in, alights on the butterfly's wing and a polychromatic shimmer of iridescence flashes in the air, points of light, intricately colored yet dazed and hazed by the intensity of the light. To the mortal eye pinpoints of color, dotted yet floating flash here and there near the circumference of the mirror. The retina, still adjusting to the blinding glare, has to shut and open, reiteratively, for the luminosity to cohere, settle, repose equably.
Meanwhile the butterfly zigzags hither and thither, coming to perch on the rim of the mirror. Its wings flutter and it traverses the mirror, kissing the various specular points of its temporal presence in the mirror. Although the butterfly is, in effect, kissing itself it is also bestowing, with these fitful gestures, an oblation to the negotiable space of the mirror. Its possibilities of flight extend beyond the mirror. For the moment though the mirror is negotiated, as though the limits of seeing are tested before, with a swoop of inexpressible joy, the butterfly gives up on the mirror, flying off.
Seeing is perceiving but perception transcends sight. A whole spectrum of seeing and perceiving, being and becoming, has passed through the mediation of the mirror. The glass is still glass but, by making metaphysics emerge through the self enclosed chrysalis of the narcissism consciousness contains, the mirror has shown the way out.


The fact that i am in a position to register my deterioration does me no good. I am disintegrating, strand after strand of my being flaking off, dispersing, merging with an indifferent world. The attenuated bits that do remain, are deceptively coruscating in my penumbral consciousness. Largely, it is a dissolution so searing, so intense that even the core of who i am,exists as part of a larger fragmentation. Things have fallen apart.
Chair. Table. Bookshelf. What do they betoken. I see a shape, a form, with a palpable structure but my mind has lost its powers to identify that form with the thing. The forms differ, their patterned whorls vary but an underlying similitude seems to emanate from everything, the mechanical whiff of the commodified, the object laden universe of which i am an impotent constituent.
Meaning, and what is meaning, given that meaning means something, given the meanness of my meaninglessness which is, indubitably mean because things no longer mean what they mean, considering that what mean means or by what means i could make mean mean, have meaning, mean something, a concrete meaning in an amorphous world, meaning through its meaning, by the fact of having meant something because meaning should mean, it is meaningful to presume that mean is divested of any fulness, is reduced to being mean, in short meaningless.
Compartments. Fragmentation, Atomization. Severing. splitting.
Chaos, confusion. Freneticism. Primordiality. Dissolution.
Being. Becoming. Self. Other. Identity.
Meaninglessness. Nothingness. Darkness. Emptiness. Chasm.
Non being. Darkness. Journey. Metaphysics. Being.
In order to rediscover my being i had to subsume myself in non being which was a different order of being i navigated both fruitlessly and effortfully as what i sought did not lie anywhere outside of me but within me whose significations alternately rendered meaning visible or dissolved into meaningless which by virtue of its inchoate meandering quality soon became as an emblem of chaos a signifier of a higher being metaphysics irradiated by affirming that being could be wrested from non being.

Sunday, September 14, 2014


On first arriving in this city, in my capacity as a trained psychoanalyst, i was struck by the indifference with which my arrival was greeted. This indifference, i soon discovered was an ineffectually concealed belligerence. Clearly i was an unwelcome presence and my being here,in this official capacity was, with people accustomed to dissimulation, an unnerving encounter.

Observably a simulacrum of seemliness prevails. This is a people who are uncompromisingly moralistic. Sometimes their moral sense is intractable. But it is soon discernible that such a rigid adherence to morality camouflages their depredations. While publicly they denounce aberrant behavior they nurse ,in their imaginations, rococo fantasies of incest and subversive neurosis. The more their imaginations betray their apocryphal standards the more irreproachable their outward demeanor becomes.

This populace has an inveterate propensity towards narcissism. They all believe that the selves they present so assiduously are the selves they actually are. Though their unconscious attests to the nebulousness of any self conception they are an intransigent lot. Habituated to repression and overcompensating an insidious unconscious with dubious probity their denial of their inwardness, inversely proportional ,in its ferociously redoubled self censorship, with disquieting reminders of it, is conspicuous.

They are a neurotic lot. In a subterranean dimension of their minds they are people who believe that they can have anything. A pervasiveness of guilt, a guilt they experience with immeasurable resentment, belies their potentiality for self destructive behavior. Among their young teens instances of self harm and anorexia/bulimia are glaring reminders that the unconscious is ineluctably inveigled into their conscious minds and the contradictory intersections between the two produce devastating consequences.

It is also surprising, though in retrospect incontrovertible that they have a very high proportion of mental illness. Their defense mechanisms, predicated on denial, are insufficient as a bulwark against insanity. By counterpointing misshapen chaos with compartmentalizations they endeavor, through an incompensatory superimposition of rationality, to counteract neurosis. But,as stated earlier, such protective measures founder and collapse.

Ultimately in their simultaneous valorization and impugning of the mentally ill they demonstrate a singular lack of empathy. Their indefatigable discourses around what constitutes madness renders them incapable of apprehending the trauma the mentally ill face . They create institutions around mental illness yet see the mentally ill as incapable of resuming subjectively fulfilling life . Rates of recovery are high but rates of relapse and recurrent hospitalizations, augmented by an obdurate allegiance to a norm , reveal the amorphousness of their scaffoldings.

Conclusion- A state of avoidance, of not creating a healthy dialogue around madness, has cost this town dearly. My own attempts at restitution, foiled by their resistance, has left me concluding that unless a cataclysmic rupture shatters this precarious false equilibrium, these self destructive patterns will tautologously replicate in multitudinous variations, betokening eventual annihilation.