Friday, October 24, 2014


She lost her lover in a car accident as i had lost mine, to infidelity, four years back. I could feel shock and disbelief overwhelming her but i forbore to interject with my self righteous rejoinder. 'At least, your loss is not as bad as mine. With me it was loss of faith and trust, worse than any mortal shock' Such were my unconscious communications with her.I retained an outward imperturability which, given the discomfiting memories her own grief were inducing, was onerous. But dissembling or more preferably a putative emotional balance is what people have always prized in me. So, corroborating the agreeable views people were disposed to have of me, i circumspectly kept my own counsel.
Don't get me wrong. I do feel for her. Her sense of shock is conspicuous and heartrending . I sense her pain. But it seems to me that while her circumstances are understandable her situation less dire than mine. I still ruminate plaintively on my own predicament while simultaneously sympathizing with her. And while imputations of self centeredness are inevitable i can only say that mortality is a blow whose unavoidability renders the loss bearable, palliates the initial shock with subsequent acceptance and even a certain valedictory wistfulness. But a betrayal of faith such as my experience attests rends the precarious belief in the human condition which buoys up tenuously at the best of times.
When he left me for another woman i was heartbroken. A paralyzing numbness seized me. Being a pragmatic person i eschewed apportioning blame. Playing the victim is a mentality i abhor and relinquished as fruitless long back. Which is why her response, which seems, despite the irrevocable nature of her loss, so extreme bothers me. Why people make such a fuss about mortality is inconceivable to me. Each infinitesimal betrayal, apostasy, abrogation of decency that human beings enact, practically every moment of their lives, is a compendium of infinitesimal deaths in itself.
I do understand the fusillade, the outpouring of her grief. There is an appropriateness in such demeanour. My own obdurate refusal to spill my guts out earned me the reputation of cold heartedness. But the point surely is that beyond the question of right and wrong, good or bad, the incontrovertibility of destiny predicates itself. Alleviation of self blame or projection of guilt are only partially compensatory. They touch, or rather inhabit, the superfluous integument of our being. But the complex paraphernalia of our selves, tied up with another person, experiences loss much more viscerally. In the face of the enormity of this loss and its attendant debasement and emptiness, the question of responsibility loses its importance, indeed dissolves.
So while her situation draws out in me painful memories of my own i maintain a show of equilibrium. My own apotheosis has been my unsentimental acceptance of harsh, unmitigated reality. As far as the allegations of hard heartedness i alluded to earlier are concerned i view them sanguinely as pragmatism of the most unpretentious kind. Still her emotional pain arouses in me, despite my misgivings about such expressions given my simultaneous empathy with them, a certain undiscerned feeling of love. I vacillate between proffering words of counsel or providing a comforting hug and kiss. I opt for the latter.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


He was handsome, as i could see from the outset. It was an agreeable handsomeness, a poignant handsomeness.I was uncertain whether my visceral response constituted a sexual undercurrent. In general i am wary of certitudes. Their unambiguous certainties are too pat, too foreclosed.What exists in their interstices, as a space for uncertainty, is often deliberately bypassed. A certainty confers an illusion of safety, a bulwark. Accustomed to witnessing my own sense of certainties dissolving i hesitated to indent an intractable imprimatur of irreproachability. I waited out the development of my feelings to disclose unconscious currents of lubriciousness which inevitably do rear their heads.
A sanguine view of human nature is inadmissible to me. Most of us are shameless solipsists, concealing our self regard under a patina of the admissible, the moral. When i use the word solipsists i both affix the pathology while simultaneously disavowing it. Our true natures are indiscernible. An ostensible seemliness is, though indubitably comforting, scarcely compensatory. Aspects of our inner reality invariably emerge and disquiet with their intimations of unrestrained primal impulses.
So it did seem that perhaps my unconscious held some mysterious key to my inner truth. But the passing of time did not obviate the salacity i attributed to myself. Rather it offset it by quotidian reminders of my rather asexual propensity. I strained my mind, forcing a conjunction wherein the unconscious could be actualized.I relied, perhaps foolhardily, in the idea that, in a freudian sense, repressed sexuality lay at the heart of all human nature. Freud's sagacity, unerring in certain respects, foiled me in this regard. There were no subterranean impulses immanent, awaiting actualization. There was simply, incontrovertibly, my asexual unimpeachability, augmented through a process of assiduous self analysis, circumventing prevarication, compounded by excoriation, confounded of evisceration.
It wasn't as though his handsomeness was misrecognized by me. But what clarified, indeed deepened our subsequent interchanges was the absence of an underlying sexual impulse. That such impulses predominate in quite a few relationships, indeed dictate them, is conspicuous, as real life evinces. It is also possible, given the capriciousness of destiny, that such a fate, given my knowledge of my unconscious or rather my idea of it may still beset me with contradictory significations. My current putative anomalousness intensifies a friendship whose protracted intellectual pleasures i anticipate prepossessingly. The randomness of the subsequent betokens both ominously and pleasurably. I am still uncognizant of my unconscious reality. But my contingent self understanding equips me to tackle the here and now with sufficient equanimity.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014


His motives were suspect, right from the start.Originating in an impulse to avoid confrontation his ministrations to our emotional closeness were not compensatory. Rather they were fruitless, because they were constituted by a superficiality that was his true nature. Or perhaps i am being unduly harsh. Clearly there were, or would be, if sufficient provocation were induced, certain undiscerned depths. As yet their absence, or latency, left their manifestations submerged.
I,on the contrary, am thoughtful. I do not impute any great virtue to myself but i do believe that a certain self awareness goes a long way. My self scrutiny is assiduous, my excoriation amply deep. If anything i evince a propensity towards self criticism because my sense of identity is so precarious. Acceding to unwonted importunities has always seemed easier than holding my ground and asserting myself. And it is perhaps for this rather flimsy reason that i got into a relationship with him.
What i, of course , attribute as superficiality may be a healthy self regard. I have always been drawn to people who demonstrate a certain complacency about themselves, disregarding any negative views that devolve on them from others. Airbrushing away the extraneous or overlooking the overwhelmingly significant are both ways of nourishing and sustaining a self. The edifice of being needs a self willed inviolability.In the absence of a bulwark of self sufficiency being founders, indeed collapses, in the face of the nothingness that is the external.
His solipsism is intransigent because it overlooks any hint of self analysis. It is almost as if the sheath of impenetrability disallows even a sliver of misgiving to inveigle itself. Which is understandable. But what strikes me as extraordinary is the sustenance of this wilful self delusion.In that while a simulacrum of functionality does render dissembling inevitable such unmitigated dissimulation, sometimes in the face of facts which are disconcertingly suggestive and redolent of darker depths, is inconceivable to me.
Though a flash of petulance and fractiousness or sulking do suggest that he isn't invincible. The self protecting armour he is encased in needs to preserve, as far as he is concerned, a certain intractability. But these elliptical, sometimes inimical betrayals which, despite his obduracy, remain unconcealed, indicates his own fragility. I look forward to those moments where these compendium of tiny self betrayals morph into an uncontrolled and uncontrollable self exposure and breakdown. Meanwhile witnessing this ever widening crack is reprieve indeed.