Thursday, December 4, 2014

THE LONGINGS OF A SUBJECT

Inside the incarcerated catacomb of her mind she reposes. Her memory, albeit through her own complicity, is leaking out. When thinking through her history she finds huge craters in her consciousness with massive indentations . These are blank spaces. She is a tabula rasa but it isn't so much her writing her own script as it is being written for her.
The lecturer controls her memory. He doesn't consciously obliterate her memory but works on her through osmosis. Bit by bit he makes surreptitious inroads into her head, supplanting himself, his own being conspicuously so that she gradually forgets that she has a contingent history and being.
What occurs thereafter is a process of submergence. As his consciousness leaks into her she begins to see the world as he sees it, even interprets her own being as he does it for her. He becomes her superego so that the accretion of self reproaches she directs at herself which are, in actuality, his reproaches she not only suspends but relinquishes her self. The tattered remnant of her once incandescent integument flutters emptily in the winds of fortune.
The lecturer rapes her daily. The visitations of his brute flesh rends her corporeally. Each day she experiences a dismemberment, a symbolic and literal obliteration that contributes to the oblivion she sees as her only fate. Will sloughs off her, she suspends volition. In existing as a blueprint for the lecturer's rococo fantasies and sadomasochism she is benumbed. She is doubly dispossessed , both in her temporal as well as her psychic dislocation.
In the crepuscularity of this hideous gloaming she exists purely in the passive sense. She simply is, only exists as a receptacle. The lecturer preys on her self consciousness. He renders her penumbral by erasing her sense of herself. By demonstrating, through his putative tangible superiority he casts into shadow her tremulous self conceptions. By imperilling her precarious being he inveigles his solipsism. He is the mirror and the image both. He gives her a space for self annihilation and recomposes her in accordance with the dissonances of his own self absorption. She, too is his mirror. Without her he'd be blasted into non being.
She has been , despite his assiduous manipulations, undergoing her own metamorphoses. Mnemonics in her memory alert her inexhaustibly to a prelapsarian self. She is deeply enmeshed yet memory manages to irradiate, through intimations, aspects of her past self and its attendant plenitude. She sees, retrospectively, the tenebrous landscape her life has become and its aftermath.
So she slowly sets out to remap the territory of her consciousness. As the mnemonics piece together enough will be re remembered to challenge him. He, who by subsuming her showed himself amplified will, she resolves, see himself as he appears before her. That, she decides, will set the record straight.

TIME FLEW BY- AN EXPERIMENTAL POEM

Time flew by, while, moments
Where a certain stasis was anticipated
Were, with the counterpoint of destiny,
Demonstrably intractable which, nevertheless
Transformed ephemeral time , into a measureless,
Uneventful, unbroken continuity, irrefragable,
Enervating, terrifying.
What.moment. reveals.change.nonetheless.
Necessary. continuity. despite. protean. time
Mythified. Perpetuation. Unaltered. Destiny.
Metempsychosis. Consciousness. Durability.
Elasticity. Interstices. Destiny. Mutability.
Everything. Chimerical. Continuity.
Destiny changes each moment, each moment
changes life, Each life changes each moment,
Each moment, in each life, with destiny, is changed.
Incandescent time with effervescent bubbles of
Conviviality reflects on the efflorescence of the natural
World which changes and transforms and transmogrifies
Into multitudinous configurations and therefore each
Moment is eternity and eternity lies in each moment.

MOMENT

A luminous sliver of time
Is what i purloin from destiny
Hoping , that having embalmed it
I could crystallize its preciosity
The moment, by itself, betokens
Evanescence of what i can never
Capture, though this very nebulosity
Conceals, its own immortality
Though the moment eludes capture
It is retained fluidly by memory
Changing when tilted, turned upside down while
Stipples of authentication, nonetheless remain
Ultimately time past and time future
Coalesce in a present which rent,
Severed between the gaps of memory
And fact, conjoins valedictorily..

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

ANOTHER WAY OF SEEING

He sighs, pats his daughter's head, lulling her to sleep. He feels over protective, responsible and thoughtful. Her vulnerable, guileless face, sweet even in repose, tugs at his heart, like a squeeze, a constricting love which is both poignant and piquant.
It has been a growing closeness. Initially he was impersonal, viewing her as one of life's factual aspects. But when his heart contracts with love, when he feels an ache in his chest he realizes that not only is he being a father but has 'become' one.
His wife is poorly. He is gently solicitous. Over the anvil of her immovability he projects his solicitations, extracting the bitterness of her frustration and transforming it into a manageable unctuousness. He renders fluid the intransigence of her despair and by transmuting his self possession, renders her becalmed and tranquil.
The crib where his daughter lies is studded with sparkly sequins which glint in the moonlight. Sleeplessness has anchored him. Like a protective angel he watches over beneficently as the destinies of those under his jurisdiction unravel themselves. It is frightening, this sense of omnipotence but it is also ennobling to be a fulcrum in a whirling, tumultuous inner life.
He hears her moan in pain. Gently, so as not to disturb his daughter he enters the bedroom. She has vomited copiously in the bedsheets. He gently wets a towel and wipes her mouth. Her pregnant belly looms up at him, reproaching him for his apostasy. He is not ready for this. But resigned to the fatality that, to him, is inevitable, he marches ahead like a jaded soldier knowing the battle is going to be list but proceeding nonetheless.
His wife's primordial experience rubs off on him. He bombards her with questions about her experience, hoping that internalizing it would enable a better understanding.She is fractious, irritable, petulant. At this moment where he anticipates closeness he experiences detachment. Throughout their tranquil interlude there have been gentle expostulations, mutual urgings on, an unacknowledged treaty of circumspection. Now he seeks to plumb deeper into the recesses of propinquity but his wife is elsewhere, in another dimension of being. Their precarious closeness is capsized. Yet, in the midst of this unanchoring he feels a self containment that surprises him.
He is aware, through a residual awareness that a change has occurred. Years of irresponsibility slough off. A new realm of experience, with its attendant revelations and surprises beckon. He goes back to his daughter's crib. The sequins gleam iridescently in the penumbra and sometimes, flashing into his retina irradiate, to him, the durability that accompanies the transitoriness of things. A whole new world shimmers dazzlingly. He sighs and plunges into the abyss.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

AMBIGUITY

I feel rather worried. My eldest daughter, always compliant, pliable and a model of probity is now acting strangely. She is three and my analyst tells me that my pregnancy disconcerts her. She tells me, as a matter of course that sibling rivalry is natural and that i must accustom myself to tantrums and fireworks. As a way out she suggests a gentle but firm conversation, a steering the conversation to a mature direction which my daughter, it is purported, will respond agreeably to. I have my own misgivings but i pay my fee and leave.
It is not that i don't understand my daughter's ambivalence. I myself, due to the exiguity of circumstance, am constrained from partaking wholly in her care. So a nanny has replaced me. I notice my daughter's, whose name is Colette, striking a close bond with her nanny, both as inevitable outcome and as a way of rousing my jealousy. She is seeking to provoke me, to demand from me an unmitigated allegiance which i, had i not been pregnant, and as an independent feminist, would have balked at providing.
Sometimes her winsome ministrations charm me. Colette is many things but she is unquestioningly cute. I pamper her, hold her close, kiss her importunately and she crows with delight. 'I love you', 'you are mine' are rejoinders my analyst enjoins me to be sceptical about. But i'm exhausted. My varicose veins are swollen, i'm frequently nauseous and feel a tiredness that overrides any joy in life i may experience. Coupled with that Colette's own neurotic anxieties redouble my tiredness.
I have to confess that sometimes i feel an impulse to slap colette, to knock the stuffing out of her. Thankfully my analyst, with her sense of composure, calms me down. My own horrified realization that i want to beat up my three year old suffuses me with unutterable horror. That me, a post feminist ,is capable of such monstrosity gives me a version of myself i recoil from.
I don't think i have maternal ambivalence which always seemed overdone to me. But i am, despite everything, a woman weighed down bodily by a forthcoming tough pregnancy with a young daughter whose complex feelings i try to apprehend but am circumvented from doing by ill health. I have tried to have conversations with colette but they are unavailing.
My husband treats colette as a princess. She is rather coquettish with him. His effort to intercede on my behalf, with the aim of subsequently ameliorating my present turbulence with colette misfire. She is getting ever closer to her nanny and her demands from her father are becoming more cumbersome. I don't accuse colette of guile or calculation . I think she is responding in ways that guarentee her own precarious survival in a world whose complexity is indiscernible to her. All she has are the challenges her complex inner life throws at her. It pains me to register a putative deterioration that seems inevitable. Could i forestall it?
I must do something about it.

Monday, December 1, 2014

LONELINESS

My mother lives alone. She is sixty six. On most days she manages reasonably well. I admire her courage because living alone, being lonely, without constant human presence enlivening and punctuating the caverns of silence, can encompass one in a depressive frame of mind. Often when my partner goes away on his business trips i experience the same loneliness, a similar undertow of despair.
The problem though is my mother's hypochondria. Everyday she calls me and talks for half an hour. The region of discomfort in her physiognomy is amorphous. Sometimes it's a headache, or indigestion, or blood pressure. Where she otherwise deals with solitude imperturably her health is really the paradigm where my mother's discomfiture with her loneliness shows itself. She's old and ageing and a certain physical discomfort is inevitable. These intermittences of queasy feelings in her otherwise courageous demeanour shows that even she ,with all her strength and will is capsized by absence of human contact, cast adrift, unanchored. And i shudder to think of how i ,in my old age, will cope with the onslaught of mortality.
So i temper my exasperation when mum calls. I am patient, proffering anodyne, palliating platitudes to shore her up, console her. I feel terrified thinking of her in pain, with no one to call to or ask for aid. At the same time this litany of plaintive deluges of discomfort anger me. Sometimes i think of her as an attention seeker, trying to demand from me, as an interlocutor, a sufficient block of time to alleviate her misery . It is the protracted nature of the commitment she solicits that renders my solicitations tinged with anger though intermingled with a piquant, frustrated love . And this combination, astringent, makes me aseptic.
My elder sister lives with her husband and two sons in ontario. Mum visits them every year for five months. It is miraculous that when with them her phone calls become fewer and when she does speak it is in softened tones, with a gentleness of concern which is how i have been accustomed to think of her through our childhood. Moments like these it seems as though the connecting tissue between her healthfulness and aloneness is human contact. All her grievances pall, her illnesses diminish in intensity and her hypochondria is obliterated. And then she comes back to live on her own and the whole process ,inexorably, is replicated.
Currently i'm enjoying a restful interlude. Mum is in ontario. Thinking through her admixture of depression and gregariousness i think of how nebulous yet how durable happiness is. That even when moments of low feeling drag us down they are always interlaced with a hopeful tomorrow. The ultimate nobility of a true sufferer, with an unrelieved stretch of despair is frightening to behold. But for what it's worth one chooses to find ways around one's loneliness until, at that fatal moment, all corporeal appendages are relinquished and we become part of a larger silence. But till then, we live on, as best as we can.

THERE FOR EACH

Mother had always seemed strangely neurotic. Strange to be using such a word to describe her, now that she is dead. But she had her quirks. Her unexpected generosity, her sulks, her withdrawals into herself and her spurts of effervescence seemed to indicate a paradigm where opposites, seeming incongruities blended and coexisted harmoniously, though sometimes eventfully.
It seems strange to be talking of mother thus but i don't judge her any more.This has nothing to do with the incontrovertible fact of her death but that the passage of time has softened the hard edges of my tumultuous relationship with her and has enabled me to understand the nature of her oscillations and why these putatively anomalous propensities coalesced in her, often surprising us, back then, with their intensity but never so much that we hated her.
I had a tough relationship with her. As a young girl, in thrall of my father who lavished utmost indulgence and overprotectiveness for me, i viewed her as an outsider. Her ineffectual remonstrances to my father such as 'you're spoiling her' or 'she's a big girl now, for god's sake', went largely unheeded. If my father was my prince and hero then so was i his cherished. I loved my father, i fancied a husband like him. In fact, even now, with my sleeping husband's becalmed countenance lies tranquil beside me it is not his face that i see but superimposed over it, that of my father's, immeasurably handsome, ardent and welcoming.
At sixteen my father raped me. All those romantic fantasies that centred around him collapsed precipitately. I had often thought about a corporeal commingling with my father but such forcefulness wrenched my being out of me, shattered me completely. To this day i am unable to balance the irreconcilable dichotomy between the father of my hopeless yearnings and this monster. If i still retain a wistful yearning for a husband i can never have it is because the image of my father, before he did this horrific deed, remains unaltered as the ultimate apotheosis.
I think mother discerned that something was amiss, even divined the actuality. She never spoke of it because i never confided in her. But she was a tower of strength. I can see now the stoicism with which she bore a difficult marriage, retained her uncompromising integrity and never managed to let me feel alone after that day. My father's ostensible expansiveness concealed a hedonistic concupiscence while my mother's gentleness held an inner, unwavering strength.
And now that she's died a few months back i traverse our kinetic terrain and find much in it that is satisfying. As far as my father is concerned i inhabit subterranean dreams of a fulfilment i know i can never have and how irrevocably he broke ,indeed sundered all faith i had in him.But fantasies, insufficient at best are a pallid recompense for a life, a pattern of being , a consciousness of plenitude i can never have. But at least they ensure the momentarily pleasurable oblivion of a night's sleep.