Friday, December 19, 2014


He was an emanation of my unconscious. Or so i thought then. I thought that by demonstrating self awareness about the fact of my unconscious i would be wary of the very emanations i was imposing on him. Theoretically i remained cognizant of this proclivity but at a practical level, given that life unravelled in its own fashion, with its own immutable logic, though of necessity protean, my self awareness dissipated.
The worrisome thing was not that my idea of him remained a mere abstraction. Had it been so i'd have been relieved to forego all preconceptions and settle for an openness, a willingness to allow myself to be surprised. As it manifested, though, some of my blueprints became true. It seemed that while i had not been entirely accurate in my making up of him, given my awareness of such a thing, i had, nonetheless, divined propensities that corresponded to my conceptualization.
For instance i could see that while he was ostensibly tractable there was a core of stubbornness in him. Unlike me, who had grave self doubts, he was unambiguously confident about what he thought he was. I could see that this was self deception, a protective armour to conceal, albeit through a willed repression, things that were disturbing. Simultaneously, with him, there was a feeling that certain things were inconceivable to his self image.
However though he evinced such self confidence he worsened my tremulous sense of myself.When i did confide my misgivings he encouraged me to doubt myself. Again there was a putative adherence to amenability to my ideas around myself but in crystallizing my precarious self constitution he fattened up on that very tenuousness. As i grew weaker in my conception of identity i began losing all faith that i'd ever be whole. I was often irascible and peremptory,attributes which he ineluctably brought into sharper focus by his seeming acceptance of them.
Of course it is equally possible that i am manufacturing the fact of my discernment of his subterranean dimensions to validate and affirm my own unknowingness. This is manipulation of the worst kind and i am certainly watchful of it. But my instinct, which in the past has proven accurate at many levels, asseverates that my misgivings are true enough. It is simply that my inveterate self doubt, unavoidably coalesced to my being, insists on rendering apocryphal any certainty that buttresses me, however ineffectually.
Ultimately this relationship, for whatever reason, is not working out. Either i will go crazy or inflict some damage on him. I do apportion a certain blame to my own over wrought process of rationalization and partly he seem to augment some of the worst things i feel about myself. Or such is my intuitive apprehension . I think wisdom lies in terminating this relationship. Self preservation must take precedence. And something tells me he'd be better off without my neurotic undermining of any stability he envisages for us. I think i'll see a therapist.


Memory, unbidden, unfurls the moment. The moment, analogous to and like the flower ,is enclosed by petals of constituent moments that are closed in, overlapping, interleaved to each other. When the random incandescence of memory alights on the flower the petals unclose and a variegated aureole encloses a bud in the centre . The bud is the moment, the kernel, the skein enmeshed in the mosaic. The bud sends forth carillons of associations that reverberate and ricochet. This moment is the bud because it is the chosen one, albeit indeterminately. It nestled amid other moments, shielding itself being shielded until wrenched to consciousness.
The moment is inhabited by memory and tilted, turned upside down, condensed, compressed, concentrated, attenuated until its bittersweet juices are extracted and wrung out. The moment, in the integument of memory, is never constant.It undergoes metamorphoses, both palpable and amorphous. The moment is imbued with a causality of its own which is then revivified though (re) flection. Certain components adhere, some slough off, some are reduplicated but the flow of consciousness as it traverses the moment is unaltered.
Ultimately the moment occupies a valedictory space, its vertiginous significations have been absorbed, dispersed and reconstituted by the moment which recalled that moment. Two moments intersect but in some nebulous way the apprehending of reality is transmogrified.Until memory recalls it again.

Thursday, December 18, 2014


The telephone rang. I heard its insistent ring. I was unwilling to hoist myself out of bed. But some impulse propelled me towards the telephone. I groped about in the dark and my leg bumped into the bedside. A yelp of pain shot through me as the pain built up. I hobbled . By the time i limped towards the telephone it had gone silent. The insistent caller, exasperated by delay, must have cut the connection.
Thus severed from contact with a person who remained unknown i cast about in my imagination to formulate his identity, Or hers as Myriads of names flashed through my consciousness alerting, by the causal nature of my life, a compendium of people who might have rung knowing, as i did, despite being inveigled by my own complicity into this speculation, that they very well might not have, that, ultimately my unprofitable surmises might furnish my imagination with ample fodder to fritter away a few minutes while my consciousness, just awoken from slumber, struggled to readjust to a wakeful consciousness which, by intimating the inexorability of the day and the factuality of having woken up, betokened that yes, the time to stir, to be alert has now emerged.
I reflected as i woke up that is to say woke up cognitively on how i had in my metamorphoses from slumber to wakefulness managed to distort reality by challenging its coordinates unconsciously through a process of rumination that partook of the uncertainty of this reality but nevertheless reconfigured it by imbuing it with a certain unalterable sense of consciousness and what i'm trying to say was that the identity of the caller was unknown to me but in that interlude i had undergone a transformation of consciousness wherein visible reality which is the phone call because i heard it was supplanted with inner reality which was the processes of my ratiocination and that ultimately if i separated each from the other the call and the caller would be indivisibly conjoined yet irrevocably separate in both my mind and the external reality that encompassed them given my lassitude in being untimely in my traversing of the dream hinterland which stalled the phone ring but activated my imagination.
'We need an x-ray', the doctor said,' to check for hairline fracture'
'It is sore and swollen. I bumped into the bed stead in the morning while trying to pick up the phone' i said.
'Who was it ,who was calling that made you rush so 'the doctor inquired busily while feeling my knee.
'oh i don't know. The phone stopped before i could find out' i sheepishly rejoined.
The x ray showed no fracture
'There, there's no fracture but you need to rest up your leg for a bit. Ice packs and a paracetomol for the pain' he asseverated as he bandaged up my leg and helped me off the stool.
'Thank you'. . was my plaintive though thankful riposte.
Meanwhile clouds are scattered in the sky, unthreatening but hinting at a possible rainfall. A robin chirps and warbles, its arias of joyousness commingle with the surroundings. An ant busily zigzags along carrying a grain of something on its back. The leaves sway gently. The robin's breast glows iridescently, the clouds gradually conglomerate, sunlight shades into opalescence and a drop of rain brushes my cheek.
I am home. But i have this injury to convalesce from and the answering machine has a message left by the dentist to remind me of my appointment day after.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014


The apple glowed like red cheeks
With a sheen which, luscious
Sinuous, voluptuous, made her sink
Her pearly white teeth which, indenting,
Inscribing, incorporated a future which
Would be both durationless and temporal.
He, consumed with guilt replicates
The intransigence of her sin
Though god he contritely placates
He loses moral ground amid his faultless din
She, meanwhile, sifts the ages
To locate her disempowered fulcrum
The apple crops up incessantly as
A metonym of the inadmissible and
Symbolizes her lowliness to herself.
Often she thinks of the old white man
Of his long beard caressing her silken thighs
But ultimately, when he swoops down and rapes her
Saviour and destroyer mirror each other.
His beak tears open her innards as a
wordless cry emerges from her being
Falling soundlessly amid an indifferent cosmos.
So being turns inwards. She turns herself inside out,
Becomes the rib to lash the rib that made her become.
These pertinent expostulations, which he, despite his
Complicity disregards, become echoes which duplicate
In her eardrums, circumambulating her integument.
Now, though, today she speaks
Within her troughs and peaks
Of how he negated his crime
By overlaying her with grime.
The serpent lives in both their minds
Like a reflection denied and consigned
Yet he crops up at moments
To remind them that
Despite their difference they are one
With a master or leader none
What's inside needs to resolve
Only then will transcendence, amid corporeality, revolve.


The story of my life. Well it is rather ponderous to conceive of a story, let alone of my rather uneventful life. All i can proffer are mnemonics and thought processes, ruminations which, though alternately sanguine and painful, nonetheless are inconsequential. The pattern of my ratiocination might yield an odd nugget here and there but my formulations, once prized for their singularity, have revealed themselves, with time, to be part of a continuum of a larger consciousness. Thus i oscillate between a defusing of my perspicacious grandiloquence and relief that my nebulous adumbrations, which accumulated certainties as i measured them with my experience, have been cogitated by others. Sometimes philosophical reflections can induce great solitariness particularly if they are counter to our cherished certainties. I do make the requisite emendations, never abrogating external reality but the challenge is a workable concordance between inner and outer, a confluence that renders them indivisible yet intersectional.
The idea of a story around one's life invokes the element of randomness and happenstance. It crystallizes the incertitude. It demonstrates that narrative control is chimerical and can be embroidered and permutated differently. Even more striking is the irreconcilable gap between what i seek to convey and its absorption by my interlocutors. This underlying amorphousness necessitates a relinquishing of control which discomfits me greatly. I would like to be in control, even while transmitting the incommunicable. I would like to believe that my readers are looking glasses who reflect me a version of myself unambivalently. But a looking glass confounds such self deception by compounding unknowability. And the question that arises, from within the interstices of a narrative whether our stories are really our own, whether the 'I' behind them is constant. Everything is flux, metamorphosis, including the self and to wish otherwise is to inhabit an imaginary prelapsarian dimension where our blueprints correspond to externality .
Also the idea of a story implies weightiness, ponderousness. A sufficiency of subject matter, presented interestingly, would deepen the enjoyment and involvement of a reader. But the disjointed nature of my thoughts, though indisputably fascinating are, nevertheless too fragmented to be comforting. They are imbued with verisimilitude, they are mimetic representations of the transitoriness of real life but such ingenuous replication, though ineluctably subversive, would lack consistency and continuity which a story affords. A story has a predetermined pattern whereas real life is misshapen, indeterminate and sometimes formless. A story is an imaginative reconstruction of the primevality of real life and implies conscious control which is salutary given our volitionless reality.
But it does strike me, with precipitant promptitude that even if the narrative of my life were diffused and unknowable it would still be a story. It would embody an account of itself in terms where a shape would emerge, a form which, by encompassing uncertainty, would intensify the narrative element that is subterranean. A story is kinetic, protean as is my life. As it meanders and traverses the pathways of self expression it will undergo incessant transmogrifications. Shreds and fragments will be sloughed off, added, conjoined or severed. But continuation and perpetuation of the story telling impulse would be unaltered though the shifts it undergoes will validate a transmutation and metempsychosis that would be incontrovertible. So perhaps my life is a story or stories,in themselves, are blueprints of life.

Sunday, December 14, 2014


When i emerged from the bedroom i felt soiled, rather than repletion.Because today he tied me up by the hands while fucking me. It wasn't hurtful but it was uncomfortable. I felt the cords of the silken rope indenting my wrists, rasping my palms. I felt ticklish and petulant and found no outlet for either. The sight of his pleasure, palpable, offered scant recompense. Rather it exacerbated my anger. His claim that our lovemaking be more primal, exciting and adventurous bores me to death. Sex bores me. And with these unprepossessing appendages my loathing redoubles.
I had hoped that once our relationship became securer sex would cease to be a determining factor. But his unceasing voracity alarms me. It isn't as if i disdain sex or negate its necessity but for him it seems more like a fulcrum. To me love, regard, companionship are distinguishable from sex because they inhabit a landscape where a certain maturity and sagaciousness is necessitated. An observance to a paradigm of closeness that transcends the physical. But here, with him, i feel as though i am regressing into a primeval realm of corporeality that offsets my more social, relational instincts. More than the crude lovemaking, which i can tolerate somewhat, it is the abrogation of the austerity impulse that distresses me.
I don't boast of a particularly sanguine temperament but decency has always seemed vital to me. When his beard abrades my chin during kissing, when his gropings seem like defilements i wonder how this person whom i love can ,in his physiognomy , be so repugnant. It seems to me that i sever his emotional being from his sexual being. Perhaps he sees them as one and the same.
Presumably what also determines his degree of amiability in my perception of it, is the preponderance of the emotional self. It is there that i discern an authenticity and veracity that pleases me. I do see a hedonism which too is part of his being. But i like to believe that his better impulses supersede his baser nature. Again it is not the baser nature as much as the baseness, the debasement of it that is frightening to behold. He is otherwise salurary and warm, suffused with agreeable appurtenances but when he has sex with me i feel deracinated. A disembodied sensation, of a fundamental split between my body and consciousness occurs and it is vertiginously precipitous though also dizzyingly thrilling, with its chasms hinting at a reversion that is delicious.
What i fear is that my own sense of dissolution becomes apparent when we have sex. I experience a deep desire to submerge, be subsumed. And watchfulness, cognizance of my own baseness is ineluctable. It is my hope that my sublimation will be a springboard to his own apotheosis.