Friday, December 26, 2014


Amid the multitude of instants where i thought i knew him i was foiled. My assiduous suppositions collapsed. It wasn't so much that he contravened my exegesis. It was more that he was so unambiguously himself that the patina i sought to illumine him with remained a nebulous silhouette. And because it was about me its failure was inevitable.
Why, i often ask myself was such a gloss of romanticism necessitated? Or perhaps romanticism isn't wholly accurate. I sought to demystify him by romanticizing him. By de idealizing him i sought to render my misgivings veracious. For misgivings they certainly were, with their overtones of disillusion and lack of faith. I tried hard to believe in him though being fully aware that all i was really doing was just trying hard. But not enough. A residual, subterranean intuition of his faithlessness invariably coloured my subsequent mythopoeias around him. So a whole circuitous journey of denial, wisdom, scepticism and leap of faith constituted my awareness of how i made him up.
That instant, though, when he revealed his true self came upon me quite accidentally. In the interstices of my discursive ambivalence i divined, as he gazed at himself in the mirror, unaware of my presence, a certain self absorption that mirrored mine. His inner life, the mechanisms of his own set of constructions was disavowed by me by virtue of my own self centrality. So enmeshed was i in this version of my ingenuity that i consciously overlooked the concomitant process of his own myth making.
And while my self centrality, though indubitably mine, nonetheless partook of him his self absorption rendered me null and void. And in that preening smugness of his glance at the mirror, the conceited, solipsistic communion of himself with him self i penetrated the heart of the lacuna in our relationship. While i vacillated between confidence and self doubt his self regard was unwavering. When i recalled his inveterate reticence and uncommunicativeness i now recalled not taciturnity but obduracy. And something in me balked at this incongruity between the ostensible and the actual though the two blurred and superimposed fortuitously.
I am, though beset by insecurities, unwilling to relinquish this insight of mine or to have it circumambulate the habitual pantomimes and oscillations it generally undergoes. I really think i've hit upon something here. As fas as he is concerned the communication of this disconcerting epiphany is inconceivable. But i've got this arabesque to build on and fathom hitherto unplumbed depths. And such a process is, though informed by sordid reality, an art form in itself

Wednesday, December 24, 2014


Presumably the partner is the diplomatic thing to say but i prefer husband. It has an intimacy, an expectancy of a sacred bond that is gratifying. I don't believe in marriage as a inalienably sanctified institution nor does my appellation of husband signify an unconscious allegiance to it. I merely appropriate, from the panoply of terms of reference around me the one i find most prepossessing. And i like the sound, heft, cadence and texture of it.
Strangely, even though together we form an indissoluble bond the external world seems evanescent. And perhaps this transitoriness deepens our bond, intensifies the love we have for each other which, though indubitably
veracious is nonetheless piquant . A sigh of pleasurable pain floats from my chest as my love for him, smites my heart with an irresistible poignancy. It seems then that there is too much love. But can there ever be too much love? Is love, the ultimate nebulousness, quantifiable.
Though i measure the alternating rhythms of my regard by juxtaposing them with the degree of intense feeling they rouse in me. It isn't that the intensity varies but is contingent on circumstances. All of a sudden, someone else has assumed centrality in my life. His concerns , worries, preoccupations coincide with mine. His happiness redoubles mine. Some thinkers postulate that romantic love is inherently self regarding. But as far as i'm concerned the ephemeral tissue that solders us is strong enough to withstand travails. The term romance too is circumscribing. There are layers, depths it doesn't plumb.
I also take into account the multitudinous variegations of his being. He can be occasionally sulky when he doesn't get his way or angry when things don't work out as he would like them to. There is a certain selfishness i discern , a precedence to value , under stressful conditions, his own well being before mine. No doubt he sees my weaknesses to but a treaty of reticence renders us circumspect. We both know the other knows, we feel those fibres striating our inner selves but the fibres are intertwined in spirals of interconnection which basically means that our avowals override our misgivings.
Ultimately mortality will reign. This little oasis, this tenuous scaffolding will undergo wear and tear, dents and fissures. Perhaps our closeness is augmented by the reality of our imminent deaths. But the when is fruitless to speculate on. There is the tapestry of our complex beings and there is this haven of luminosity, this block of time, that sustains us, with hope and buoyancy.

Monday, December 22, 2014


My desk is always shiny and neat. The telephone, my major stock in trade, buzzes insistently and frequently. I pick up the phone quickly, fix appointments for my boss, the analyst and jot down the details in a diary. Occasionally, if the patient is a neurotic, attention seeking kind i have a brief discussion with Dr. Wright, my boss, to deal delicately with a problematic patient. I am taciturn and polite and generally non interfering. The shouts and yells i hear from the closed room where patient and analyst interchange are largely ignored. I don't even wonder what is going on. I proceed to perform my menial work as unobtrusively as possible.
I do recognize the patients over a period of time. X ,i identify as the schizophrenic woman who sits silently, her hands twined around herself,with a glazed distant look. She is always unfailingly polite and decorous. Then there is A the anorexic young woman who is always ready to exchange pleasantries. I like her freckles and wide, toothy smile. I wonder whether her circumstances have improved but quash the thought as it is not strictly my concern. B, the suited booted businessman is brisk and peremptory, M, the secretary to a bank manager is officious and sanctimonious. Beyond greeting them politely and asking them to seat themselves my ministrations chiefly consist of circumspection and invisibility. I am a necessary but expendable mediator. I stall the proceedings with an interlude of propriety before the darkness of the human psyche , ineluctably materializes in patient/analyst colloquy.
I am rather unimaginative. I do my work, collect my pay and live a life of quotidian imperturability. My unconscious scarcely bothers me at all because maintaining a facsimile of a functional life is wearying enough. Occasionally i dream vivid, sexual dreams, centred around random people who i recall in my slumber. But these disquieting intimations of the corporeal are rarely discomfiting and never impinge on my consciousness.A dream is after all a dream and quite unremarkable. Whatever it may have to say about my inner life is irrelevant because my routines will be unaltered, my unimportance unchanged. So the whole point of excoriating my mind, given the staidness of my protracted structure around life, is frankly unnecessary and fruitless.
Sometimes a patient with conspiratorially confide a secret or a problem which they then hint, with becoming flushes of self consciousness, that the psychoanalyst wouldn't understand. I am told that i have a glamorous job ,as a assistant to a shrink. 'You must meet so many interesting people' being the breathless exhalation of prurience from my interlocutors. As i alluded to above reticence keeps me afloat.
I have never experienced depression but i have felt sadness. An indefinable sadness, inchoate yet momentary. I bounce back pretty fast. I do take sleeping pills though because the tedium of the working day, unrelieved by any spark of conflagaration, enervates me, rendering even sleep impossible to submerge into seamlessly.
Today my boss called me in, asking routine questions about whether i was having problems with the job and my health. He has cancelled all appointments today. His eyes rove over me thoughtfully,speculatively. On impulse he asks me to lie on the couch. He tells me, avuncularly, to free associate. Initially i am hesitant and my mind, unaccustomed to rumination, faces a stasis. But suspending all misgivings, evincing loquaciousness, i pour forth my consciousness unimpeded by rational restraint.
I am deeply resentful that a portion of my salary is deducted as fees for analysis, thrice a week. But presumably it is for the best. Patients who come now are no more spectral or consigned to wilful oblivion and dealt with formally. We speak fulsomely now, exchange stories, histories neurosis.And in a way by discovering that i am not what i thought i was or repressed precipitately due to both inertia and purposelessness i have now come alive.

Sunday, December 21, 2014


As i sit comfortably in my armchair there is much to please my retina The penumbra outside ,punctuated by stipples of neon, give forth an agreeable opalescence. Inside the chequered whorls of the tablecloth, studded with sequins, gleam iridescently. Dots of luminosity flash before my eyes, pinpricks of points of light, flickering, momentary yet persistent.
The dish of pasta on the table is fuesli. Macaroni like spirals interweave to form a constellation of softened fragments with mushrooms and onions in them. The whole mass is densely lumped together, higgledy piggledy. That's how i prefer it anyway. The bowl is cream coloured, speckled with daubs of inchoate arabesques,that mirror the spiralline pasta within. All in all there is an agreeableness to it that is highly prepossessing.
The day began with preparations. Going to the supermarket on a soggy morning, overcast, damp, smelling of garbage and rain. The grabbing of a trolley, carting it across, putting together the assorted ingredients packed in cans striped and streaked with lurid paint and loud labels. Then the momentary cessation that rain necessitated and finally the trip home.
And now the dish lies before me, to be microwaved and consumed. While the white sauce striating the fuesli is appetizing the whole soggy ,lumpen mass diminishes appetite . The impression i get is of the inside of the human brain. The lumpish mass, though olfactorily gratifying is spiritually enervating. I have composed  this dish with the paraphernalia of consumerist accoutrements. Each garnishing, addition, grating, excision and putting together indicates, to me, the abnegation of my spiritous essence. I was prompted by hunger, propelled by craftsmanship but when my tools disgust me the finished product redoubles the repugnance.
Yet these metaphysical speculations discomfit me. My stomach rumbles with hunger. But will the satiation of bodily hunger lead to a sacrifice of my spiritual sense. Given that the tablecloth is lovely and the bowl agreeable and the aura of the external soothing does this recondite reasoning indicate an unconscious misgiving. Or the surreal effluvium of the brain that impulse  betokens hearken back to a sci fi movie i saw yesterday night. There is a schizoid split in me between the compendium of associations that complicate my partaking and the ipso facto reasonableness of having troubled myself sufficiently to have cooked in the first place. In order to make a choice i suspend choice. My mind goes blank.
A spaceship with fried human brains embalmed intersects with the diagnosis of depression i received yesterday which conjoins with the philosophy books i've been reading lately amalgamated with my dream yesterday of a perfectly prepared pasta that i sought to actualize commingled with the ever louder rumble of my stomach. Disparate images, thoughts, reflections aggregate in a random mess, permutated chaotically, with no recognizable shape or form. A concatenation has occurred, an indeterminacy i can neither fathom or decipher or sort through by reverting to its constituents. Chaos builds up, builds up until my hunger supersedes.
I pick up the fork and eat.