Wednesday, April 8, 2015

FAN MAIL

He wrote to me about my work. I was gratified at his degree of interest but bewildered at certain propounding propensities that signalled an implicit belief in the rightness of his analysis. That my work could be imputed these latent immanences was scary. I don't, for a moment, claim knowledge of my creativity. It is all rather nebulous . So i greet interpretation with great broad mindedness knowing that a reader may discern depths inconceivable to me and therefore unfathomable. But i do know myself sufficiently not to let bizarre exegesis outweigh the fetters of my sensibility, fetters rendered incontrovertible by my singular subjecthood.
So i wrote him a polite email thanking him for taking time and putting in effort to engage with my work. He wrote back asking if, as my work hinted subterraneously, whether i was gay. I was disconcerted and affronted by this query but sufficiently moved, given the paucity of understanding interlocutors, to affirm that yes but that it did not impinge or influence my choice of vocation. He emailed me asking if we could meet. Curiosity was preponderant for me than. I vacillated between prevaricating and refusing him downright. Weighing the odds i said that i would meet him and that he could drop in to my place.
The mails he sends hint at a certain pugnaciousness. I envisage a forceful person who is convinced, beyond doubt, that his promulgations are veracious. The analytic bent he evinces reveals to me the centrality of his own aegis over my sensibility. Certainly he is enamoured of his recondite powers of observation and effusive in communicating them. There is an observable sincerity that is touching mingled with a rather maladroitly concealed self satisfaction. My curiosity is piqued. I am interested in knowing this as yet tenuous personage, giving form and outline to my amorphous constructions.
He rings the bell and i open the door. Without any aplomb he kisses me full in the mouth. The sensuousness of his questing tongue sends coruscations of desire coursing through me. We have a long, expending fuck. Afterwards, lying in his arms, my head nestled in his pectorals i wonder at the importunity of my conduct. His aquiline nose, abrasive stubble and muscled physiognomy is prepossessing. I have enjoyed our intercourse. But i do ruminate as to whether this was his predetermined plan of action or a gesture of spontaneity, unconstrained by decorum and unrelieved by repression . I could perhaps ask him. I choose not to.
He traverses my study and queries me, with an endearing promptitude, about my literary influences. I shyly mention proust and Henry James. He expostulates with me, arguing about the inveterate shadow of Dostoevsky. I can't prove him wrong yet am propelled by my limited self knowledge to utter protestations of denial. Our conversation is rich, allusive and compendious. I have learnt more about myself in this hour than a lifetime of introspection. And i am grateful.
He departs and a curious emptiness assails me. I have grown accustomed to his presence which, though momentary, feels like a visitation of a lifetime. Departure, however, is imminent. As he leaves he leaves behind his number. I already have his email. Something in me resists a prolongation of propinquity which, though pursued with desire would be inimical to my creativity. If i allow the knowledge he has imparted to inveigle into my creativity self consciousness would be insinuated, thereby obviating authenticity and congealing meretriciousness. Ineluctably wont to wilfully obliterate disquieting intimations i consign this experience into some penumbral realm in my memory. Doubtlessly it will resurface but i'd rather let its unbidden promptings irradiate my work than let its insistent immovability undermine it. This is a consecrated moment of being but i need to move on. I relegate his email to trash, burn the scrap of paper with his number in it and book a ticket to venice where, in plenteous solitude i will allow this moment to capriciously reconfigure my art and by extension, my life.

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