Wednesday, July 8, 2015


A day shredded into fragments with each piece enclosing a moment of being, congealing into a past pattern of unfruitful ruminations that are gelatinous yet hardened . I revisit certain tropes, bring forth from the tenebrous peripheries a moment of recognition yet as i prepare myself to sleep it all dissolves and blurs. I could unpick these threads, unspool the ball of wool into a state of undifferentiated beginning from which tributaries of emotion, imagination, ratiocination and madness meandered out, crisscrossed, diverged and were lumped together in the nocturnal consciousness as a dense phalanx of unmeaning which may perhaps be, in its very fluidity, a higher meaning, a meaning unmeant, or a meaning that means its meaningfulness by negating the coordinates of what constitutes meaning.It is an emptying out, a inside out flip, which both upends and capsizes illusion and opens up its polychromatic plumage to absorb the myriad tints of indeterminacy.The wings of sleep flap at my eyelids. But i need to wrench this moment from my almost slumbering consciousness and graft its kinetic profusion into whorls of insights that stud, dapple and irradiate the very nothingness that is their causality.

I feel the movement of time keenly. As the past roils in me, spewing forth its disquietingly tenuous associations i squander the faith in the present. Yet the weight of this past,accumulated, absorbed creates the present i live in. And in between lies the future whose iridescent filaments dapple me at specific moments.All this flows, dissolves, dissipates. Against this onslaught of linear time and its short circuiting by atemporality i flit, trying to live and exist in each moment wholly. I could be flip and flick away these moments of being desultorily. But they are lodged in me, shredded by cognition, reconstructed by imagination. And if i didn't have this rivulets of pent up, plaintive misgivings would wash me away on the ebbing tides of self annihilation. This moment is all.

A small bike ride a while back. The rider, a handsome friend conferring a certain kindness. The motion of the bike enhances the motion of the wind. My t shirt billows, cool damp air caresses my cheeks then whips them. My scanty hair flows and ripples like blades of grass. I flatten it and it rises up again. I heave in lungfuls of air, my chest expands, my blood whips up in excitement with adrenaline flowing. Initially all that surrounds me is delineated in a dazzle of light and shadow but soon all is a blur. Movement is my reality for the moment. The bike zig zags a labyrinthine byway and my senses meander, with alternating thrill and a visceral fear. The frayed motorbike shirt of the one who drives rasps my palms deliciously. I lean into him, resting my head on his back. His stolidity intermingles with a pungent scent that is his perfume. Blended with his sweat the impression is of fresh loam. My senses swirl and pirouette. For the moment speed, smells, stasis of cognition induce a pleasurable conglomeration of sensuous joys. He drives me back home. I dismount, give him back his other helmet. My blood quietens but purrs with contentment. The sky looks on impassively,the lurid neon draws attention to its garishness. The undulant cacophony of city life settles in on my consciousness. The roses smell piquantly. The moment stays with me and him, the one who actualized it, inspires in me a humane love, for his earthiness and kindness. I shall recapture this luminescent interlude tonight in my dream. But i love him, in the best possible love there can be, between two people who connect epiphanically.

A night of stillness ,punctuated by dogs barking or the screech of a tyre as a car races away into the thickets of the city. The road billows and neon casts a yellowish gloom over the space it contains below.All colors, from the tar black road to the garish signposts are illumined in the wan, penumbral light. The sky above is an expanse of undulating blackness and nothingness. It stretches forth interminably. Here and there a lonesome star striates this expansiveness with iridescent pinpricks of light. The weather is sultry and the time spent stargazing in the balcony brings out moisture in my brow and armpits, betokening a forthcoming cascading of sweat that will tunnel down my body. To forestall this i step into the house.The air conditioner wheezes and sputters ,lending forth drafts of cool air that condenses and dissolves the sweat that festoons my forehead and neck. A glass of cool water ravels down my oesophagus cooling and deepening the tranquility of a comforting defusing of body heat. I own this night. I partake of its panoramic precipitous nothingness. Outside all is still, inside is the soothing crooning warble of routine and structure. I am in their interstice. Suddenly the lurid neon, the stippling brightness of flickering stars and the vastness of the night merges and melds in my consciousness. I take in this panoply of communion. Constellations of simultaneously divisible coexistences refract in my being prismatically ,through association. A feeling of connectedness, of the suspension of memory, of sharpened, quickened senses and peacefulness dapples me. I rend my cognitive exegesis only to reconnect it to layers of consciousness where a symphony occurs, a delicate but immutable equipoise that amalgamates the ostensibly asymmetrical. I feel alive and exult in my animal warmth. Soon as i wash my face and sleep this moment, which seems so inestimably precious will be squandered through the oblivion of sleep. Perhaps a dream may recapture a remnant of his corporeal transcendence. But i experienced and intuited and absorbed the moment. It has wrought an imperceptible but durable metamorphosis. For the moment it is enough.

A cool bath on a warm, humid day. The water cascading down in rivulets, cooling flushed flesh, soothing abrasions and scars. Then warm scented soap foaming and spilling down in thick viscous gobs. The whipped up lather of shampooed hair sliding down the runnel of my spine in whitened, luminous downward swirls and surges . Then powdering, patting down the proscribed regions with scented talc and deoderant, its sharp, musky tang kissing the flesh wetly, startlingly and leaving vague vaporish trailing phantoms of smoke behind. And here i am, fresh, anticipatory, expectant, throbbing with purposeful energy while the subfusc dusk settles in. A glass of lemon iced tea beckons.

All right, J did it. Up all night, festering with the purulence of dark , vague energies and an unassailable sadness i heard his voice, his song. And something in me broke . I cried with copious intensity, noisily, passionately. A deep elemental sadness was being lifted off. And then there was stillness, a suspension of cognition, just a calm placid nothingness and repletion, like a well fed baby. 
I had been down hell and under these last few days. A rather stunned termination of a friendship had shaken me. I felt my resolve strengthening and acted on it. Yet it lacerated me.The sludge of inadequacy, coursing through me glutinously, congealed its oleaginous obduracy. I lost faith. Keeping up a seemly front exacerbated the problem.
I saw the neediness in me, this chasm, void opening up beneath me and i surrendered to it. The primal hunger accreted in me until disenchantment atrophied it, amputating the possibility of reprieve. When i unfriended him i died a symbolic death.
And was reborn. Like a small infant discovering the mechanisms of consciousness i reconnected with my probity . J's syncopated melodies, mellifluous and deep, his rich , deep voice thawed the cracks that had hardened around me in thick crusts. Emotion tunnelled down in me through rivulets of arias of faith . I began to feel again, think again, growing a new skin over the one i shed, putting on the mass of blood , corpuscle and bone the sheathing integument of equilibrium
Over kidney beans, basted in olive oil, with salt and pepper and lemon , accompanied by green tea and buttered toast i recovered, rediscovering the embryonic possibility of starting anew.

1 comment:

  1. I like this piece. The richness and clarity and "hereness" of the memories, and then the way the piece very slowly moves to an attempt -- in a different sort of language -- to understand the memories.