Friday, March 6, 2015


The first time he groped me i was shocked. Shocked at my visceral hate but also bewildered because i was habitually wont to see these gropings as an aspect of our rivalrous intersection. I've kicked him on the balls many time and he has responded with vituperative alacrity, for the moment concerned. So i was confused, titillated and repulsed at the same time. My burgeoning sexuality throbbed, my innocence was abhorred and the unaccustomed gesture dumbfounded. All these responses which i now articulate were only felt then and registered subliminally. With the passage of time and psychotherapy detachment set in and with it the ability to contextualize the lineaments of my predicament.
But confused as i then was i fell into unhealthy patterns that i partook of out of sheer self loathing and then deeply regretted which redoubled my self hatred. What happened was this. Once i allowed him to make an inroad into my flesh i let him in. Partly because it seemed an action beyond me yet because it emanated from me. I can never pinpoint, with exactitude, even now whether i ever overcame the complex feelings i experienced. I could not disentangle one and say that this is what i felt. It was all conglomerated chaotically. This ,surely, precipitated my sense of self repugnance.
When he fucked me he never used a condom. It never struck him that he might impregnate me . Procreation wasn't his raison de etre. It was pure, unmitigated desire. And i felt uncertain about my own status. Even though i was a sibling and therefore,on a more equal footing i was still a girl and he was a boy. I was never self abnegating with him. Nor do i relinquish the inadmissible fact of my own state of desire which he fomented and satiated. But desire was certainly not the only thing i sought and the contradictions that buffeted me render conscious choice inconceivable. Rather stasis became my state. But even if he never took precautionary measures i was up to date on the pill and this prescience, during those tumultuous teenage years, saved me .
With therapy i could work through stuff. I recall the sheer terror his presence inspired in me as a young toddler. He pinched me mercilessly and struck me when others weren't looking. Outwardly he remained the darling boy so my feeble protests were disregarded. Also after four he became solicitous and detached and contemptuous though i was just the younger sister. It is equally observable that i must have, as my therapist tells me, threatened his secure sense of boundaries. Before he could find his proper place i usurped the august space he had hitherto inhabited. No wonder he was incandescent with rage.
But his onslaught on my flesh reveals, in retrospect , the fact that he never accepted me for me at all. He used my femininity as an anvil to exercise his impotent inadequacy through the only way he knew, through sex. Had i been a brother there'd be fisticuffs and brawls. For better or for worse we exchange a monthly call. He is polite and i am closed in . In deflowering my soul he robbed me of a part of me i can never recapture. What is left behind is this person i am. He must make do with my makeshift profferings. It is he, not me, who is choiceless now.

Thursday, March 5, 2015


He sits gazing at his image in the mirror. The becalmed surface of the mirror conceals ineffectually the ripples of foreboding and desire that gnaw him from within. I am familiar with this pattern right from childhood. I have learnt to leave undisturbed his solipsistic communion. Rather,it has become, for us now, in retrospect, a familiar yarn. I doubt, though, whether what he saw were depths. Undoubtedly they were extensions of self regard, extending and perpetuating endlessly, in a closed circle.
I remember our first kiss. I went blank and benumbed. I felt desire coursing through me, liquiefying me, attenuating my composite self into diffuse shards of alternating warmth and desire. My voracity predominated over my rationality. It was almost as though my body became a potent, tangible reality with a volition of its own. Simultaneously though i was repulsed too. All these alterations of consciousness coexisted while our uninterrupted kiss continued. I drew the line at sex. It seemed too precipitate, too contraband. Besides i was mindful of the consequences.
We had many moments of commingling for some time. Once the initial spark was conflagarated continuance seemed ineluctable. He was always furtive and sheepish. He expended himself with alacrity and surreptitiously left. While i, i held, despite the frantic nature of our coupling, the semblance of warmth that carried me through. I never felt i was doing anything wrong. Since then, i have come to regard the forbidden as a repression that must be carefully considered and rationalized. While i had sex with him i was aware of the taboo but disallowed it from assuming paramount significance. I was young, consumed with desire, we were harming no one and i was being sufficiently precautionary. As long as we kept to ourselves this was our reality, our inner moment of intersection. The outside world needn't be implicated. Its intervention, in the oasis of our self containment, was irrelevant.
When i speak to my analyst now, about my past the word 'sibling incest' crops up frequently. My analyst claims to be unsurprised but i can see her puritanical nature furrowing in striations of disapprobation. She wants to disinter my past, get to the kernel that culminated in our sexual activity. She is full of pat theories of repression, oedipus complex and castration anxiety. He is older to me by two years. She inveigles a regression that is retrogressive because its findings are fruitless and do not yield the answers she seeks or rather tries to fit into a predetermined narrative. Her explanations are incompensatory because they are shaped around theories that are but a simulacrum of lived experience.
And frankly i'm done with the phase of my life. While it lasted it had moments of beauty. It was an initiation that shaped my subsequent relationships that would heretofore follow. I never felt any sense of guilt neither did the nature of the taboo redouble its irrepressible irresistibility. I had an impulse which he had too. We commingled. That's really all there is to it.

Wednesday, March 4, 2015


When Robert was late, an hour more so than usual, i grew tense . By now i should be accustomed to these delays but i am always surprised by the intensity of worry it induces in me. It was not a worry i felt as a young girl. Then i used to long for a protraction of Robert's delay so that i could have those few precious minutes free. I would swing on the tree bough, reading my Enid blyton, sucking on candy. These moments of solitude were most precious to me. I valued them immensely.
When Robert arrived i rushed up to hug him tightly. We exchanged a long kiss where desire and relief were intermingled. Today, more than ever i yearned for him physically. The energy of my ardour must have excited him too. While the meat roasted we made passionate love. Afterwards i felt tense and nervous and not sated as i usually would. Robert had his supper and went to sleep. His gentle snores attested to a familiar pattern i cherished.
Yet how familiar was it? By the time the servant came tomorrow the mess would be tidied up, a space of rectitude established. Robert would be reading his newspaper while i'd be busy, like a wife, in the kitchen but not possessive or solicitous. Rather my ministrations would be detached . We believed that a seemly orderliness would keep chaos at bay, keep the outer from encroaching on the inner. But the inner dictated our life to such an extent that we couldn't disavow it or negate it. It spawned patterns that shaped our outer. It gave form to the inchoate uncertainty of the outer. But it was an unacknowledged inner.
We never felt the need to acknowledge it. It seemed part of a process. I can't pinpoint with certitude as to when my relationship with Robert changed. We fought a lot and then suddenly we became lovers. I used to wear his clothes to inhale his scent, feel the frayed wool scratch my skin and abrade it pleasurably. Thus, i thought, i partook of the physicality of his presence. Before we coupled i went through agonies of sexual yearning. I was insatiably desiring and it was unfocused and diffuse. Robert was not so much a choice as a centring of the erotic impulses that gnawed me without and within. Custom seemed irrelevant, conventionalities i could thoughtlessly relinquish. It was the preponderance of desire that drew me to Robert. I made a blueprint of him subsequently, retroactively. By then the corporeal impulse had created other forms of closeness . I could not forego these accoutrements or revert back to a primal pattern which, beyond the realization of an impulse, proved incompensatory.
Eventually though, a surreptitious pattern was inveigled. I consciously disallowed misgivings to insinuate. But i felt the need, inveterately, to conceal my voracity from the outside world. People must know and they must be talking about us. It seems superfluous. Whether he is a conduit or an agent Robert has opened up for me vistas and avenues of love that are inexpressible yet irrepressible. They say familiarity breeds contempt. I'd rather celebrate this contempt than countenance a continuous unfamiliarity.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015


It unspools from me
This pillaging need
Which, in rationality
Has no creed
Chaos unfurls from me as
I open the abyss of my heart
Ingesting, like sacrament
The inhuman detritus of his spunk
Apotheosis is denied me
As also the need to be
Festers in me like rancour
This burgeoning cancer
Vivid dreams underscore a desire
Timeless, limitless, infinite
Where reality clashes with
That i ravenously crave
Bespattered with his cum i subsume
But with a never broken plume
To consume his infernal desires
With the O gape of my nothingness.

Monday, March 2, 2015


Pecuniary conditions necessitate, for me, given my exiguous financial means, the unamiable taking on of projects i deem disagreeable. Given that my fiscal uncertainty is prompted by the indeterminacy of freelancing which, considering my conscious choosing of it, and a choice which was exercised by free will and not by necessitous circumstances, or at least circumstances as devolved as a result of my choice, i felt it incumbent to write this piece. My heart was not in it nor did i feel any inner prompting to unravel ideas. So i faced this abyss of non creativity and the absence of the muse. The writing i was to elucidate as a maxim given it was a set of guidelines on how to publish, enervated me immeasurably. While i could be unembarrassed about the material recompense the writing would guarantee i deemed the writing of this meretricious ,platitudinous discourse as an insult to the venerable creativity at whose altar i was wont to prostrate hoping, for that imaginative apotheosis that would culminate in materializing the masterpiece that was immanent in me.
I sat before the screen with a seeming appearance of imperturable gravity. In point of fact my mind was unfocused, my imagination at a point of unmitigated stasis. I was in a blank state of unconsciousness. My mind was in that limbo where thought becomes thoughtlessness and ruminating becomes nothingness. I could neither summon up the imaginative manoeuvring to do my task unobjectionably nor dish up a mediocre offering to palliate my lack of commitment.In short i allowed myself the indulgence of luxuriating in a state of non being.
But such a submergence was unaccustomed ,even for one such as me, with my rhapsodic meanderings . I wanted to earn this money to buy a few books to irrigate my fallow imagination. I had chanced upon, at the bookshop, a volume of pessoa i desired. So inveterately and inevitably i forced my blank mind into pixels of dreary writing. I sought to give form to my convolutions. The fact that i was a small scale writer did not perturb me because hardships ensured an experience i could transmit in the hope of it being related to. But where i faltered was the accoutrements of success i was expected to elucidate. The precarious publishing world would obviate the idealism of any young writer and the unmeritorious proliferation of execrable writings render any artist, with implicit belief in art, thoroughly disenchanted. I had been through the treadmill myself. Its recondite but disagreeable rituals were familiar with me. What was surprising, was the occasional spurt of good writing which renewed my faith that talent couldn't remain unconcealed.
Not that i deemed myself capable of great talent. I was part of the ebb and flow of a literary consciousness which swallowed some writers whole and spat them out unceremoniously. I had the streak of mediocrity necessary to write sordidly or in pastiche form. I could descend lower to restitute my shaky finances. But i soldier on hoping that my own profferings would make an impact. The moment of transcendence seemed both indwelling and unattainable. Meanwhile i have this piece to write. I will bring to this article, all the artistic integrity i can muster despite the tawdry nature of its essence. For the moment, the apotheosis, in my own aegis, this will inveigle, with a certain measure of self complicity, shall be a momentary compensation.


I accepted his awkwardnesses as solecisms. He often alluded to his troubled background. I had no reason to disbelieve him because i deemed him trustworthy. Such trustfulness was my defence against the irrationality of the world. My belief in his putative veracity reaffirmed my belief in my own probity. Distrusting him was tantamount to excoriating self doubt.
It transpired, however, that his solecisms accumulated and i was unable to disavow their import. His inveterate inattentiveness no longer seemed to be evidence of his nobility of thought but a deliberate effacing of my consciousness from his. Often he would utter invectives then promptly apologize as though to neutralize the ramifications. I put up with these anomalies for reasons i outlined above.
But my own sense of self was undergoing seismic shifts with psychoanalysis. Habitually accustomed to self loathing i sought this palliative which, instead of alleviating, crystallized my misgivings about myself . I was assure that this was a natural process that would eventually grant me a wholesomeness. But, for the moment, the discomfiting realizations of my unconscious, latently preponderant but now conspicuous, pained me deeply.
As i underwent an unpeeling of my own layers of deception i could see his own deceptions clearly. Or as clearly as my own divesting of my solipsism rendered possible. I was seeing him clearly because i was seeing mysel clearly. And the sight was dismaying enough. As my own naivete was revealed to me so was the utter disingenuousness underpinning it. I had inadvertently inveigled my own compendium of solecisms to counteract his. My own pliability was no longer agreeable but a compromise. What i deemed sagacity was a makeshift truce with destiny to ameliorate the uncertainty of an indeterminate existence.
I am deliberately withholding tangible explorations ,through this account, of his depredations because the story is grisly and sordid enough. Violence and alcoholism are conventional bedfellows and need i explicate more. But what struck me most was that the pattern of compromise i demonstrated was a common paradigm. Clearly his exterior possessed powers of persuasion which, in conjunction with my inner incertitude, augmented my predicament. I could either absolve myself of accountability, given my ingenuousness or see that very ingenuousness as a precarious buttressing of a tenuous self. I oscillate between the two positions but eschew neither exculpation or self evisceration. I flit between the two.
I am also aware, palpably, that this yarn is hardly composed of those satisfying significations of a beginning, middle or end. But it is a moment i wish to capture through an adroit circumvention of its more dreary accoutrements. It is the pattern i seek to explore than the experience. The experience varies but the pattern, though fluid and protean, remains unaltered. And it is that which conjoins me with others that prompts this than a need to segregate myself as special.