Saturday, March 28, 2015


In the solitary rumination of a self with the image he promulgates his nebulous thoughts. These thoughts are not overlain with the tincture of intent. As of now they are unformulated. But even in their convoluted permutations in the hinterland of the unconscious something ominous is taking place, something so inexpressibly objectionable that consciousness recoils from it.
The narcissist spins his yarns before the mirror. It is not his physical being as much as his metaphysical nothingness that attracts him, obsesses him. Around the attrition of his inner being he adumbrates his modus operandi. This is not just fun or interesting. It is a necessity, an anchor which buoys him up, in the absence of which an emptiness threatens which is so unassuageable that he'd reach for the razor and slit his veins. Whatever else may or may not be conspicuous the survival instinct is and he channels that in rococo forms of inveiglings and insinuations.
The narcissist has his prey in mind. His talons are sharpened, his molars gleam with malevolent intent. If he were a vampire, which he is figuratively, he'd be drooling, gobs of spit striating his ravenous mouth as he fastens on his target in accordance with his voracious, unfulfillable appetite. She is a young nubile woman who is accessing psychoanalysis to deal with her troubled past. A childhood of abuse with parental altercations has rendered her desirous of love.
After the narcissist and she break up she puts together a coherent account of the narcissist which runs as follows-
The narcissist had a mother who was fiercely possessive and who saw her son as a substitute for her husband. She tightened her hold on him by smothering him with love. The father functioned on the peripheries, on an entirely alien tangent. She made her son the focus of all her resentment and suppressed impulses. In the mother, child, father triad she disallowed the father from looking in. She became a mirror where her son saw his fragmented physiology without the attendant awareness of a symbolic order that would induct him into language and signifiers. Caught in this thoroughly constraining and suffocating dyad they both drain each other out. His mother is his first target.
In the mental institution the mother , who has undergone repeated breakdowns , fails to put together a coherent account. Her disintegration is unremitting, her collapse unequivocal. Memory fails her, narrative lets her down . Yet at unbidden moments her son's apostasy surfaces. She is submerged in a frenzy of self loathing so sincere that she needs to be tied up and drugged. An otherwise tranquil woman, she responds with unconstrained, uncontrollable anger, which also has an undertone of guilt and grief, at these unanticipated visitations. Her son rarely visits her.
The young woman has met the mother. Yet her account, plausible enough, fails to account for the machinations of the narcissist. He sought her out, made her feel special, with a sense of specious triumph. He unleashed on her invectives and objurgations when she discerned his true nature. She held on, hoping he'd change and ensconced herself irrevocably in a predicament she has only lately extricated herself from. She hasn't left him because departure would be his triumph.
What she has done is to institute her counter significations. He thought, unconsciously, that he was actualizing his blueprint of her. She is, imperceptibly , revealing to him the absurdities and distortions of his self created reality. And once the task of complete breaking through takes place she'd move on.
She moves on anyway. She finds a fella who truly loves her.
The narcissist, meanwhile is utterly bereft of company. This solitude neither discomfits nor dispossesses him. He is irretrievably enmeshed in his own mythology. But ,he opines, she tried to consume me but i escaped her. In seeking propinquity he disbuses his inveterate solitariness. But he is now appointed as a university professor. With scarcely a ripple disturbing the mirror, with the unmediated lens of an incontrovertible solipsism he turns to the mirror again. There lies his true homecoming.


The oncologist was a charming man, exceedingly polite and thoughtful. When he smiled he revealed a curiously pointed set of teeth. But he was solicitous enough. I experienced a suspension of anxiety and a soothing feeling that whatever bodily discomfort would ensue and was imminent had palliatives set in motion. There was confidence, as his mien evinced, in the restorative powers of science an medicine. There was something pugnacious about his chin as though it'd brook no disagreement. All misgivings would be brushed off as needless given that this moment had , in collusion with science, created a space for absolution so pure that any retraction or self doubt would be not only superfluous but a contravening of the healing powers of science. All in all, i felt comforted.
He shuffled the papers in front of him. I was calm, in that blissful interlude of non feeling before calamitous news intervened. As he arranged and rearranged sheaves of my report i saw a curiously fixated dimension in his consciousness. The lump on my back had been painful enough and i had forestalled disillusion by predetermining a cataclysmic diagnosis. If anything if i were told that nothing was wrong with me would have been the surprising element, causing much bewilderment. I knew that a disastrous news lay coiled in our intersecting stillness . I just wished to be told what it was. Equally ardently i desired a protraction of this current moment of unarticulated, wordless colloquy so as to stretch this stasis ad infinitum.
The room had an antiseptic smell overlain by the blasts of aftershave he emanated. I felt slightly nauseous and faint. My head swam, a vertiginousness assailed me and any moment i wanted to regurgitate, if only to unloose my bowels and pour out into this cavernous silence the compendium of my anxieties and neuroses albeit in a malodorous , slimy, oozy form. I held my breath in nervous expectancy alternating with dread.
What my state of mind was at that moment is difficult to elucidate. I saw the traffic of commerce a hospital encompasses. I saw through the cubicle a mother feeding her baby, an old man being wheeled in a wheelchair, a nurse's trolley squeaking past . All at once there was an inrushing of sound, sensation, movement. I reeled inwardly. My mind felt like a kaleidoscope with each shift in angle producing an alteration of perspective. Associations swam , memories reaggregated and dispersed. I looked for the right words to obviate the tension. I looked up and the oncologist was staring benignly at me, as though awaiting my words of inquiry before he could launch into his diagnosis.
Walking home the words 'non hodgkin's lymphoma' echoed, reverberated and ricocheted in my consciousness. I felt no shock or unutterable terror except a numb pragmatism. A preconception had been crystallized while the mind processed the implications of this eventful piece of information. What i knew then was that tumultuous tides would heretofore unravel. I just had to go with the flow. Did i have a choice?

Wednesday, March 25, 2015


I was jaded from the perils of a fragmented world. I wanted quietude, peace, tranquillity so i came by this lonesome cottage. My meals are sparse, my walks routine, unpunctuated by startling visitations and my sleep unmolested. This is a state of affairs that should be prepossessing. And outwardly a seemly order seems to have established itself. Within, though, a churning is occurring. The past seems unexpungeable and it is necessary, in order to arrive at a certain clarity, to lay out, with philosophic detachment, the lineaments of my thought process. Perhaps such an exercise is self defeating and pointless. But it is, for the moment, all i have.
Like many i was hungry for love. Not the pallid love of kisses and hugs but a more nobler love where beings were interchanged and blended, individual selves cleaved to create a new reality. All this was theoretical, you see. In fact i wanted to, with unremitting voracity, consume the souls of my interlocutors and lovers. I daresay this sounds very dramatic. But i was empty within and anything which took me out of this morass i was in, this shifting quicksand that threatened to suck me in, was highly welcome.
Since then i have realized that much of my desire to absorb the other was predicated on the need to realign my own singularity. I thought i could reinvent myself, through the aegis of the other since my own was so nugatory. Needless to say, the many i intersected with rebelled against this, often in imperceptible ways, preferring a precarious grasp of their own tenuous selves than give in. They were threatened by the possibility of engulfment as though holding on to a nebulous self was their only certainty, as though any relinquishment would be an annihilation of such finality that recovery would be impossible. Only nothingness .
If my inadequacy prompted possessiveness then their insecurity necessitated withdrawal. For long i oscillated between these two realms. My tenebrous mental attic is habitually inclement since the state of being i aspire to and the state of being i inveterately land up in are incongruous.
From the canopy of my incompleteness i seek a wholeness. And deliberations have shown me that my modus operandi is not all that objectionable. Given the relational nature of human consciousness might not a mingling and mangling of beings be the prerequisite for a more meaningful existence. Yet individuality fears, precipitantly, any such submergence. I do not posit a space of complete self abnegation. A balance is what i ask for. But what balance do i, with my own terror of self engulfing darkness, aspire to?
Solitude is an escape but only a provisional one. I need to gather my resources, husband my strength. Ultimately what i'm seeking, which this exercise of writing has, with surprising startlement, demonstrated is the reconfiguration of my own being in relation to the other. Solitariness is salutary only temporarily. It is the messy, sprawling world that spreads its anvil of intense experiences before me. I rush up, promptly, to meet it.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015


Consumption frightened her. Surfaces with protruberances terrified her. She'd be threatened with the possibility of engulfment. The tumescence that filled her mouth robbed her of her inner being. As the prick traversed the crenellations of her mouth she experienced a sense of dispossession so complete, so irrevocable that she collapsed into nothingness before its visitations. Her will leaked away, as did any volition. It was a dismemberment so searing that after each incursion, each visitation of unyielding flesh on benumbed mouth she marvelled that she lived to see another day.

The prince enjoys what he does to her. Her wide eyed terror is redolent to him of inexpressible ecstasy. As he disgorges his seed he sighs with pleasure, replete, expended, Regardless of the discomfiture he engenders he enjoys these pleasures. He is mindful of a compunction in that he is oblivious of her terror . Had she articulated it he might abstain from forceful inveigling. But being unillumined his depredations protract ceaselessly.

She loves him. She is but a poor country lass and perhaps it is this love that keeps her from expressing animadversions which, she fears, would destroy their relationship. He has promised marriage to her and she believes him though his father would oppose it. Being on his deathbed ,however the king has a limited life span. They both await his death. Sometimes, she excuses these brutal penetrations as  his expedient way of achieving satiation without impregnating her. But love him as she does she cannot feel any concomitant desire in fellatio. She finds it degrading. Her recoil is visceral , rooted in primal revulsion of anything that threatens the secure boundaries of the self. She has a hazy idea that fellatio exists, had even imagined pleasurably ,in dark fantasy moments, the thrill of silken lips wrapping an engorgement, enclosing it and savouring, like sacrament, the juices expended. But real life experiences are too traumatic and unconscious desires, though pleasurable in the imagination, horrifyingly inimical in real life.

The king dies, they marry. On the bridal night he fucks her. She savours the coruscating gyrations of desire that course through her. This is her territory, this her space for equality. The prince , now the king and she, the erstwhile beggar maid, now the queen. Already she imagines, as comeuppance, a life of deference to her from him. She has discovered the route to this man's love which is through the phallus. She picks his limp penis between thumb and forefinger. She induces desire in his jaded member. And without further aplomb wraps her soft  lips around it, draining to the last lees and beyond, the remnants of his spattered, shattered malehood. 

Sunday, March 22, 2015


I approach my sense of craft with alternating veneration and unselfconsciousness. I have all these fancy ideas about how writing out to be. Very cleverly and adroitly i put together a knot of interconnected ideas that seem veracious. And unconsciously, having absorbed this integument of my modus operandi, i trace out my narratives. I would like to believe that there is a causality between my conscious and my unconscious. The contemplation of this idea pleases me immensely. But ultimately i don't know. This could either augment an admission of limits or a freedom to sally forth and imagine superabundantly. I am inveterately wont to vacillate between the two.
I seek out interlocutors who are more extensions of myself than a disparate phalanx of people with differing points of view. I do listen, respectfully enough, inasmuch as listening implies a moment of suspension of loquacity. Subsequently i soldier on. I am certain that i bore my friends and acquaintances stiff with all this rationalization. Who am i seeking vindication from and why do i seek it? I could arrogate superiority to myself and sacrifice all compunction at the altar of art. Thus i could pay homage to the shrine of art. But i could write away copiously without being read. Mounds of paper accumulate ,wasting away, crumbling, moth eaten. I sense my creativity frittering away. And who cares a fart for art anyway?
So might a contemporary personage opine. When i can entertain and render nugatory the intermittent anxiety a suspension of triviality engenders why must i even write? What truth do i claim to have lain hold of which nobody but me sees as veracious. All the inwardness i could claim as authentic are the fruitless peregrinations of a self doubting mind, meandering unprofitably, alighting by chance on a putative nuance only to imbue it with the stain of my disordered, feverish thought process. I seem to poison everything i dwell on. It all seems incredibly meretricious. So ultimately when my own life and thought become insubstantial, dwindle into redundancy then does writing present not only a useful but a sublimatory palliation for this enervating ennui? Must i therefore protract my self induced torment knowing the inefficacious nature of its fruits.
However i choose to continue even while grave doubts about writing inundate me. It is the mechanism of habit, anesthetized by frenetic effort, crystallized by ceaseless ploughing on. And i sincerely hope that i can write in a state of blankness without these crippling insecurities invidiously inveigling. At the end i can only asseverate, and continual self questioning has rendered protean this very asseveration that perhaps unconsciousness is the only way to write, without expectation and partaking unremittingly of the sheer delight of writing. My inchoate sojourns into my fictional territories pile up as do rejection mails and letters. But at least the certitude that i leave behind a compendious remnant of my inner struggle will be a record for posterity, of vain striving and unremunerative effort, albeit undertaken in faithless sincerity. This keeps me going.