Friday, April 10, 2015


I call him up. I am in a state of expectancy. The phone rings and rings. I tap my foot impatiently. He might either be busy or sleeping. So i put the phone down though suffused with a need to talk and fractious because i cannot.
I call him half an hour later. Surely he would have woken up by now. It is late morning. My mind seethes with impatience as the ring drones interminably. I leave him an sms saying that when he is free he should call me back.
One hour and yet no call. I am certain he has read the message. I am angry with him and upset with myself for being angry with him. I can feel inadequacy insinuating itself. I am also worried that there might be something wrong. So i leave a message saying that hopefully he is okay.
Two hours later i call him again. My mind pleads and expostulates with the protracted ring, petitioning fate that i hope he picks up the phone and talks to me. I have left behind messages that have presumably been ignored. I tried to formulate an understanding for his putative indifference while simultaneously bristling with frustration at his lack of reciprocity.
I go on facebook and message him. I copy paste my message and send it to him as an email. Something strikes me as a tad bit unsympathetic so i log on to facebook again and send another mollifying message. Then i send another propitiating mail. By this time i am going crazy. I have abandoned rationality.
This goes on for a few days and still unremitting silence. I am past caring now. I think i'm going mad. This incompleteness is killing me within. I am alternately angry, fearful, resentful and self preserving. All the urgency,accelerated through his unresponsiveness has vanished now. All i want is to be left alone. I log off facebook and gmail and switch off my mobile phone. Let him who gave me pain suffer now. I will give him a taste of his own medicine.
Half an hour later my mobile , facebook and gmail are on. Still but still, nothing from him.

Thursday, April 9, 2015


Looking over my copy of Freud's 'Mourning and melancholia' i had a thought. And a part of me witnessed me having this thought. As soon as i thought the thought it became the past. It was so gossamer that the interstice between thinking and articulating was infinitesimal. It eluded capture. And even as i write what i do now i am aware that, in the absence of conscious deliberation, the sentences are unfurling their polychromatic plumage in a form indiscernible to me. Whether i force myself to pause, think and write or allow my creativity to flow untrammelled i will hearken back to the same indeterminacy. And that is the conundrum of my consciousness.
Thinking through freud brings to me certain aspects of the past that lodge in my mind. Some crop up repeatedly because of the centrality i imbue them with. Others, more indistinct and unbidden, emerge from some nebulous hinterland where all this cavalcade lies jumbled. It is like a cacophony that jangles but from which, as a stream of thought diverges and cleaves to the conscious mind, a soothing susurrating warbles. Even unpleasant thoughts can be arias, lulling or soothing, through incessant brooding, into a somnolescence of non being. That, to me, is the liberation of consciousness where, freed from its trappings, the mind reverts to the amniotic fold in whose warm waters the foetus of my inner being reposes, restful and blank.
Sometimes this emptiness becomes a gnawing pain of inadequacy. At those moments i am wont to reach for the blade or pills. This emptiness is not the blissful oblivion of the womb but a kind of iterative discordant shriek of torment, gnawing within. Language deserts me then,as with the womb. While the incommunicability of the womb renders me agreeably wordless the emptiness of despair turns me into a monomaniac. And admittedly reading freud has made concurrently discernible, this morbid substratum in me. It is about what i choose to access and tune into. It never goes away but if its disquieting intimations are silent then a certain modicum of outward peace is arrived at.
If i allow myself to open up the doors of my convoluted enclosed consciousness chaos rushes in. I hear my brother singing in the other room, a dirge like mournfulness that striates my overwrought nerves into furrows of exasperation. This sound is indivisibly cleaved to me. Elsewhere the chomp chomp of my cousin eating a mutton chop interrupts this process of writing. I write amid this din but with the fear that these sounds will overtake me to such an extent that they will blot out words and inveigle an angry silence before i start screaming in anger. I resist it by resolutely focusing on, yet incorporating these sounds within my inner radar.
Child sexual abuse, sexual abuse at school and university, non hodgkin's, bipolar , father's death, worry of mother's illness, burgeoning painful love, inadmissible homosexuality, imminent dinner are all coiled and intermingled in the unstoppable unravellings of my mind. It is all densely conjoined. Sometimes something crops up and sometimes something else. This density, this impenetrable complexity squeezes my brain into tightening, tautening, circumscriptional streams of thought before under the insistent pressure of this caving in, and now i can hear my mother and brother fighting, it all bursts open. This is what i come up with.


A slant of light silhouettes being as what i want to be becomes what i am to be. Where my becoming refracts me into prisms of iridescence my being reposes in shadow, peripheral yet undeniable.
I love men ,i really do. I love them with all my being and envisage my becoming with them. His stubble, with its raspiness, his tumescence expelling sacrament , each and every pore of his integument ripples me with desire and longing.
In a certain hinterland i argue with those who doubt me, fearful of their mistrust but desirous of their approbation. Yet regardless of their approval my becoming is unaltered and is my being from which i become that which i always was.
I race through labyrinths to meet him. My blood pounds against my ribs, a white hot light splashes me in the orb off its incandescence. My head swims, my senses dance, my body quivers and the heart tintinnabulates with irrepressible fervour and passion.
In the penumbra of non being, at moments of self doubt, i become wistful. I commemorate our moments of being. Our moments of commingling. In desiring becoming i relinquished my inviolable being. Being craves now for a recomposing of the self wherein negation becomes affirmation through a leap of faith. But you are gone.
As i reassemble all these arabesques conjoin and cleave. Each fragment of me, both singular yet interleaved become a kaleidoscope of varying tints wherein each turn shifts the aegis yet all is soldered luminously. It is then that i meet him and we kiss. And a new being becomes.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015


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.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015


I was unaccustomed to silence in general. Or ,more accurately uncommunicativeness. Reticence or coyness were okay for me. I could handle that, knowing, that once an accretion of inner fears occurred, spontaneity would forthwith emerge. I was confident and it was a confidence based on past experiences where i could loosen people's stronghold of reserve. I usually achieved this with an amalgam of love and empathy. And these were genuine.
It might seem an anomalous admission that the growth in the confidence of my interlocutors coexisted with my increasing self doubt. Silence unnerves me which is why when people ignore me i am bewildered. My preference for honesty renders me desirous of a direct if calamitous conversation than a protracted attrition of the unsaid. I am accustomed to speak my mind clearly. I do hope, however that i temper my honesty with decency. On most occasions i do manage it.
Which is why his spells of withdrawal bother me immensely. I blame myself or some solecism and undergo spasms of uncertainty. All the while he alternates between loquacity and silence. I have the uneasy prescience to affirm that i want to break this silence, penetrate the core of his inner being. In making him yield i desire a closeness beyond the inveterate trivialities and superfices of what i deem ordinary friendships to be. From one point of view such a desire to plumb the depths is laudable. From another perspective it is an insidious effort to consume the other. In my case i think both hint at a certain intermingled complexity.
Unfortunately insecurity worsens my importunity. A part of my mind counsels self restraint and the reproachful intimations it inveigles redoubles my self abandonment. My desire for certainty makes me call him again and again, despite my misgivings. I seem to be propelled by a force beyond myself. I oscillate between gnawing anxiety and futile self censoring. By the time a certain resolve is arrived at i am immeasurably exhausted. It is a pattern i am wont to repeat. It is an unpleasing prospect. So love, empathy, fear, insecurity coalesce into a kaleidoscope of tinted emotions whose hue varies from context to context, whose texture is rooted in experiential specificities but whose emotional tenor, unfortunately, is unaltered.
But when the mind reaches a point of crises precipitated by ceaseless vacillation the need for a course of action becomes necessitous.I have thought long and deeply about this. There is no point in crystallizing my neuroses through a prolongation of this self induced predicament. I need a certain reciprocity. I could , with finality, close things off but that is too hasty. I love this friendship and him too much. But closure and a certain solution is warranted. And i, for one, am determined to seek it.

Sunday, April 5, 2015


When i sought him i conceived grandiose ideas about the friendship. And in all honesty i was sincere in feeling what i did. I don't doubt my veracity but circumstances have taken a turn that undermines the confidence of my constructions. I have changed in a short while, a change i perceive to be conducive for my survival and well being. This arrival at a certain certitude is sagacious, indeed necessary. I deplore its coming into being, bemoan the indeterminacy that surrounds my resolve. Perhaps my resolve may even change. For the moment, however, it stands.
I still love this friendship. My regard is unaltered. And i don't blame him given that i anticipated and prefigured this self disillusionment. But articulating, however presciently,any misgiving does not obviate the inner tumult that ensues. And despite my well thought out and wisely formulated preconceptions i find myself at this crossroads which, with the accompaniment of other disenchantments crystallizes my sense of dismay. So this alternation between expectation and disappointment is of my own making. If i do regret anything, it is my naivete. Ingenuousness indicates an absence of guile and i resist such a foreclosure. But is a naivete naive enough given my preconception of my predicament? Language is slipping away even though it is all i have to adumbrate this narrative.
Having consciously ruminated over my situation and having importunately written to him about what might seem desperation i long for an interlude of silence, to somehow disappear from the world awhile before regrouping and re emerging. If anything, my hastiness embarrasses me. I had bethought myself to have evinced authenticity in expressing the truth of my inner disquiet. Yet such an act is irrevocable and an unconscionable demonstration of vulnerability. That he will take it in a positive spirit is clear to me. But a vestigial regret, self wrought, prompts a certain discomfiture.
I have disallowed the caprice of circumstance to irradiate any decision i should have taken. I have relinquished the possibility that a tangible explanation may exist. I have, in my eager desire to avoid dissembling, trapped myself in a cul de sac from which extrication seems difficult. But i remain hopeful that my interlocutor's wisdom shall circumvent the obstacles i seemed to have placed for myself. If i were adroit enough i could proffer a plausible reason. Indeed, in all honesty a certain inner restlessness and dismay with another interlocutor propelled me into this neediness. I ought to have arrived at my own self exoneration. Instead i sought external aid. The fear that this indicates an inner uncertainty terrifies me.
I must asseverate that no apportioning of blame shall take place. I have hitherto been unmindful of circumstances beyond my own immediate concerns. And usually this is a propensity i inveterately resist. As exculpation i adduce the implications of other extenuating circumstances as factors that augmented my frenzy. I am properly apologetic. I must resolve my inner demons by myself forthwith. This narrative, in all honesty should, i hope , be sufficient recompense.