Saturday, July 11, 2015

WOUND -AN EXPERIMENT

I fell down and hurt my knee, scraping it. There was blood, blood that gathered itself up into thick viscous drops and trickled down. Unperturbed i placed my knee below the tap. Cold water cascaded down through the faucets which shimmered with glinting reflections as a ray of light slanted in through the window. My skin burned yet was soothed by the coolness of the water. Initially the blood didn't let up but eventually, after protracted immersion, stopped. Thin, watery trails of blood, now of a red wine type red, snaked down my legs and coloured the bathroom tiles leaving behind a trail of redness as this reddish water flowed into the gutter which sucked it in , made a whooshing noise as it did so and then became a punctuated drip drip drip that sounded uncanny in the silence. A scab of skin had unloosed itself. I picked it off carefully and ate it. Thus i gathered how i tasted
Which was sort of like wet , cold, chewy striated with grains of sand, a little bitter, a little salty, a bit meaty and a bit like sandpaper. I chewed away thoughtfully. It left behind a garish drop of blood where the flesh was teased out. I scooped this drop of blood in my forefinger and placed it in my mouth. It was curiously tasteless, flavourless but the smell of steel pins or coins rose sharp and pungent in my nostrils and i swooned
Remembering the ribbons of blood that traversed and criss crossed as i cut my wrists. Then while i kept my wrists straight, with my hands held out horizontally the blood would accumulate in thick gobs. It was a curiously disembodied sensation as though bathed in blood my wrists underscored the tractability of my veins. One slash of the blood, a line ,in the slash, of lacerated flesh, however indistinct and then the blood flow as though this thin aperture, like a pencilled eyebrow burst open and the uncontainable blood seeped out. It's not like hurting your knee. It is much more visceral and thrilling. And scary yet orgasmic
While i put dettol in a sponge and dab the wound with it.It stings and then cools. A piquant aftermath of sharpish sweetish pain spreads its tentacles as they meandered out indistinctly as sensation , forking out laterally. Some blood has curded and dried at the centre of the wound like a vermilion mark . It is still semi congealed like jelly but before long it will become treacle . And then become brownish reddish black. With great delight i will scratch out this dried piece of blood and within will be blood and pus and pain and and life
Whatever it is is what it is . Therefore i take it as it is. In any case for the moment the wound has been attended to.I have ,in ministering to it,suspended my mind from thought while enjoying the sensuous physicality of my impressions by experiencing them pleasurably. I've cut up a bandage in a rectangular shape and pasted it with tape over a cotton that lies beneath it. The structure is of a palimpsest where the curative narrative represents within the narrative of pain that underlay it. The two overlap , blur superimpose until it assumes a reality all its own. At night the drop of dettol dotting the bandage gleams phosphorescently. I place my leg gingerly, tremulously within the bedsheet and lapse into slumber .

Friday, July 10, 2015

A RANDOM CONVERSATION- EXPERIMENT

'I am so depressed today'.
'Would you like to talk about it?'
It's like i don't even know where to begin. I've kind of had the blues throughout, right from childhood'.
'Have you thought about consulting a psychiatrist?'
'Honey i've been on prodep for months. It's just that i don't talk about it. It's sort of like making something disappear by negating it. To use the mind as a duster to wipe out those inchoate hieroglyphs'
'It must be difficult. I'm sorry to witness your suffering'.
'Are you sorry to see me suffer or because you are a witness to it?'
'Well i can't stand negativity. It eats me up from the inside. I don't acknowledge it. Like you i blot it out.
'So your empathy is self directed , given that you are voicing a misgiving about your own complexity. Do i mirror your own depression, i wonder.'
'I've consciously tried to perk myself up, choose a course of action that lifts me out of it'
'I don't even pretend that there is anything positive. The world is fucked up. We are teetering over the precipice. And frankly if the world ends i'd be delighted to depart knowing i figured it all out beforehand.'
'But if you know the problem then why not work at solving it?
'The problem is not a problem. It is what it is, a glaring fact, the life that squirms and wriggles within the microscope. And those tapeworms of life's shit we refuse to see roiling within are also in our stomachs, incubating, proliferating, sucking life away, eating up our innards'
'That is a morbid view'
'The only way to exist is to persist in knowing that we are here to subsist only if we insist that beneath the skin is the proverbial cyst , with a bunched up fist, which negates delusions drift by creating that rift and then there is a reality shift which makes of our hubris short shrift'.
'That's a lot of words'
'Well we need a language to describe this shit, right.I am sick of the register of emptiness, nothingness. I mean these are not states of consciousness that depart from daily being but are a part of it, are, in fact, it. It gets into our veins bit by bit, swelling and distending them. And then we need to slash those veins to let out blood. We need to evacuate the emptiness that fills us up. When nothingness goes in and comes out it leaves behind nothing. And we are nothing'.
'I need to go now, yoga class imminent'
'All right honey twist and turn away doing them convoluted calisthenics. If it helps you keep the blues away i'm happy for you. As for me i've gone blue in the face articulating the blueness of this blue. Enjoy your class'
'Bye for now'.

MEDITATIVE- AN EXPERIMENT.

I was staring at the flame of the candle, trying very hard to focus . I was endeavouring to suspend my consciousness by fixing my gaze, or should i say fixating it, where it reposed with impassive fixity, while trying to fix myself, getting myself fixed for a better state where a certain stability would be a permanent fixture.
Ironically the harder i tried to concentrate the more disoriented i became. In trying to blank my mind into a state of nothingness and blankness i stared , stared at that something that would get me to a state where there was nothing. My eyes burned, the flame flickered and wobbled. Tears gathered at the edges of my eyes and threatened to spill over. As they slid the flame became a blur, as though i was seeing it through a mist. It was an insinuation of the penumbral in the incandescent.
Meanwhile my brain heated up. In trying to concentrate on focusing i became obsessed with the processing of focusing so my focus was derailed and worsened by the trials my unfocussed eyes were experiencing so much so that the focal point, which by now had vanished, became unknowable. Was the flame an instrument of self transcendence or was the frame or body the instrument through which the flame peregrinated its steely, conflagarated and metaphysical apotheosis. The flame was what it was and i am what i am. Intermingling seemed impossible and the stasis non being/higher being required as its inherent precondition was a lasso i flung out into the wilderness except that what i caught was empty space. Fire is light , the sun is fire. But fire burns and i was apprehensive about my sinning, fallible soul being sunburnt. I imagined its pinkish round expanse pockmarked by a scorching black mark ,like a spot on the lung that has been overexposed to smoking.
I could blow out the candle. I could douse it with water from a jug. I could snap it into emptiness by slamming my palm on it which does seem enticing given that it will leave that round black spot which i will emblazon as a mark of triumph for my zealous circumvention of spiritual flim flammery. Or in a moment of self abandonment set the whole apartment on fire and burn with it. Or i could just let the candle be worn down to its end, the wax melting, dissolving and lumped in a dense round thicket having exhausted its pyromania. And the pleasure scraping off the wax, though they do get stuck in the fingernails. The whole thing is a bother because the cleaning up will be ineluctable even if i meditated successfully.I don't see this botched attempt as a failure though it has left a crimson smudge on my self complacence. I might try again. And frankly if i do have to try again i must remember to buy scented candles.

EXTRUSION

That morning i woke up and found a lump on my inner thigh. Or rather i discovered it, not knowing how long it had gestated or incubated. I was bathing and soaping my groin region when i felt an extrusion, a round, dark pink and rather hard lump that sent shivers of electric pain coursing through my body, pain which felt pleasurable too, as though a concurrent rivulet of desire accompanied this pain, the desire to take the discovery of the lump to its logical conclusion, whatever that may be.

I tilted my leg, trying to fix a position of fixity where i could see the lump. Earlier a few drops of urine, trickling down, through my rather maladroit squatting while peeing burned the skin that concentered the lump, a sharp,astringent ,pungent pain like the jab of a needle. As i fingered the lump i smelt my fingers. An amalgam of rancid sweat, urine and stale powder permeated my nostrils. I could not place my leg in a position of comfort wherein the lump could be inspected with all the gleeful tumult it contained .When i touched it i felt a curious sensation of orgasmic joy and post coital soreness. My fingers were cool ,soothing the lump even as the touch of the forefinger sent shafts of pain traversing through me.

I don't know what i thought about the implications of the lump. I was thinking of my legs wrapped around his lower back as he fucked me. What would he feel if he saw the lump? Would he worry or furrow his forehead with repulsion at this excrescence. The lump exudes a stale rubbery smell and i dread to think how , mingled with the scent of sex a malodorous concoction would emerge. Or would he , unmindful of the lump hurt it  irrecoverably.

Meanwhile here is this lump. I want to squeeze it firmly between my forefinger and thumb, squeeze it into nullity, like a bubble burst leaving only a pop of empty air behind, soundless. But it is not a boil nor had it been a boil would i welcome the oozing pus such an act would actualize. Pus is the more stinkier cousin of semen and its unctuousity is more abhorrent. Semen when dried, flakes off the fingers while pus sticks and emanates a rotten odour. The lump is gravid and i don't know what will come out of its lymphomatic chrysalis. Perhaps pus, or blood or extracted cells that seal my fate or set me free.

I want to take a safety pin and stab this lump into a state of lumplessness. Even if the detritus is an attenuated , congealed plastering of its innards i am okay with that. Or to bunch up my hand into a fist and pummel it , pugilistically numb it so that like a defeated loser it slinks off, truculent but ineffectual. What i do instead is, given the heat, take some skin cream and apply it around that area. I close my eyes, savouring the cooling, soothing  relief from heat . If i could apply this cream forever i wouldn't mind having this lump as a fetish or a aphrodisiac. But soon cotton pyjamas will be at  work, the cream will stick and spread and mingle with the perspiration and alternately materialize the fire and ice effect which, for me, is quite like the aftermath of sex.

I'll probably see a surgeon. But already this lump, a recent discovery seems to contain within itself the experience of a lifetime. It both encompasses my bodily nebulousness and psychic foreboding, a landscape i have oscillated throughout.

I lie in bed stroking it, as one nestles into and strokes the pectorals of one's lover . Coruscations of desire still percolate amid immense pain. The layer of skin enclosing the lump throbs and susurrates while the cartilage within pulsates with energy. That night i don't dream of him. I have the lump instead. 

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

PUTATIVE CANDOR - A NARRATIVE EXPLORATION

I knew he'd hurt me. I had already worked out the manner in which this would happen. This realization , preconceived yet veracious, was not a startling insight attesting to any perspicacious attribute in me. It was simply that his behavior was self explanatory. It was so unambiguously reticent, which had an undercurrent of fearful truculence that i knew the pattern that was subsequently to materialize.
Knowing the imminent course of things should have prepared me, bringing forth a self congratulatory smirk at my prescience. Unfortunately it brought about a searing hurt that was unassuageable. His withdrawal , despite its prefiguration, failed to ameliorate my wounded heart. It might be my egotism which could not withstand the prospect of my subjectivity or else it could be my subterranean hope, conceived in the very absence of its actualization, that might have undermined. It certainly unleashed a protracted neurotic cornucopia of embarrassing contretemps which, though rooted in pathology, underscored my hapless capitulation to that pathology. I seemed to be impelled, despite my well thought out misgivings, to behave in a manner that i deplored and then to experience the tides of mortification at the fruitlessness of self analysis.
The more he withdrew the more my neediness accelerated. I could smell my desperation through the continuous fusillade of phone calls and emails i inundated him with, which were, unsurprisingly, not responded to. I couldn't accept this detachment because its entrenchment in his own attendant insecurity brought out the good samaritan in me. I was hoping to demonstrate, through my patience and incessant proclamations of authenticity, the sincerity of my feeling. In retrospect the assiduity of my expostulations concealed a certain lack of feeling, a residual realization, unacknowledged consciously, that i was overcompensating and self exonerating by negating my ambivalence towards him.
Rather percipiently, though it was inadequate, i divined his insecurities. By drawing home to him the febrility of his tremulousness i sought to strengthen my own precarious certainties. By projecting on him my self image of probity i simultaneously martyred myself and vilified him. I could see his fine qualities and mostly remained cognizant of his merits. But these merits served as ineffectual rationalizations in extending a friendship which was predicated on mutual incomprehension. I made a myth of him and of myself. I abrogated the provisionality that bound us together thereby contravening my own theoretical observations on human nature.
I've thrown him out of my life while retaining a wistful optimism of a resurgence of old ties. Perhaps my gesture of weary resignation, which i explained to him in a mail, had a manipulative intent of inveigling his sense of contrition by evincing my intolerance.On most days i don't think of him. Yet unbidden moments of our fleeting though intense intersection poleaxe me. For all my self awareness i am still irretrievably enmeshed in a predicament i created not knowing how to face the precipice an irrevocable breach would institute. Peregrinating this self defeating circumference of an unprofitable and tenuous friendship is my bulwark. And i know it, accept it, in all humility . But i see no way out though eventually i will have to find one. In the interim this exegesis reveals its inherent uselessness except for its transmutation into narrative exposition which i proffer here.

MOMENTS OF BEING

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.

Monday, July 6, 2015

SCHIZOID BEING

It is surprising that you exist
Given your visitation, unbidden
The caprice of your emergence
A succubus, hag ridden
You tell me you belong to me
Are indivisibly cleaved to my being
Yet the mirror, protracting excoriation
Tells me a sanguine narrative
To distrust the mirror is as much a lie
As fragmenting the self within
Seeds of self doubt undermine wholeness
Inveigling insecurity, therein
Maybe you are a part of me
That i wish to disavow
Images should please, not torment
Even if the integument is illusory
It doesn't really matter, your being entombed
Beneath the palimpsest of the external
Adherence, ineluctably, will emerge incessantly
To the stern directive of the oedipal paternal.