Tuesday, October 13, 2015


Melanoma but non cancerous. That was what struck me as fortuitous when i recalled the events of that night. I was glad that he had not contracted something cancerous and that the tests results instilled hope. I am usually cynical enough to accept that life is unpredictable and also practical enough to conceal shock at anything startling. This has earned me a reputation of callousness though getting hot and bothered about what one can never know the outcome of seems like giving too much air time to the arbitrary.

At the time however when i saw that patch of skin then i recall a cavalcade of jumbled associations. His upper shoulder , with its fine stippling of dark hairs, had a purple patch. My first thought was that he had bumped into something or been punched brutally. The feeling i had , at a distance of vision, was of clotted, thickened , purplish blood. I ran my fingers over the spot , expecting that curded  lumpiness but found , instead , grainy , sandy speckles of  skin dotted purple. The touch felt abrasive, raspy as i flattened my palm over it. A furred sussuration thrilled me. On closer inspection i saw, through rather unaesthetic insight, a patchwork threading of daubs of pinpointed purple striating each particle of skin. The patch showed a circular streaking that felt both a part of his integument as an extrusion. The light brown healthy skin intensified my feeling of incongruity as i glanced, again and again, at this aureole , both encrusted with spottiness yet attenuated and spattered than plastered.

I felt sickened. I felt gorge rising in me . He told me calmly that it was a recent outgrowth but harmless. I smelt him , the faint aftershave and his earthy scent . Smells are equivalent to fetishes for me and as i inhaled him, melanoma and all, i relinquished, momentarily, the garishness of the spot. Even now ,memories of  that anomaly in his body, almost like a disfiguration prompts contradictory feelings in me. If i could wash that spot of purple clean off the skin, leaving the healthy skin behind, eroded a bit, as a stone by the beach but still polished and smooth. Elsewhere i want to put out my tongue around that region in his upper shoulder, to taste that coarse texture, feel it abrading my tongue, absorbing the purplish excess on my lips. He, too, is overlaid with a purple patina. The barrenness of our orwellian minimalism now seems supplanted, in my consciousness, with the purple profusion of the baroque. The landscape of his body, usually transparent, signals now, with this conspicuous mottling , at a hinterland into the nebulous. Habituated to his more unprepossessing excrescences like that tiny scar indenting his inner wrist, while i stroke lovingly, imagining the experience that materialized it, i still saw him as a landscape of familiarity. The patterns of our being , predictable as they were, both comforted and bored me. Now , it seemed, there were dimensions i could tap into, without and within. This melanoma , which is self contained, ineradicable, is not , for me, a foreclosure its concreteness testifies. It is a spot in a projection of perfection and like any spot, assumes larger significance than the entire frame.

We met after a few weeks. The first thing i did while we undressed was to check his upper shoulder. The luridness of colour has receded and a light pinkish stain is all that remains, already becoming more indistinct as a counterpoint to the imprinting of that original anomaly i saw last . He seems a bit more beefed up, partly i deduce,from steroids. And the melanoma, located on a firm, muscled shoulder now seems far preferable to this etiolated remnant in flabby skin. I can imagine curling my head around the muscled discrepancy than the curative sagging. But he seems to be getting better . 

Whatever it may represent melanoma certainly betokened a possibility of a deeper closeness. Despite the desultoriness of our future intersections, which i project and assume to be true objectively,this interlude is etched in my consciousness. I will finger it, wrap my arms around it, warm my hands over it and recapitulate,though  knowing it is only a fantasy, the orgasmic potentiality of melanoma.

Sunday, October 11, 2015


One of the gifts psychoanalysis conferred on me was the awareness that there was more than what met the eye. To me such a thought, in adolescence, would have been salutary given my oversensitive , overwrought tearfulness at any appearance of firmness, which i took to be, both an affirmation of something ignoble in me and a certain insensitivity in the admonisher. While i resented being subject to arbitrary humiliation the prospect of victimhood lent my lachrymose self pity a certain grandeur.
Moving on to a more measured discernment of nuance at university crippled me even more. I complimented myself on my prescience yet counteracted the disquiet it inveigled with supplication and a desire not to give offence.It wasn't obsequiousness though there was a certain deference in it. Even now, conspicuous demonstrations of meanness and vulgarity make me withdraw though i am not unaverse to a certain self exhibitionism specially if it reveals a certain ironic awareness of itself mingled with pride that such knowledge exists. I augment it with alternations of self reviling and self complacence. But in reality this is an unexceptional human reality. Nor is knowledge of it commendable, if its only fruits are stasis, uninformed by action and a crystallization of a putative wisdom.
Purposive action seems to me quite relevant despite whatever unconscious darkness. More often than not appearances are the truth, whatever truth is or at least as close an approximation of it as is possible. It is disingenuous to suspect each solecism as rebarbative or each display of warmth as an underlying opportunism. That i sometimes evince paroxysms of self hatred in attributing this to my interlocutors seems more a realization of the complexity of the world than some underlying impulse of darkness in me. In all sincerity i perceive in myself a certain absence of guile though cultivating guilelessness over the years, in adherence to a self mythology has made the impulse seem natural. Or else a certain layer of artifice has been denuded or ,in all likelihood, some immanent impulse has been actualized. I can be quite voluble in my protestations of guilelessness, itself a symptom of a desire to convince and superimpose. The indeterminacy of its unmediated reception galls me but its absorption in others and their attendant reciprocal warmth affirms the larger preponderant impulse than self gratification though one is ,in a sense, gratified by the fact of one's sense of being being seen , not in its messy , misshapen convolution but a certain indwelling relationality.
One can go neurotic in trying to plumb the labyrinth of the human mind. All one has are patterns which one must scrupulously avoid seeing as incontrovertible. The patterns may convey partial truths but are provisional. Lately my response to any unreasonable affront on me is to let the person who hurt me know, with my impression of rationality, conveyed through psychological jargon, the filthiness entombed in themselves. This may be petty vituperation or a certain enjoyment of holding up a mirror. The compensations of both are illusory. Ultimately closure is that one creates and seeks comfort from knowing it is inadequate but it is all one has. No closure corresponds to one's intrinsic desire for absolute justice or retribution. It is worked through and may be all one has.


Profusion may proliferate, wildly
Even within a putative norm
Amid the uncanny silence,boding ill
In the eye of a storm
Needle point may be the crevice
Through which threads of abundance unravel
The landscape , trodden , may be vast
Which divided selves travel
Spillage of the excessive might
Staunch the constrained
Conceiving of unmitigated repression being
Rather hare brained
Form may attenuate a fragmented content
Revealing, within the watertight, spurious intent


If meaning resided in words
And what was felt was what got said
A glimpse into the immanent
Would have, to the fulcrum, led
If what was felt in the depths
Was plumbed, reviled by and spoken
Jaded being would find, amid indifference
Some undivisive self, unbroken
Yet constrained by mores, conventions
Words dry up, unuttered
While the repository of a labyrinthine mind
Would, by the unarticulated, be cluttered
Meanwhile the desultory world continues unabated
As identity fragments , with the essential unsated.


In the midst of splintered shards
Refractions of the substratum spawn
Reason shreds , rends, bends
As causality is, beyond a point, begone
Stipples of the unsaid break through
Daubing with their atavistic mnemonics
The daguerrotype of the unvaried, meanwhile
Is undermined by a myriad architectonic
What fails is what holds us up
While the frenzy of chaos reins
With the importunity of unmet drives
Non being cuts through liquiefied veins
A wrist is slashed or a hinterland overridden
Through the emergence of primevality, unbidden