Wednesday, January 4, 2017


Corresponding to the mores of a new reality , mediated by language, I acclimatize, endeavouring to grasp the hieroglyphs where the nature of affection or love is encapsulated in an x. A capital X would imply a capaciousness, a succession of x's would imply affection and love in excess of the capacity represented by a singular symbolized representation. Or is it my finger, captured in an unbidden reverie, frozen on x, pressing interminably so that while a s...uccession of x's unravel the stasis of wordlessness is compensated by an efflorescence of feeling whose ingratiating excess speaks for itself, or rather unspeaks itself through reiteration .

Do I, in pressing x on the keyboard unquestioningly simulate a gesture formulaically, where the observance of convention overrules feeling? Or is my interlocutor , invisible, filtered through language, summoning forth unbidden, unwitting and unprocessed reams of feeling, huddled in an inextricable blend of hope, longing, fear, absence whose only pithy and pat externalization is an x ? How many ex's or exes lie buried , of that which is expropriated, extraneous, extrojected , extravagant , extruded , excommunicated out of me . And do you ? on reading the culminating x , feel a similar frisson of ex's and exes unspooling somewhere beyond language, beyond cognition, beyond reason, while between you and me, through the agency of a screen with a social media app , lies the incontrovertible, irrefutable x , in itself, self contained, inviolable, meaning or not meaning whatever it is supposed to but existing independently of you and me though brought into being through you and me.

Other hieroglyphs substantiate, corroborate and undermine what this x represents. An adduced heart , its pink bright sheen representing the scarred tissue which beats steadily but precariously, or an emoticon which feels sometimes adhesively sticky, a cloying accompaniment to something unrepresented and ungraspable but felt or assumed is felt or is believed by oneself , given the way our mode of interchange is its own coordinate, to be felt. Do I then see that sparse x , in short letter, as an extent of the depth you proclaim in its minuteness or do I, having imperceptibly intuited the reserves of your undemonstrativeness read a genuine note of regard which thrills? Does an excess of emotion represented by prodigious yet gossamer signs reveal the density of your emollience or the exigency of it engendered by the words I put out? Whatever it is, underwritten, overdetermined, corporeally imprinted on screen in the void of our mutual unknowing , it is enough. And its sufficiency a testament to its own integrity .

Monday, January 2, 2017


    Wordless. The wellspring of words within me, well meant, welling up, are lost in a welter of emotions whose force is light and sound. The light of inner being, lit up by the lightening of my eyes and the lighter vein of my upturned smile. Light as a flash, an energy, an iridescent spark , momentous but searing, imprinted in a space underneath my integument where while the sound that is unarticulated is bubbling, brimming , overflowing with wordiness whose worthiness is imperilled by my adherence to a worldliness which inveigles a wordlessness whose silence, undulating with light and sound as light and sound , blends with the vibrating currents your words have evoked , provoking this fusillade which cannot be contained in the words I can utter , nor wrapped up, enfolded in the blanket of metaphors whose buoyant gaiety will outpace the gait of my inexpressible emotion which, by remaining unexpressed, or misconstrued as inexpressive , will founder, coil back on itself and burst forth, uncontainable as it is, through my contained gay( iety).

    In the interstice between what you uneventfully unpacked in me and what I can't pack into a tidy parcel of packaged narrative, studded with jam packed intimations of the incommunicable, a silence prevails, expectant, anticipatory, itself its own language. The language this silence utters is not only wordless but unworldly . It is life , in all its prodigality, whooshed in, sloshing itself inchoately in this momentous vacuum of the unsaid and the unsayable, that which is not meant to be said or meant in a way that cannot be said .

    Language games, you and me. We pass words back and forth, enacting our scrabble of lexicographic mnemonics , endeavouring to plunder the lexicon of unfathomed meanings . Meanwhile there is this silence, to be papered over, or circumscribed in a pulpy paperback of mushy significations , worn thin, attenuated like the abrasion of sandpaper. No matter whatever palimpsest of associations I keep entombed , no matter what overdeterminations you imbue my inarticulacy with we have light and sound, which are their own language, their own silence. To be made, made up, made into whatever it is remade as . Let this silence protract , let this uninhabited , uninhibited sliver of time become the language you and I speak unspeaking, speechlessly . Let it be.