Topsy turvy effect of chief conundrum, bypass surgery of falling through the hell like syndrome of Amsterdam port, sharing coffee with the chieftain and Gorilla. Mexico City bar. Inside out, too much to fathom with the dealings around, admixtures of romance. I care none. Perfect play. Performative aghast. Who is here to reduplicate it, like Sandipan Chattopadhay did, with Monsieur Camus, and his whereabouts of fallenness. The fall’s trigonometry. I love to be one with many, not before one. Now as I see it, it appears as Rousseau like terrorism towards the other, supposed to be an extension of self. Yet, year loss was unavoidable. Too much immersed in monologic dichotomy of interior selfhood with allergic other. No trace of outside in my inside zones of telepathic monologue with other bystanders in the same format of insidious monologue. I call it inside and not interior for interior has a relation with exterior, inside and outside are totally cut-off from each other. Only a telepathic sound of corrosive being can break the spell of inside tourism, as glimpsed by Jean Baptist Clemence in Albert Camus’ The Fall.
Our own glimpse of inside is curtailed by the immediacy of exam, scoring for the honorary. The fallen syndrome goes on for two and half years. Obliterated as childlike melancholy. There has to be a sound which can break the spell of insidious inside monologue, trophies for self with no one but extinct other and no extensive extension of selfhood. Plasmatic state of stupefied null self. Still there was something to hold on. Friend’s gallery. Various instinctual snakes yet boredom of human fallacy. I reduced the birth-rate, never with one or any. Love was in the horizon much later. Later were her Galapagos lips. I adored a few, yet still with Clemence like distance. They fell too hard. I didn’t. I had my books of dialectics and phenomena to protect me from human vicissitudes. Now that I am with my Galapagos lips, for her solitary rearrangements, I wait. No more abode experiment with inside out immanent myth debunking role plays of either the bar owner or Jean Baptist Clemence. Certainly not a forlorn Judge –penitent. For there are Truffaut like people or a fighter who liked heaven, Pier Paolo Pasolini. Or, the morbid lover of human rhythm amidst the myths, our very own Ritwik. Kumar Ghatak.
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