‘Pincushion Anatomy'
Essay Contributor & Cover|Feature Artist - Originally Published in AGNI, Issue 93, A U.S Literary Journal for fiction, poetry and essays.Published At Boston University, 2021.

Pin puncture the pincushion; it devours them. How to save it? The pins have to pass through an alimentary channel, either to be used or discarded. This is a brain with its own digestive tract, in the guise of a pincushion. Picture a cerebrum pierced: it looks like acupuncture or voodoo. The pins are 24/7 information coming from everywhere, a constant insertion, filling the brain till the universe ceases to exist. In each instant: all that is happening around the cosmos, concurrently.

           The brain absorbs it all, oscillating between familiarity and unfamiliarity. The moments, incidents, events remain in our memories, whether embellished or scarring or dispersed. Asmanjas/confusion about why, how, and when they entered. The interaction between synonyms and antonyms, life and decomposition, religion and atheism, politics and apolitics, ethics and prejudice, metamorphosis and stagnation, meaning and meaninglessness. The ultimate chakravyuh of thesis-antithesis-synthesis.

              The microcircuits in the head all blinking wild.While these go on processing, an inner voice, like a soliloquy but mostly blabbering—considers and argues. How fast we talk in our minds, sometimes to an imagined person but most often to ourselves. From the outside, no one hears even the faintest of this conversation. The exterior is silence—a Black Noise, quiet and dense.

             Meanwhile, the pins churn fast, coming down and down, towards the seat of the humours. They arouse feelings in us, either dry and warm or moist and cold. Colours swirl—red, black, yellow, green. As the humours secrete and absorb, we are able to concentrate more on the faults of the entire system, to assess how healthy our world is. The humours—or dosha, which in Sanskrit means faults—are out of balance; yet we tend to lean more on the discomforts under the veneer of ourselves, society, systems, existence. We find our strength in all the drama and the void.Alas! We take in too much at a time, and the result is reflux—all the information, all the content flowing backwards, coming up with our feelings and split-second reactions.

              With paper and ink in hand, I ready myself for the purge. Nothing can be decided in advance. It has to come as the adrenaline brings it. Maybe subtly, maybe violently. Maybe it’s innocent, perhaps macabre. The inked brush improvises, or a subtle needle nib gently scratches the itch, as if on automatic. It visualizes on its own terms, resonating with mysterious unrevealed characters. It is self-directed, all in one go, all freehand. No time for the old patient layering, it has to be now. Black ink—a silent yet absolute partner—lets noth-ing pass through. It keeps the gesture clear and outlined, a distinct communication. Afterward, the body relaxes. There’s mild relief. But only half the pins are out, and more are being added all the time.
The pincushion goes on devouring.

 

Deepa Jayaraman