a recent interview

Posted August 13, 2018 by rudhran
Categories: Uncategorized


Money is something that one can Make or Ignore!

From Jansons School of Business (Autonomous)
Domain (The Journal of Management Research)                   Vol: 11 ~ Issue:1    Jan-Dec 2018
An interview with Dr. R.K. Rudhran
Consultant Psychiatrist with more than thirty years of experience.His forte is clinical psychiatry with emphasis on precise diagnosis and eclectic intervention strategies. He is the pioneer in using Drama Therapy in India. He is an artist, sculptor, poet, bilingual orator, writer & director of 12 stage plays which include adaptations of Kafka, Tamil versions of Sophocles and Shakespeare. He is the author of 14 books on Psychiatry, Philosophy and Theatre



“The moon has aged too, and became no more the romantic muse of adolescent attempts at poetry. My hair turns whiter every day, while my mind delves into days and dreams that I lived in my younger and younger days.”     -Rudhran



A Glimpse of My Younger Days:

From a childhood peppered with Perry Mason books, and the afterschool bus stand in front of the High Court in Chennai, came the initial wish to become a lawyer. Though my mother wanted me to become a doctor, the family background was simply a dampener to her dreams, and it was just good marks that put me in the great grounds of the Madras Medical College. After a tumultuous MBBS in which my rebellious nature and an inflated self-esteem based on self-belief, posed conflicts and problems with examiners, I finally started a modest general medical practice.

As luck would have it, I was quickly blessed with a fairly good number of patients and soon was busy throughout my clinic timings. I had managed even to save a decent amount in my first two years and it was then that I decided I would produce my stage play. I chose Apitha by LaSaRa, a novelette written almost in a stream of consciousness style. Scripted it for stage and even convinced the eminent musician M.B. Srinivasan to score and give me recorded music for the play. The play bombed. I did not have money to start another venture. The play also reduced my practice as I had taken off on many days to oversee rehearsals. I began to feel the economic pinch again in my life.

In my teens, in the early years of my MBBS, my family plunged so much into a financial pit that there were times when I would surreptiously peep into the kitchen and if the stove and the vessels were barren, would declare I am going out, and going out I looked and found many odd jobs – painting wall advertisements, working in a printing press and at times painting and selling my paintings in a store.

Psychiatry & Drama:

Through my teens, art and literature were my most trusted companions in moments of poverty’s pain, boredom and lonely contemplations. Psychology was naturally an allied interest and then I read Irving Stone’s ‘Passions of the Mind’. Psychiatry became my choice of specialization not just inspired by Freud, but also because it was a challenge- not the intrinsic clinical challenge of the specialty, but the huge challenge it faced with the still-present stigma and the abounding myths and misconceptions regarding the field amidst the public.

Theatre sparked my smothered embers and though there was no money to produce plays, I kept reading and creating characters and their dialogues in my mind. This led to trying to fathom their psyche, and like all I imagined that psychological medicine would be the best avenue for me to travel in the future.

Reading & Writing:

Post-graduation in Psychiatry had all the text books that mattered in psychology to be read, but the focus was on the clinical and medical part of psychology. I still remember the day when I almost thought a deluded paranoid person was speaking the truth and wanted the family to be reported! Within a few months of clinical psychiatry exposure, I fell in love with the subject. I did not need a stethoscope or an ophthalmoscope, I did not even need to do an X-ray investigation; all I needed was my mouth to ask and my brain to interpret. I felt relieved that I would not need much of an investment when I start my psychiatric practice!

I keep reading. When my reading becomes stalled and I find it laborious to go through words that are really worth reading, I resort to reading crime thrillers- finding clues before the author discloses them is as intriguing as listening to a patient tell his complaints and his story and seeing through the layers of defense that always dominate a psychiatric narration.

I keep painting and drawing though not for money anymore. With advent of digital art, it has become a daily ritual for me to sit in front of the monitor and let the mouse wander with colours. I keep writing, and the number of unfinished books may someday create a record!

Family Support:

My family was extremely supportive of whatever I did, because they were never given a chance to be otherwise! But, they were supportive in the sense that whatever I do they would try to engage themselves in a discussion with me, and those conversations were never to dissuade me though would always be cautioning me.

What motivates me?

My ‘self’. I love painting, I like writing and I live every moment I sit in my clinic. Only when there are no patients for me to see or when I am incapacitated physically to see any more patients will life cease to mean anything for me.

Why this passion? Though it started with an inquisitive thrill-seeking clamour, it has made me feel fulfilled. The smile I see when someone is told the treatment is over, the wet eyes that thank me for their recovery, the small presents (like home-grown vegetables) that those who are treated free come and give me, the moment when the day’s work is over in my clinic and I leave the room with a glad heart, are the ‘lub’ and ‘dub’ of my heart, to keep me alive and eager for the next working day.

My take on Failures:

Oh yes! I have faced failures -failures that follies always beckon. Ambitiously just four years after my psychiatric qualification, I started a nursing home, with a heavy bank loan. I had enough patients to fill all the beds, but the patients did not have money to pay me! Loan strangled me and at the same time newer medicines came into practice greatly reducing the need for admissions. I closed the nursing home with a tremendous loss. Had I been compromising on the ethics of my profession I may have escaped the loss but would have lost my face in front of my morning mirror.

Even in MBBS I faced failures in exams, never for not studying, but for not behaving properly, and the same continued in post-graduation too! Every time I fail, I think back and see if I would have done anything differently and till date the answer has always been ‘NO’.

My failures did not dent me; they cautioned me and made my vision deeper and sharper. I may still start something totally unnecessary in this stage of life, and I may mostly fail as I may not have the vigour and vitality needed, but I will not take that failure to the grave, rather, I would evaluate it and perhaps smile- as I can economically take some failures now.

My failures have always been economical rather than emotional and money is something that one can make or ignore.

My definition of Success:

Success to me is the smile I have when I look into the mirror and reflect on yesterday. That smile makes the beginning of every today a spark that would ignite a potent success. Success to me, is the feeling of contentment that comes with a job well done without compromise.

The One Big Lesson that Life has taught me:

Heraclitus has time and again proven to me that change is the only constant in life and life has proven again and again to me that I cannot step into the same river again. Time flows on and on giving a fleeting illusion that things are the same, and if this illusion were to determine your thought and action, you would step into the river of life and find it is not the same, and if diligent you might understand it can never be the same.

Every time I had a fall, I have risen, bouncing back like a rubber ball that is hit hard on the ground. There are times when I have risen to greater heights and times when I had to roll over as inept.

Life has taught me to not think back.

Many days and hours have been spent on unproductive ruminations of the past. Recalling glorious victories is as useless as sulking about disastrous failures.

Life has taught me to make the most of every moment.

Life has taught me to ‘see’ people – sometimes I see through them, sometimes I see beyond them and sometimes I see myself in them. Seeing is all that matters to live. Seeing is understanding and applying that understanding in the thought process.

Life has taught me to become more stoic when being epicurean was my desire.

Over the years I have learnt that like happiness, sadness is also fleeting. While the cup of joy never remains full so too is the cup of sorrow.

Life has taught me to live.

My Philosophy of Work

  •  My work is my meditation.        When I sit in my clinic, when I write and when I paint, none of the worries that normally fleet and cloud my empty hours would interfere. I would be focused and relaxed. That meditative state makes me comeback for more and more.
  •   If your work becomes your meditation, your success would become your enlightenment.

maladies of the mind..

Posted October 9, 2015 by rudhran
Categories: written for a magazine

Tags: , ,

“The lover, lunatic and the poet are all of imagination compact”, remarked the Bard, perhaps signalling that all of them have intense emotional experiences, which we all do have. The term lunatic, inappropriate in all times is invalid now, and mental illness is the description that has replaced it. Mental illness is not just about emotions and their intensity or lack of it, it is an umbrella under which many maladies are contained. Even for this googling generation, almost all mental illnesses are conveniently or comfortably labelled as depression. Depression is just one of the many mental illnesses that affect humans.

Depression though a very commonly used, and rather misused term ( as many use it to call from degenerative brain pathology, technically called Dementia to simple difficulties in social functioning, as in personality disorders), is not just one type. We have all experienced losses and failures and felt low, sad and even at times despondent because of those events. This is called secondary depression. It is a reaction to an unpleasant event in life. Generally this would pass off in time and we would get back to our social and functional adequacy.  And then, there is another one called Major or Primary Depression.

Major Depression is not event related. It can strike anyone anytime, as it is a disorder of neurochemical transmission. Though there are some factors like hypothyroidism, diabetes, certain medications, and some genetic factors that can predispose one to a Major Depressive Disorder, it is essentially a biochemical disturbance that can only be treated with medication. In the currently raging fad that makes people shrug at the very mention of a prescription, MDD is a ripe field for quacks and fakes to swindle people and waste their time in getting early and proper treatment. On this, we shall see later.

What happens when MDD strikes? The person loses sleep to begin with, and gradually loses interest in all that he was involved passionately earlier. It mars his concentration, reduces his functional competency, makes him see the world dark, pushes him into a self- withdrawal, refuses him to take care of himself, and this ‘darkness visible’, can at times push him into a suicidal rumination and attempt. Depression can be considered as a serious emergency because of its potential life-taking possibility.

MDD apart, mood dysregulation can also manifest as a BI-POLAR disorder in which a person alternatively exhibits severe depressive sadness and switches imperceptibly into a ‘manic’ phase that is marked by incongruent elation and disturbing exuberance. This shifting mood makes not just the person unpredictable but also his relationships vulnerable. This again is a major mental illness and can be treated only with medication.

Mood apart, thought is what makes a man function- personally and socially. A severe form of thought disorder in which even perceptions get disarrayed is called SCHIZOPHRENIA. This is a very severe mental illness and it affects all social classes, both sexes, beyond religious and national boundaries in the age group 15 to 45. Unless detected and treated early, schizophrenia can devastate an individual’s life. This again is a neurochemical dysfunction coupled perhaps with a genetic transmission. This is one mental illness that is most researched and even now is the focus of scientific psychiatric investigation. Medication alone can handle this malady.

Schizophrenia is characterised by again loss of sleep and withdrawal in the beginning. But as time passes the individual loses focus in almost everything and is seen going further into himself. Though the affected alone can hear voices talking to him, threatening him and commenting on him, the outsider can still identify this symptom of ‘voices’. The patient would start muttering to self, not like what we all do when stressed or rehearsing for a stressful event, but muttering and alternatively appearing to listen as though he is in a conversation with a non-existent being. Besides hearing voices and responding to them orally or at time by acting out the ‘received ‘commands, schizophrenia is also characterised by delusions. These false beliefs are not induced as in the religious charlatans ‘money making mockery of the public. These delusions are baseless convictions in which even an innocent child can appear as a sinister evil conspiring and planning to harm the patient. These paranoid delusions are very common in schizophrenia. Again, it has to be reiterated that only medication can help these suffering individuals, because of the increasing popularity of  the stylish fad  wondering whether counselling alone would not suffice as therapy. You cannot counsel a schizophrenic patient, because he does not have insight- the reasoning of reality that makes him accept that he is sick. His hallucinatory voices and delusional convictions are unshaken in any conversation that tries logical reasoning. Unless the neurochemical balance is corrected, he will not listen, and therefore not understand.

Another important and common psychiatric illness is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Unlike in schizophrenia here the affected person is aware of his problems but absolutely incapable of doing anything to come out of it. OCD is again not a rare illness. It can be seen even in literary descriptions, like the Lady Macbeth lamenting on the inadequacy of all the perfumes of Arabia to wash her stain. OCD is characterised by repetitive actions done consciously but without voluntary control. Unless a specific number of times an act is done the individual becomes stressed and distressed very much. There are tow types of OCD symptoms one is repetitive cleaning and the other repetitive checking. A variant of these two would be repetitive acts that may be guffawed away as quirks or habits. We check because we are scared, we clean because something is dirty. Fear and shame are the underlying emotional disturbances in OCD. Regarding OCD, certainly medication is the first line of treatment. But since the individual can listen to sense and comply with therapeutic instructions, some behavioural modification techniques when taught alongside the prescription would help in recovery.

Now to come to minor mental illnesses, one can see the entire human emotional and social spectrum. From simple anxiety which we all experience and conveniently describe as non-existent butterflies in the stomach, to severe panic in which we cannot get into a lift or even close the toilet door when we have to use the restroom, there are a wide range of problems. Most of them are self-remitting, that is short lived and event related. Some like Phobia persist and do not go away even with total insight and high level intellectual capability.

Dependency on drugs or people can also be a psychiatric problem to be addressed. Addiction is another area of mental illness. Besides these, mental retardation, dementia, personality disorders, relationship  problems, learning difficulties and many more come under the group called psychiatric illnesses. Even the problem encountered by many doctors who are frustrated explaining to their patient that there is no physical problems, but find them coming again and again- the problem of what was once called hypochondriasis is a psychiatric illness. A once popular word, another misnomer that is still in usage- ‘hysteria ‘is also a mental illness.

Hysteria was named thus as the Greeks believed that the uterus of the woman was moving all over her inside and making her do bizarre things. This is now described under two types. One is conversion’- where one converts a psychological problem into a physical one. A common example would be having a headache when one is angry and unwilling to go to bed with partner. The other is ‘dissociation’- where the individual dis- associates from reality to escape stress or seek attention. This is commonly manifested in our country as ‘possession’- by a God or an Evil spirit, according to their cultural milieu. Here the individual though initially behaves involuntarily, at some time enjoys the attention he or she gets and goes on to exhibit the behaviour as and when time permits and need arises.

This is a very, very brief outline of mental illnesses. This may not help you to understand them all. But to identify any mental illness look out for- 1) sleep disturbance, 2)lack of focus in work, conversation and self-care 3) unusual and inappropriate speech or behaviour even if it is only for a brief period, 4) emotional imbalance of inappropriately extreme sadness or elation, 5) a gradual decline in occupational, social and interpersonal spheres of life. If you notice these take the individual to a doctor. Don’t Google and conclude, don’t get swayed by the promises of quacks, don’t ask the opinion of every non-medical person ranging from your auto-rickshaw driver to your jobless neighbour. Mental illness is treatable and in many cases curable. Help them to get their life back.

This was written for ‘THE WEEK’ mental health special issue October 10, 2015 (http://specials.manoramaonline.com/THEWEEK/2015/Mental-Health/experts/various-mind-disorders-symptoms-therapies/index.html)

sushruta two months’ toil

Posted August 19, 2015 by rudhran
Categories: Uncategorized

Tags: , , , , ,
sushruta by rudhran

sushruta by rudhran

it took me two months to paint and every day the couple of hours i spent on it were not exactly pleasant. i had all along been comfortable in speedy stokes and fast painting techniques.

this time the theme dictated that i take the old style of painting. it was not meant for the roving eyes of a critic or the raving eyes of a connoisseur it was meant to be on a wall of a medical college.

what made me suffer with performance anxiety was the fact that the college was my almamater- the great MMC, Madras Medical College.

i had dropped this style of painting nearly 40 years ago, and to push myself back in time and alter my style was not at all easy.

here is how the journey happened





the picture now hangs in the new building in the new premises of MMC


2014 in review

Posted December 30, 2014 by rudhran
Categories: Uncategorized

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 11,000 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Facebook foible

Posted September 16, 2014 by rudhran
Categories: ennui, life book, ramblings, rudhran

Tags: , , , ,

To discover or invent the psychology of the pathology of the facebook I need words, but I wonder if I do really have them. I am getting close to saying I am at a loss for words.

If I were not in facebook, I would have savoured and used many words again. I don’t mean just words. Words are just a part of a grand design whose line drawing is a sentence.

I may have gone on writing in the paper on the same page the next day or the next year, but the page with my words would have just been there, hanging around like a loyal dog waiting for an uncaring master. I may have even let the poor dog die unfed and uncared, but I would not have caught it and flung onto the street, where its whimpers would have drowned in the chaotic traffic out there. Facebook  has made me merciless and cruel, more cruel than a child battering mother. I give birth to these words in their formative design, and without waiting for them to grow and grab other words and weave another branch or related words, I thrust them out into the harsh light of social media which scorches more than the sun in its peak of heat.

I am not lamenting at the premature death of so many poetic probabilities that were prematurely delivered and left to die, untreated and uncared at the reduced number of ‘likes’. Thank God they did not create a  clickable ‘dislike’ till this moment. I feel like the shameless and selfish mother who disowns her child because it does not beget her appreciation. I have let so many lovely angels decay before they grew their wings and turned rosy. My words are unfortunate to have been born in this facebook era. Had they been born in the days of paper and pen, they would have still been alive and around, and if perchance I see them in a new light, may have got resuscitated. Not these days; words flee from typing fingers onto the launch pad of a click button, and in seconds after their appearance, appear in front of all. Not the ‘ALL’, but the ‘all’ who I have considered my temporary all. And, not all look at these words. Some are not even aware that they have arrived, some do not care to give them a second look, a few ignore, and a few more refuse to acknowledge. The fresh sculpture soon finds a dustbin, and with the million tons of debris and rubbish that keep piling everyday it may never find an archaeologist, anytime in the farthest future.

Having wasted so many words I still keep collecting them. I still keep weaving them into a tapestry that I always imagine would surpass the shroud of Turin. But those golden threads have gone out of the window, and I have gilded copies which would soon fade and dim in the eyes and minds of whoever cares to even take them on for a look.

I pause, ponder and in defense pontificate, that words are just the outpouring of a perennial stream and there it would always be, the source of the stream, supplying for eternity.  I lie to myself and write- ‘Wordless in the wilderness of mind..’

It is not that words have flown away from my memory; it is just that they are looking back at my mind which flung them out. They look down and mock at times, at my foolish delusion that they would one day soar up above the world so high that they would twinkle and light a new path. They do look up at me with ineffable sorrow, to make me guilty that I have thrown a seed out before looking at the ground and its fertility. They pray to me, an incompetent creator, hoping that I would resurrect them or give another birth and a chance to do something worthwhile. They pretend to believe in me, and pretend to believe in the world outside of me.  I have thrown out many words. Every word I threw out was not a casual toss into oblivion; they were all pellets aimed at a goliath that I had not even sighted. I have thrown away many words, original words that glittered and glimmered in the illusory sentences that my mind elaborately designed in deceit. All those words are gone. My mind and its brain still have surplus stock of words, but many are just replicas of those original words which went flying out into a fathomless obscurity. Having had the delight and ecstasy of using the original word in its pristine form to make a virgin design, replicas make me sigh.

Lies again. Not the cunning, scheming, malicious and brutal lies that are generally evident; these are lies that smoothly sail out like a leaking perfume, and hover long enough to get noticed and vanish. They would by the time have made their impact. An impact that would not choke or scorch, but an impact that would slowly cloud the vision, temporarily but long enough to distract and alter the perspective. Depths would no more be deep enough….

NO..I cannot write lies to myself. I cannot take writing down to the level of a ‘selfie’. I have to save my words, whatever is left of them, for a hope in the dark future when I may have an opportunity to unhurriedly set a necklace uncaring whose neck it would adorn the next day.

Until then, I have to write lies, not for myself but for others.

beginning to begin writing

Posted October 27, 2013 by rudhran
Categories: just writing, life book, ramblings, rudhran, Uncategorized

Tags: , , ,

To begin, I presumed was easy, you just have to start with, “once upon a time”. And, that peek into the past is flooding the mind with memories that slip away from words. So where does one begin, and of course, the metaphysical musing that is the pastime of postponing laziness, `why begin`, is irrelevant having begun. This is going to be a narration – of all the good, bad and confused moments of my life. Not that it matters in any significant way to the reader, I still pursue this rendering, as any bathroom singer would attempt at the right pitch and scales, just to soothe myself. Do I need a soothing? Does it mean I have a wound? Well, I have indeed been wounded many times, and I know that scars are not painful anymore…but memories are.

It was a fully moonlit night, as even calendars affirm, when I wailed for the first time. I whimper still, I wail too…but in the learnt shyness of solitude.

The moon has aged too, and became no more the romantic muse of adolescent attempts at poetry. My hair turns whiter every day, while my mind delves into days and dreams that I lived in my younger and younger days. As is common in all nostalgic musings my Madras seems to be more beautiful in the sepia memories of untaken photographs.

I have always known how to get up once I had fallen, but waking up while slipping was never possible. Can one awaken while slipping? And, what if there is nothing to reach out and hold on? Life kept teaching me everything except itself. Well, then, this is how it all had been till the moment I type this word. As I write time will move on, and while it drags me on, I just wonder what my new perspectives would be!

One day I will…. is the distant dream of everyone. Does the day arrive unnoticed? Is it actually being designed by me?  I have a vague arrogant notion that I have designed my destiny, and, WHAT indeed is my DESTINY? Is it the desire to reach the destination that I dream or have been programmed for?  Have I missed that magic clock that keeps the past fresh and forever, consoling the ageing mind that time is still there and in plenty?

The city grows and the citizen ages. Nostalgia is a cynical contempt at the fresh growth of permanent youthfulness, a bitterness that is the necessary nausea of reduced capacity and neglect,  a sigh at the clock that does not wind back; it makes the city move on and the citizen blink  in a daze at the speed of time.  The city will outlive the citizen, but will never ever be the city of the citizen.  Metamorphosis is not necessarily evolution, nor compulsorily beautiful by yesteryear’s standards, as definitions and measurements of the mind keep changing with every generation.  My grandfather, who scrawled poetry, would never have imagined me tapping on this machine without a pen and a paper, as my great-generations would wonder how I could sit and type on a machine. Time moves, city grows..The citizen gets frozen at one point. He cannot accept changes as he cannot cope with the challenges; in his best defence he suppresses his insight and projects a pseudo-wise appraisal at the degeneration of values as that is what he wants it to be, a frozen ice cream that can even be a picture on the mind’s wall.

and i presume i would finish writing  the book that is already bound and shelved in my mind….

Pondering and rambling..

Posted August 15, 2013 by rudhran
Categories: musings and the muse

Tags: , , , ,

Writing is laborious at times, especially when one decides to strew words together to form a meaningful and purposeful piece. The artist is more blessed than the writer in this labour of love.  He can dab colours at will and fancy, let them form meanings of their own and allow the viewer to discern and dissect what had never ever occurred to him while creating. The writer is not so fortunate. He cannot let words fall in disarray. Words are more precious than colours. They can’t be sprayed carelessly or with carefree abandon. They need to fall in place, and that place has to be determined in advance not left to destiny’s design.

In the beginning, they all declare, was the word. That may have been the only word that dropped out of nowhere to become something not really planned; this surmise could be wrong too since in a primordial pondering,  they all also say that word was the beginning. Just daring to go a little further, a thought comes to mind that in the beginning there was the thought, and thought became the beginning and in the beginning was the word. Word, the form of thought is perhaps the first idol of the formless thought that god is made of.  

What indeed is God and why God? The inevitable and obvious answer to this puzzle is that god is the need for mankind to express and explore existence. In this exploration is contained the negation of the hypothesis of god, in this need for expression is contained the human urge to express and leave an imprint. Having witnessed the disappearance of fellow species, fearing similar extinction, ancients might have felt the urge to leave traces of themselves in eternity and not vanish into void, knowing that sowing their seeds alone would not guarantee a permanent place on earth. Thus would have, in the beginning, born a word.

Word is thought, uttered or written; and word has been declared as the beginning and as god. Thought therefore is god and the mind therefore is god’s natural abode as the mind too is formless and open to multiple interpretations like god.

As is the common vanity of humans who could afford to experiment various forms with words, some would have  experimented with expressions of thought in art forms. In the beginning perhaps an artist gave form to his shapeless yet sharp thought and created an idol. In a modest moment he may have ignored the urge to replicate himself in art and created some form that was not exactly his self but an expansion of it. He called it god, and IT was declared god. The form created by imagination, the manipulative quality of thought, gave scope for words to be imagined. Words eulogized the form and claimed that, ‘that’ form inspired words. Words and forms, created their own structural formulae to withstand the decay and death the definitive threat of time.

Therefore and thus, THOUGHT, the formless void, became, by itself, words and forms, to live on and on in the mindscape for eternity. ‘Thought’,  the force, became the idol in the special space that was named as mind. They became inseparable and the temple became god and god became the temple, to be worshipped so that the proximity that can puzzle was distanced with respect- respectful in a self-preserving safe defense. Once the preliminary structure was formed, rules and rituals were determined and put in place. Grammar was formulated as were rituals and rites. The formless was framed in form.

Once in a while, the free spirit of the original formless thought would break through the rigid walls that humans had built around it, to try and become formless again. Whenever that happened, the fearful humanity would capture that formless leak of the designed form, and make a new form, a new grammar and a new order. Negations were thus negated. And words continue to fall into structured patterns. New forms were declared as new designs, and designs were newly formulated. The walls of the prison were and are, extended to encompass whatever escaped or tries to. The prison became designated as a shrine, and worship was a way of ensuring and checking that the imprisoned formless thought remained the acceptable word and form.

Thinking about thought, words keep propping about words too. Thought indeed is the primal word. in the beginning it was the word, and the beginning was THOUGHT, uncluttered, unstructured, untainted by imagination, unpolluted with rules, unformed but containing all including itself, the original self, the God. To that god I dedicate these ramblings, bits and pieces of itself.