Tuesday, May 8, 2012

STUMBLING INTO WRITING- MY JOURNEY

We are fortunate to live in times of proliferating self expression. We have, at our disposal,tools, like the internet that facilitate this process and augment our quest to write. To confess at the outset, writing was something that came naturally to me. Unbeknownst to myself i composed a poem at age eleven. In parenthesis, there was something singularly attractive in the alignment of evanescent thought to a form replete with its own structural configurations. The pen irradiated, materialized, brought into being, the fleetingly haunting thoughts that traversed my brain and set syncopating on the page, dancing, flickering, the strumming contralto of my synapses. The joy , in retrospect was as yet unsullied by the fear that though claims to originality could be stated, nonetheless bespoke of an imitation, a vague, indeterminate obeisance to a pre existing form.

Writing shaped my adolescence . I remember reading 'Harry potter and the goblet of fire' at fifteen and writing the next book in the series, an act of precocity i eventually relinquished both because the largeness of the enterprise and the scarcity of time were invariable deterrents. But words always enticed me with their luminosity. They would ,at times dissolve seamlessly in the tongue, at others leave a tart astringent aftertaste. But their impact was forceful and consolidated through time. That incandescent words could illumine thought, actualize it, give it a shape and explication is a mystery whose delights i can still recapture, with vivid poignancy.

There was a brief phase in my life, 4 years back at 20, when for two years i wrote nothing. I toyed with the idea of being an other but the bounteous wellsprings had frozen within me. This was also the time when i was diagnosed as a manic depressive. I sought articulation desperately but my benumbed consciousness refused to unravel dizzying verbal pyrotechnics, my accustomed mode of expression. I remember that phase as being bereft of hope, an inexpressible emptiness, crippling bouts of irrational panic and vacillative meanderings between mania and depression.

But writing sought me out in the end. I was randomly looking at facebook when , all of a sudden, a thought surfaced in me. With immediate urgency i inscribed in on facebook. One thought became two and by the time morning rose i had posted ten philosophical snippets expressed, in what i felt, a style that became ineluctably mine. The next day came a poem. Its been two and a half years and i have written everyday, something or the other. Perhaps a lapse into non being was essential, for me to rediscover the circuitous, equivocal interplay between my flickering consciousness, its ebbs and flows and the inviolable sanctity of writing.

My strong view is not simply that writing is a process, which it is, but also that with the passage of time, as our selves unfurl, new dimensions percolate our writing because our sense of who we are has undergone an imperceptible metamorphosis. We aren't passive obsequy who proffer our votive appeasements to the culture which determines our writing. We are also opalescent presences because our subjective transmutations transfigure the friable texture of reality, blurring edges, daubing spots, reconstituting  a kaleidoscopic avalanche of impressions, thoughts, moments which are a singular way of life yet mnemonics of the collective consciousness of the universe of which we are microcosms.

Finally writing is an absent presence. Its written manifestation attests its presence but the gossamer construction of it, the nebulous realms of interiority it has traversed, the dredging up of hitherto unforeseen perceptions demonstrate its impalpability. Writing is in the interstices between conception and execution, between experienced feeling and articulated thought. The jouissance in medias res is indefinable. But its the hope of experiencing experience, inscribing and materializing it and letting like a mother bird, let go of the infant whom we brought into being, threading the quadrangles of the vast world to determine its own course and live its own life.