Saturday, December 28, 2013


Time contravenes the temporal in inner consciousness. While its linear manifestations too undergo imperceptible configurations. The allocation and slotting of time defies the telos of memory. Time coexists with multitudinous temporalities in numerous contingents. Causality in one realm is counterpointed by an opposite causality in another realm. This simultaneal existence of time throws into relief apocryphal categories along a linear continuum. Time, like the universe, is not reduplicative but dialectical. Stipples of a multifarious quotidian engage in a colloquy wherein intersecting subjectivities interleave and intermesh. What is rendered intransigent is the fluidity, the protean nature of time. Indeterminacy crystallizes into crenellated whorls that diffuse and attenuate.
The diffusity of time conglomerates mosaically. Variegated contextualities concatenate and disperse. Each causal realm, however, is interlinked to the context it emerges from yet each revisitation brings forth a impalpable metamorphosis, indiscernible to rational consciousness, in the onward propulsion of time. The present is a myth whose mythopoeia underscores both its frangibility and its immutability. Past and future converge to inform the present and eschew compartmentalization. Yet the past by its very nature repudiates the singularity it purports to embody and entomb. The past partakes of and blends with a kaleidoscope of innumerable pasts so that the past becomes indefinable and uncapturable. Each receding into its constituents is the inescapable conclusion to any attempt to cohere and create patterns. And the patterns too undergo transformations with each recollection. Which leaves human consciousness with an evanescent conceptualization of time and its inessentiality. The future too, by virtue of its unknowability congeals into fluid and precarious ideograms.
While multiple journeyings coexist and there is neither a beginning or an end to time except its linear progression then mortality and time's outward passage becomes ineluctable. However the uncertainty surrounding the focal point of mortality underpins the very incertitude that constitutes time. Linearity is as tenuous as metaphysics in that both express an unfathomability and indecipherability. The coordinates of time dapple consciousness with recoverable paradigms yet uncertain memory reinforces the uncertainty surrounding these coordinates. All that exist are nebulous hieroglyphs, a palimpsest of vastness which yields only a blank slate which we fill with our stories. Hence existence is ratified.

Friday, December 27, 2013


When pain transmutes to trauma
And grief, unendurable, congeals
Death, self created, rears its head

Consciousness could provide reprieve
Yet finality,inveterately beckons
When pain transmutes to trauma

Life, evanescent, is rendered uncertain
As annihilation provides the only release
Death, self created, rears its head

In the gloaming of inexpressible sadness
Nothingness becomes immanent
When pain transmutes to trauma

Emptiness at the heart of things leaches
All remnants of restitution
Death, self created, rears its head

Anomalies of being crystallize intractably
Into irretrievable slivers of no return
When pain transmutes to trauma
Death, self created, rears its head.

Thursday, December 26, 2013


Memory, immanently, is recollection and weaves into it both the temporal and the atemporal. While coiled around cognition in its cognitive manifestations, unbidden stipples coexist too. Memory studs recollection with a luminiscent haze, a halo of incandescence around a throbbing (re) flection. Sometimes, in the gloaming of despair, memory casts a tenebrous net around remembrance but brings, either in its iridescence or opalescence, a piquant, astringent and bittersweet tinge.

Time's arrows point both ways in memory so that the beginning and end or the point of emergence and destination are turned inside out. The propulsion of linear time contravenes memory time because while memory extricates slivers of the past to inform the present it also incorporates future significations into present structures. Is it then, that the presence of memory, the telos of memory is contingent on the present, need a temporal moment to come into being or is it that the past, experienced and the future, unforeseen dovetail and intersect to underscore a precarious present which, in the very moment of its utterance, becomes past. When memory is imbued with the signifiers of the future it doesn't crystallize its nebulosity or render its fluidity intractable. It leaps over the contingent to encompass dimensions that were hitherto unexplored and congeals indeterminacy.

Memory is never tautologous as it changes its structure with each subsequent recollection. While the constituents remain unalterably similar the edges fray. Ethereal fragments of the present and an unanticipated future transform the hue of each remembrance so that an imperceptibly palpable metamorphosis occurs. Waves of memory ebb and flow, advance and retreat and the unceasing continuance of experience moves on. Yet time, causality, history undergo reconfigurations. Memory is becoming, a bringing into being. Memory is what happens when being is galvanized. Memory is the apotheosis of  being.

Thursday, December 12, 2013



This is who i am
And that's how i am to be
No more hiding in the closet
Fearing a normative we

I come into being, on my own
Fighting through demons within
I mean to affirm who i am
Discarding all fakeness therein

I've fought long and hard
To get to where i am
I believe in equality for all
Everything else is a sham

You may crush us down
With a harsh law
Defying basic humanity
That love oversaw

Yet we intend to keep fighting
Saying, again and again, that we exist
In the face of your obdurate lies
On our becoming, we persist.


I was the young gay boy
Who slashed his wrists
Letting the blood flow out
From my fist

I would swallow pills
Hating myself
Preferring death
Over life itself

As soon as i knew me
I ran away from the fact
Passing off as normal
With measured tact

The man who ravaged me
Scooped out any being i had
Left me with shredded selfhood
And incredibly sad

Soon as the knowledge sunk in
Of who and what i was
I considered choices before me
Taking a long pause

From knowing who i was
I finally became me
Throwing off manacles of constriction
I could myself be.


The moonbeams strike
Filled with luminous light
And my heart wells with love
At your sight

What you face today is dear to me
As a pain i want to relieve
I have been blessed by your presence
Now i want to give

As the stars flicker and gleam
The light in your eye fades
When you thus relinquish holding on
The caprice of fate abrades

I want to hold close to you
At this tenuous moment in time
You ebb, yet i am suffused with warmth
As my heart, with yours, chimes

The moment of reckoning will soon come
Our time together has been brief
But having seen eternity in our intersection
I transcend my grief.


I'm losing control
Dying within
Life navigates death
Drenched in sin

I grope for the knife
And slit my wrist
I feel with my fingers
My spine's hardening cyst

Mortality surrounds me
I exist in a limbo
Health unspools
Limbs akimbo

Yet in that moment of darkness
Slivers of light crept
Bemoaning how tenuous life was
I copiously wept

Trickling through those tears
Came a sense of calm
Life's very uncertainty
Became a balm

One could go forth and do
Or hang back, numb
Touch the shimmering surfaces
Or depths plumb

I guess i need to do my bit
Trying to contain a world vast
Surmounting my feeble mortality
With an impact to outlast

Thursday, December 5, 2013


Gossamer hieroglyphs float in space, dematerialized and evanescent, prefiguring assimilation through association. A panoramic nothingness constitutes intersecting masses of energy, jostling, intersecting, ricocheting , repelling. While configurable indentations are being nebulously crystallized, unbidden, unforeseen permutations are at work within. The constituents of consciousness and being are hurled pell mell yet their solderings bring forth variegations whose putative singular sheathe belies their multifarious capriciousness. The queer sliver conjoins and severs, attenuates and concentrates simultaneously, producing a concatenated commingling whose dispersals and cleavings manifest themselves contingently yet polymorphously along a spectrum. The continuum of linearity , unflanked as yet by the quotidian, dappled with the incorporeal retains its ineffable significations whose congealing into identity causes both an ostensible obliteration and an imperceptible permanence.

Luminous stipples of the temporal confer an imprimatur of veracity, a veracity brought into being through negation and erasure of the uncongenial. Yet inner time contravenes linear propulsion. While cognition, compounded by selectivity, imbued with subjectivity forges ahead the casuistries of the unconscious, the foreclosed, as yet unassimilable yet unobliterative irradiate and render heterogeneous monolithic structures of definitions. That which has been negated to buttress a tenuous metaphysic retains its amorphous crenellations of ratiocination by streaking and striating mottled mounds of superficial materiality with its own queerness and indubitable authenticity. The temporal merges these atemporal anomalies into an undifferentiated homogenity by underscoring its difference as difference. Yet, the incongruous, by virtue of its ineluctability, insinuates parallel paradigms.

Across the vastitude of spatiality there is a proliferation of multitudinousness that are alternately infinitesimal and immutable. There is a search for an anteriority and each arabesque in the mosaic of unknowability endeavors to locate a temporal fulcrum. Yet the intransigence of indecipherability throws up interstitial mnemonics which disaggregate any attempt at cohesion. The existential black hole collapses in on itself, expending useless energy while invigorating unforseeable reconstitution. Reality fragments and diffuses, the penumbra of unanswerability undermines the apotheosis of epistemology. But the queer cosmos floats, inviolable, protean and fluid, partaking of the inexhaustible kaleidoscope of of cosmic density and plenitude

Friday, November 29, 2013


Interstice is my ontology. I am a self evident rent, a severing brought into being by the dialectics of negation. Erasure brings me into being and stipples me with forebodings of finality. I begin in that loop of metaphysic where naming begins. I am cleft to bring discourse into being and then rendered redundant. I am defined by that against which i am placed. The process of my osmosis is entombed in the integument of repression.

On that fatefully indeterminate anteriority i was pushed away to the edges of oblivion. In contrast to my conspicuous reflexiveness i was ,in the aegis of a putatively rational consciousness, repudiated. My erasure was necessary to create a structure of totality. Because i am, discourse exists . I exist, because discourse contains me.

Would then the discursive teleology encapsulate and encompass the vastness of my being. Is the narrative of origin, wrested from the nothingness of non being and sheathed in self imposed logos be the amorphous fulcrum that actualizes identity. Would a search for an insubstantial, indistinct epistemology yield certitudes or augment chimeras of self definition. Would corporeality negate the metaphysical or is it in the bare bones of the quotidian that the transcendent reposes.

Self determination buttresses me from these inchoate nebulosities. Yet the inescapable essentiality of discourse counterpoints the apotheosis i endeavor to realize. I inhabit a hinterland where unknowingness prevails. Into the primeval void of blankness are inscribed the hieroglyphs of my self constitution. I scratch away at these mnemonics, these intimations of self hood to cohere and create a pattern of ratiocination. Yet the primordial, by virtue of its indecipherable darkness, crystallize its tenebrous darkness.

Discursive spaces, indubitably, solder and fragment through the act of naming. Such a being, with its attendant congealings and eschewals is superimposed on me. The more i seek a center the more i fragment into multifarious configurations yet amid these dispersals and diffusions the inviolable collective kernel of who i am persists.

When discourses are built on my being the pre determined blueprints of preceding discourses are promulgated imperceptibly as modes of knowledge. But attenuation and unclassifiability determine me. I divest discourse of its discursivity and carve a self contained consecration for myself. I resist embalming because i am infinitely kinetic, protean configurable. In the interstitial carapaces of reduplication and performativity i dwell subterraneously. Hence i come to be.



I am the guy
With the girly voice
Don't ask me my gender
I offer no choice

Mist curls off definitions
When names are let be
Words may be words
But i'm just me

If sex is made
And gender created
Then into the script
Many are stated

I'm the guy
With the feminine ways
Neither straight nor gay
Spreading in profuse rays

I alight here, perch there
Partaking of the whole
With my own soul

If sex is constructed
And gender made
Things, singly
Are rendered staid

I ricochet all over
Myriadly wide
Then categories of being
Become asides

I could be what i want
Be what i choose
Then does it matter
Which choice is whose.


I snuck downtown with a young gay mechanic
He said the roads meandered and turned
Running way from how others saw me
I spectacularly crashed and burned.

Dropping me he left a kiss on my cheek
I smelt his minty breath
And yeah he was a regular guy
But with reams of depth

I came, saw and became me
In that crossroad
In the teeming gay streets
I found my abode

All journeys go down to one
To be remade is to be undone

In a bar i ran into the mechanic
I felt his kiss graze my lips
He bought me two pints of beer
Which i drank, sip by sip

I fell for him as he did for me
Without knowing our pasts
I saw his grisly hair, rippling muscles
And saw a strong character cast

We moved in to his two room shack
And made love night and day
Having traveled afar, from the norm
I was finally having my way

The journey ended with love
While the stars twinkled eternally, far and above

Monday, November 25, 2013


I watch his attempts to inveigle me into his sense of being and i, complicitously acquiesce. I savor the crenellations of his argot and run the words around my tongue, feeling their density. Carillons of agreeable facsimiles emanate from me as i navigate his turf, his interiority. He seems to delight in illumining me, incandescing my sense of the world he lost. Prompted by an unassailable loneliness he seems to delight n dispersing himself onto me. Remnants of his being siphon, diffuse and reaggregate into mine. My willingness to solder predate rational consciousness, pre date categories and is founded upon the unequivocally luminiscent blueprint of love.

Yes i desire him intensely. I susurrate with primeval voraciousness. When striations of sand crumble under my footsoles i experience his chapped lips leaving piquant indentations upon my flesh. The serrated edges of his molars carve seductive incisions on my lips and i feel the warmth of his presence traverse the runnel of my back. When i run my fingers through the creases of his skin, or pucker with my fingertips the scars life deals him i hear from the depth of him profound intensifications of love felt and sated. I sample the ambrosia he expends like a sacrament and feel come over me the blessed purity of love. The waves lap at my feet, the empty expanse of nothingness around me duplicates its blankness but amid this primordial wilderness my only certitude is his love.

Sometimes slivers of self doubt insinuate themselves spectrally. With him the sensation of dissolution and oblivion alternate. He is a mirror reflecting to me a blueprint that i seek to actualize. Often i want to mold myself into the forms he shapes around our togetherness and am assailed by spasms of bitterness because my inchoate indeterminacy is being reconfigured into civilized structures of knowingness.

But i suspend disbelief, or rather surmount it. It is palpable that he wouldn't feel what he feels if he weren't similarly displaced. The exiguity of expediency brought our love into being but our intrinsic selves ratified it. Our integuments quiver with anticipation as we affirm what we behold. I ,of course, am a tabula rasa. My ontology is unknown to me but that unanswerability materializes becoming. In the absence of atomizing my parthenogenesis i merge seamlessly with what i see. Does this abrogation signify negation? In retrospect, no. Because while my constituents are reconstituted the being i become, the selfhood i existentially and experientially conceptualize and crystallize remains certain. 

He talks of going back to his homeland. He speaks of this odyssey which he expects me to share. I am aware that a part of him longs for a convergence with a life history severed him from experiencing and that part of what he feels for me is an undifferentiated impulse, transmuted into my being. And that the homecoming would familiarize him with that he had so perilously relinquished. And that leaves me in a lurch because while in this luminous seascape, with the roiling waves and the meagre life we share, i am his fulcrum i would, with his return, be cast aside or perhaps indulged as an extension of certain dimensions he inhabits. In the penumbra of the dwindling town, bustling, bourgeoisie, which i conceptualize so vividly, i would become nugatory. But while my love for him, compounded of loneliness, would stir and churn i would also, through a similar transference, better my own lot, carve my own being. These intersecting contradictions buffet me as our departure looms imminent but i celebrate, through him, the gift of my own sense of self he bestowed on me. The mirror will show me many realities that i glimpse only subterraneously but it is the prospect of my iridescent countenance beaming back at me, filled with the plentitude of human love, the love of like for like, that will sustain me. And with the opalescent sun, trudging out, i hug this arabesque and remain singularly blent with the inexhaustibly rich kaleidoscope of human variegation.

Monday, November 4, 2013



A man and a woman. The man, holding on to vestiges of a tenuous self is rakish, casual, nonchalant. The more his air of studied indifference the greater is his fear of being subsumed. He hates himself yet finds in his self hatred a way to exist, to affirm his being. At the same time, with the same intensity that he fears oblivion he desires it most. Anything to forget himself, abdicate the self hatred. So two contradictory impulses buffet him.

The woman seeks the man because she feels lonely, bereft. Yet she feels upset at his indifference, his casualness. She takes it to be lack of feeling. She wants most of all, to submerge herself in him, him in herself. She desires subsuming , submergence. While for her this is a way of escaping her essential loneliness and anxiety. She delves deeper into the relationship and longs for that lonely, reflective self, that evidence, to her, that she was of some worth, that she had a purpose of being. Thus she too both longs for oblivion while fearing it.

The scenario- emotional deadening. Oscillating between the two both of them dissemble, put on false selves before the other and hate themselves for doing so. Each is fearful of opening up, articulating need because they fear it may repel the other. They go to a marriage counsellor who gives them a moral structure to evaluate their marriage in. Before this undifferentiated framework their differences dissolve and they reconfigure, living on societal terms. But the despair deepens, intensifies, becomes a unfilled void. Yet some archaic, arcane impulse keeps them together. Attrition, atrophy of being, a slow death, a compromise, a negation of inner being. In short, the bare bones of postmodern alienation encased in the integument of freedom, broad mindedness, choice and emancipation.


A neurotic woman, possessive, obsessive. A man, magazine editor. She falls passionately in love while he encourages her heedlessly. Turns out he's married. She craves his being most when he becomes least accessible. Fosters jealousy for the wife. Threatens the man that she'll kill herself, blackmails him. Yet what she is living out and acting out is not love but self love. He, responding like a cad, alternating between guilt and resentment.
She decides he's unworthy but suffused with untapped anger. Attempts to kill herself, takes an overdose, lands up in ICU.Now at her point of inaccessibility the man develops a craving for her. Exercises charm, woos her back but makes clear he can't marry her. She agrees to a clandestine relationship. Now she gives her body, out of habit but her heart is elsewhere. Emotional deadlock. The man feels his desire mounting with her desirelessness. She withdraws from his primordial hunger. She, unable to walk out due to inertia. He, with increasing sexual hunger takes on other women lovers. His wife divorces him. He asks the woman to marry him but she refuses. Their relationship, in the name of freedom of choice, is a travesty of love and choice. Yet some impulse keeps them at it. They can't move on. This relationship is their reality. They live because they are emotionally barren because on the other side, madness lies.


Noble fervor and profound belief. Bordering on proselytization. Belief shored up by self belief. or self righteousness. Opinion than philosophy end in itself. Complacence and arrogance of wisdom, superior insight. Lack of visible moral impact. An indifferent world. Leads to questioning the world. Followed by self question. Self mirrors the world. So disillusion with self is disillusion with world. Layers of gauze stripping off . Disquieting dreams. Lucid perception of people with their masks on and off. Discomfiting knowledge of collective self deception. The humanist lens of affirming history turns to irony to self parody. An inner churning. Breakdown. Humanism as a category rendered redundant. Profound distress due to the new knowledge. Knowledge of a fragmented world and atomized people who not only unaware but self righteously hold on to their putative wholeness. To compassionate, empathize and understand people as being in a process , a continuum. Or to expose to them their double standard. Empathy and love prevails. Need for a new fluid structure, protean and tractable, necessitated. Needs to be worked through, etched out with the only human affirmative and that is love. Breakthrough hopefully imminent.

The blueprint of a novel

A young men gets involved, conscious yet unconscious into an abusive relationship. The reasons for it are as yet indiscernible but he gets involved. The young man lacks a core. He is a divided self. He gets into this trap because of his need to give love and be love. His is an existential split. But he remains unaware of this lacunae and gets into this exploitative space.

The man who abuses him has a complex mental history. Sometimes he says he has depression, sometimes OCPD. Yet it is not this man's appeal for sympathy that draws our young man in. Rather the abuser talks of himself with an angry parody, bitterness and aggressiveness that makes the young man see him as authentic. The abuser is narcissistic but incredibly well informed. He talks about people, things, theories in a very informed and intelligent way. So he represents an academic apotheosis which draws the young man in further.

The relationship begins with idealization and resignation and ends with emptiness. The young man has been sexually abused, violated, subjected to excoriating self doubt and undergo crises of being. There have been many moments of self realization but an inertia and masochism combined with low self worth has kept him in it. Once or twice the abuser has broken off, to test his strength and the young man has gone grovelling back, self abasing, seeking forgiveness he knows not for what.

The end of the affair. The young man is broken down, a husk of his former self, which itself was an inauthentic self to begin with. Faced with the prospect of the nothingness which the abuse, strangely had insulated him from rears its head. He becomes promiscuous, takes many lovers and then breaks off, hurt when his love is unreciprocated. He becomes hard, bitter, insouciant, wisecracking as a defense against hysteria. Three years later he publishes a novel on abuse, a self conscious, postmodern masterpiece. He wins the booker. Years of therapy yield nothing. He is tired of repeating himself ad nauseam and hearing the same platitudes uttered.All his life he has had intimations that could have led to something deeper, a higher knowing but his self conception as sufferer has bogged him down. He is writing a treatise on humanism, the need for people to kind and empathetic. Yet he knows not kind for what nor at what depth empathetic. So the abstract words float gossamer. The book, when published, does rather well

A novella blueprint

A man is hospitalized as schizophrenic. He is seen muttering, talking to himself, hallucinating and being delusional. He sees people as boxes with things arranged neatly in them. He beats against the wooden oblong crying to be let in, to be incorporated while he is simultaneously repelled by these boxes and the deadness they contain. He is terrified of being grabbed, squeezed, pulverized and made a box himself with his life, his experience set in neat bundles, orderly, arranged, coherent. He is violent with his doctors, has been sectioned 6 times and is unresponsive to medication. Newer drugs are tried, newer combinations. He is drugged to the point of torpor. He is being deadened, turned into what he was most terrified of. Through the crevices of drug induced slumber intimations of madness assail him. Unable to bear the trauma of indoctrination he commits suicide. Today all that remains are his grave with his name and his medical file, moldering amid the old ones.

Short story blueprint

A mature woman, with a management position, balanced, emotionally secure decides to secure a lover to alleviate her boredom. She meets a young man, younger than her who promises that detachment. Initially she is self congratulatory, finding herself in a space of her own choosing. Yet as the man's impassivity continues she becomes aware of a lack. She can't locate it or fix it but she knows its there. And she leaves him with mature, cordial emotion. What she realizes is that her boredom was her emotional deadlock, not the absence of stimuli. She had become emotional with a lover who had turned her down because she evinced detachment. 4 years later she hears that he is happily married. Angry, disdainful, frightened , terrified she takes another lover . She continues to be bored, feel emotionally empty and its restitution by defiance. She is in flight from her existential reality.

Short story blueprint

A young man, terribly depressed is told that he should meet more people, socialize more, to step out of his self. Yet the solution depresses him further because he sees in the countenances of his interlocutors the same emptiness which they are unaware of. Inundated by the burden of his own emptiness and the emptiness reflected to him by an empty world he tries to kill himself. At the moment of death he craves life most, the life that could be were things different. Yet kills himself, precisely to make that difference.

Short story blueprint

A young, idealistic man falls in love with a muslim girl. He is british. They meet frequently, exchange stories. He is enraged at the totalitarian environment she grew up in, her struggles. She is dismayed by his underlying parochialism and tendency to generalize. There is love but with a cancer at its core, the cancer of a fragmented world that negates deep experience . Both critical of each other's lack of 'feeling' feel for themselves and each other plenty of conflicted, contradictory impulses. They marry, as the only way to resolve this ambivalence. But at the cost of their soul

Short story blueprint

A lonely bipolar woman, unable to find an outlet for her emotions joins a manic depression forum. As she swaps stories with other bipolar patients she deludes herself of her compassion because she dishes out advice like an old hand, like a therapist. Whereas in actuality she is interested in expressing her symptoms, her views, her illness. And the stories she hears are in a desperate attempt to find a simulacrum of self validation while the advice she dishes out is both what she craves most and acts on least.

Short story blueprint

A thoughtful woman, with emotional depth, though unconscious of it , falls in love with a man. Initially the man is all attention and considerateness. He is demonstrative. Gradually, as her emotions deepen he withdraws from her. He fears engulfment, being subsumed. What they both don't realize is that man's fear is fear of involvement and the woman's is fear of rejection. They collude in their mutual self deception and part, heartbroken.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013


He remembers. Yet he misremembers. Experience is a thick mist, deepening over time, quickening the vast expanses of memory here, reality there. He holds up these daubs and creates out of their inchoate mesh of different meanings, a semblance of order. His being expands, iridescent specks of joy gleam in his eyes as the moment of creating, making anew, stretches further and further into oblongs of expanding imperceptible epiphanies before bursting into the vast nothingness of inexpressible happiness.


He believes, at such points in time, a certain sense of owning reality, of having analyzed the profundity of life's labyrinthine meanderings and wrested his own sense of balance. His being is flecked with richness, unctuous lubricity at the prospect of his plumbing into life's hidden depths. He experiences moments of extraordinary exultation yet somehow, somewhere an undercurrent of uncertainty underpins it. In going beyond the temporal he inveigles and threads back into his realm of life's burgeoning dimensions, the cold, hard reminder of time.


Time could have irradiated , within its interstices, all prospect of self realization. Yet it is to his physical being he reverts, the significations of mortality that oppress him. The quotidian, webbed in consciousness to the metaphysical, could have provided stipples of transcendence, brushstrokes whose variegation could have reconstituted reality into a more agreeable and coherent pattern. Still the dread and misery of attrition and entropy propels him, but as a signification of having arrived and rendered static.


There is an anterior he discerns which proffers abiding comfort. His quest for apprehending it takes him further back, almost to the beginning of things. Filaments of luminosity emerge here and there, gleaming with certitude here, gloaming with the unknown there. Concussions of alternating rapture and disillusion concentrate and break in his mind, like waves. Memory weaves a tenebrous net around the halo of its opalescence. So a search for beginnings, leads him into spaces of non being. He falters at the realm of knowingness.

Eventually he delves deep into the recesses of his own being, hoping to find a fulcrum of self knowledge. Yet crenellations of casuistry, in complicity with the deceptiveness of recollection, undermine his journey into the dark. He could navigate being, unspooling, unraveling, throwing over its walls beams of an interrogatory gaze but in that blankness all that remains is a nothingness, a nothingness that led him to a something he had brought into being. He has reverted to his own anteriority.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Quintet of love poems

Syncopated ululations
Demonstrate love's travails
Yet the inveterate lover
To no avail

Subverts the interstice
Of love anticipated and lost
Though at which junction
At what cost?


Iridescent specks of memory
With experience conjoin
While the lover from these slivers
Moments purloins

Yet these moments of being
Illumine with commonsense
Imbuing lucidly
Even phenomene dense.


My love for him is a stipple
Of the vast hinterland of love
Self contained, that fragment
Conquers all far and above

When moments render suspect
Avowal of felling deep
We seek to our mutuality
And lie entwined, asleep.


You hold up to me a mirror
Wherein i see myself
Through your aegis as complete
All in itself

Is the force of my perception
A measure of what i believe
Or are the significations you proffer
What i unambivalently receive.


If experience is dappled
With self conscious doubt
Then love atrophies
Spontaneously without

As incontrovertible epiphanies
With feeling felt reside
Hence you and me persist
Despite all odds, beside.

Thursday, October 24, 2013


Even as i write this i am beset by a discomfiting feeling that what i'm about to express has already been explored. So i hope my excitement at my new findings would be sufficient justification for my putative presumptuousness. No idea, thought, postulation is ever singular. It remains, both imperceptibly and inveterately part of a larger consciousness. Yet these moments of self reflection thrill with their uniqueness as consciousness, with self congratulatory pleasure, compliments its perspicacity.

My cogitations on stream of consciousness do not arise from a theoretical position. Rather i use the phenomenon by measuring it self consciously against my own lived experience. And what i find is that the stream has ellipses, circumlocutions, retractions that are ineluctably components constituting it. A memory is contextual yet its emergence from the mind's gossamer regions is nebulous. Consciousness and the memory it brings into being only partly explains the extrication of that memory from a conglomeration of innumerable memories. From a corporeal rationality memory can be attributed a telos, an anteriority. Yet that undifferentiated concatenation of memories, associations, thoughts are suggestive of a certain metaphysical propensity. Which raises a question as to whether metaphysics is webbed to the quotidian or is predicated on a transcendence of it. My own tentative hypothesis is that it is from the kernel of the quotidian that the metaphysical emerges. To negate the here and now negates the fiber of human being, its essential fulcrum. The stream of consciousness is threaded to the collective consciousness. The individual becomes through collective being. We are shaped by a larger consciousness and we shape it too. So the two are immanent and inextricably intertwined. Any meandering of a stream of consciousness, any remnant of its constituents, any co ordinate of its larger structuration suggests something about the collective consciousness . This does not mean a repudiation of the contingent. It only amalgamates the two. The unconscious too, in these times of singular self assertion, is seen as a special possession of the individual while it postulates a communality of intersecting consciousnesses.

We remember the same thing many times. Yet with each change in context a subtle metamorphosis occurs in the nature of memory itself so that each revisitation is composed of fresher arabesques that reconstitute into a different texture while retaining the constituents of the original memory. There are also gaps in memory as memory is retroactive and retrospective. Yet memory is also a bridge, a funnel through which inchoate experience is rendered articulable. There is certainly a realm where experience is experienced yet memory imbues that experience with cognitive reshaping . Indubitably to authenticate experience memory must go within, traverse the quadrangles of the inner, the interior and dredge up a verisimilitude of the original experience. Given the retroactive nature of memory its seamless coalescing to interiority is incomplete nor can a simulacrum or facsimile of experience correspond to the original. For memory to plumb the depths is for memory to link itself to the collective. Another way of looking at it, albeit self contradictorily would be to asseverate, rather tremulously that memory is predetermined and therefore unavoidably cleaved to experience. Such a proposition leaves out prevarications of consciousness. Memory needn't be an accurate reproduction of experience but a reshaping of it. It is inevitable that memory is a receding of a primordial experiential realm. Nor is it accurate to see that primevality as chaos or undifferentiated randomness. It is a space where experience is self reflexively self authenticating. Memory plays capricious tricks. It blurs here, blots out there, is pellucid here, indistinct there. 

For a stream of consciousness to reflect interiority posits the collective as an necessary accompaniment. It also necessitates the self validating of memory through its soldering to inner experience which is also collective. The aegis of empirical consciousness is self consciously unselfconscious. It's recapitulations are compounded by self deception. The pertinacious query that arises is whether memory can mirror experience faithfully or is it by its very nature a reinterpretation. The experience i allude to is not an ontological wholeness which memory faithfully remembers. That experiential dimension is incontrovertibly unknowable. But memory can transmit that unknowability. Stream f consciousness could, by penetrating interior nooks and crannies acknowledge this nothingness, this blankness. Yet the script of our humaneness, our becoming is a rewriting from this blank palimpsest. Thus stream of consciousness could, through its very deliberation on incertitude, point the way towards a becoming of a collective humanity.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013


The sun rose. Somnambulant consciousness, subsumed in thick waves of torpor, stretched its recumbent constituents. Memory, sharpened by the incandescent light stirred softly, imperceptibly. Eyes, gummed with sleep, unclosed and the pinpricks contracted as a sliver of light pierced through it. The eye blinked, opened, paused for a moment as though resisting the penumbra of sleep that would contain it and opened yet again with a finality, with unresisting determination as though to begin the day with alacrity and decisiveness. The obdurate frame too, twisting and turning, expanded musculature, unknotted the contraction that sleep induced .

Memory, always alert, quickened forces of perception. It had lain quietly in the dark, roiling, ebbing and flowing with dreams, spectral presences, wish fulfillment and fancy. Expansive memory deepened diurnal consciousness, imbuing the quotidian reality of daytime with phosphorescent underlife. Yet memory too, in complicity with sleep, had though indubitably active, slackened its intractable hold. The dreamer could dream on, stippled by moments of disquiet, sometimes woken from nightmarish visitations before sleep reclaimed and folded him into its plumage of nothingness.

Memory, unavoidably oleaginous flits unctuously through the inner chambers of the mind, traversing its myriad untapped potentialities, consciously indiscernible unconscious. Memory peregrinates the crenellations of collective consciousness, alighting on a fragment here, perching on a remnant there. Memory transmutes moments of being into conspicuous dapples that irradiate and illumine in segments yet, by osmosis, remain threaded to the larger consciousness from which they broke free before attaching themselves to the conscious.

Outside the wave advances, deposits sediments, retreats only to reemerge, as though the cyclical pattern of its continuance is the certitude informing a precarious world. Yet with each ebb a newer consciousness of metamorphosis underpins the hithering and thithering. So do memories reconstitute by refracting streaks of associations which, with each visitation hold up causality with pellucid transparency before merging wholly, incontrovertibly with a larger mode of being.

Saturday, October 19, 2013


The tenebrous neon refracts pinpoints of light
The lids blotting out the light momentarily
Outside the gloaming of encroaching darkness
Mirrors the nothingness within.
I, retroactively posthumous, gaze in communion
With myself post my botched self annihilation
While 'The bell jar' lies splayed open
At the page where Esther takes an overdose

Esther is the mirror which reflects faithfully
The distorted facsimile of my being
In its interstices, its blurrings and blottings
Remnants of self possession are snuffed out
Conversely i reflect, through Esther's reflection
The emptiness at the heart of things
The rapacious ingestion of self destruction
Entices irresistibly, with intimations of death

I gulp down the pages like moodstabilisers which
Touch the tip and dissolve as the protracted
Consumption of water alleviates ineffectually
The bitter taste of restitution.
Now that i've survived i need to read on
And wrest from plath a modicum of the life
Which i, having importunately abrogated
Now try to worm back into.


Recollections stud fancy with fact
Imbuing remembrance with tact
While memory abrades the self same fact
Leaving only the recollection intact.

Iridescent specks of consciousness dissolve
Streaking thinking with being
Yet mind would rather not be seeing
Of being and becoming, just resolve.

Luminous is the love which, recumbent
Which Makes it on loving, incumbent
The gaze of the other as one's own
And the coalescing of thoughts grown.

Might not such an inward gaze
Yield pleasurable self communion
Could not the possibility of disunion
Become, instead, a traversable maze

Negating the other could calamitously involve
Denying a verisimilitude of self
On the negator would devolve
Abrogation of self itself.

Though needing an other to validate
architectonics of identity
Would, of necessity, repudiate
Reality of diffusity

Memory, henceforward conjoins,
From collectivity purloins, the
Factuality of being as a self made choice
In which a become self would rejoice.

Thursday, October 10, 2013


This is a story that begins with a mirror.

This is a story which reflects itself back to itself.

This is a story which reflects its reflection by reflecting on its reflection.

A reciprocal narrative is reflected back to it.

Or what is reflected back is the reflection of a reflection.

Reflections are necessarily illusory

Reflection reflecting reflection is illusion redoubled.

Reflections refract streaks of knowledge. Knowledge reflects itself to reflection by reflecting itself.

The search for truth propels the mirror to reflect its reflection. However due to reflection seeking itself through reflection truth is momentarily bypassed because once reflected it becomes a reflection of itself and is rendered apocryphal.

Reflections both reflect and (re) flect. Hence there is both representation and (re) presentation.

The ellipticals of reflection reaffirm the reflexiveness of reflection. And since reflexiveness is, of necessity, a (re)flection of a reflection we come back to where we started.

This is a story that begins with a mirror.


Reason buttresses incontrovertibly. It congeals eldritch dimensions of nebulosity and transfigures them. The faculty of reason is contingent on the act of will. Without conscious embalming gossamer hieroglyphs float indeterminately, jostling, ricocheting, severing and conjoining. Reason reconstitutes randomness. Reason renders luminous the gloaming of unreason. Reason creates, from the emptiness of non being, a becoming.

Reason rationalizes, specking with logic, studding with ratiocination, stippling with coherence. Reason negates polymorphousness because in the multitudinous coexistence of unconscious constituents it founders. Reason is at once, immutable and evanescent, capable of crystallizing tenuousness and configuring the inchoate. The crenellations of reason transmogrify amorphous wisps of unknowingness into structures of cognition. Reason rends chaos, clefts the irrational, sheds the superfluous and reinscribes, with its inveterate sanctification, the stamp of unequivocal truthfulness.

Yet reason, despite its intractability is infinitely protean because its entrenchments depend upon the aegis of subjectivity. Reason, in its singular manifestations frays the edges of its own intransigence. Yet the coordinates, through collective complicity, retain their obduracy.

Reason comes to be through non being. Reason creates non being to be. By siphoning of the extraneous, by divesting the appendages of that which is unimportant, or important enough to be eschewed. Reason is negation. Reason is a superimposition of its own telos upon unknowable ontology. The faculty of reason is simultaneously circumscriptional and transcendent. In its interstices, with their imperceptible obtrusions lies the irrational. Reason holds its breath and compresses unreason in its diaphanous folds. But such pressure, withheld, billows out into arabesques of irreality.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013


Invulnerability is my ontology. I come into being out of fearlessness. It is because i don't fear, that i am. Coruscating specks of causalities float past me, with their irrevocable intimations yet i am, singularly unafraid. Many tell me that my negation stems from inexperience, from a nascent state of unapprehended reality. What is that reality, which these assiduous promulgators indefatigably asseverate, is highly amorphous.

To disentangle fear from experience is no small feat. The experience and the attendant emotional reality it entombes are indistinguishable yet impalpable. Fear, i discern emerges from uncertainty, unanticipated fatalism and dread. The emotion is a retroactive predetermination. It is both prelude and consequence. It brings the experiential impetus behind indeterminate experience into being and subsequently dapples it with its inexorability.

It also occurs to me that fear is the corporeal equivalent of metaphysical incertitude. Fear is the apotheosis of tenuous intimations, latent, immanent which roil within, twisting and turning, churning ,only to be regurgitated when consciousness, unable to keep in stasis the ebbs and flows of precariousness , throws up the constituents. The detritus becomes fear.

Yet, a wake of apprehension suffuses me even as i proclaim my inveterate proclivity of fearlessness. It is apparent that certain phosphorescent propensities, subsumed in the gloaming of subconsciousness proffer streaks of disquiet . There is something, something nebulous which is preoccupying me and congealing intransigently as a subterranean , unguessed, ungrasped and indiscernible stipple. I am possessed of the ability of self excoriation and until i unravel the penumbral recesses of this frustrating interstice between knowing and unknowing i will remain discontented.

A sense of finality is discomfiting me. Recollections of heroic feats of unafraidness are not heralding self congratulatory complacence or self sufficient quietude. On the contrary an indwelling uncertainty subsumes me with anxiety. It is not that i will suddenly start fearing because my lexicon disallows the possibility of its realization. What is cognitively unknown and repudiated does not, like the unconscious confer streaks of unknowability. Conscious crystallization of being confers an imprimatur of anthropomorphism. Yet there are chinks in the armor, blurrings and blottings underneath the palimpsest of my fulcrum. Random hieroglyphs circumambulate.

And after incessant ruminations i have come to the conclusion that though i don't fear i fear fear itself. So determined is my effort to transcend collective fear that i witness, with unutterable anxiety, the prospect of my submergence into the undifferentiated wholeness of the phenomenon of fear itself. Hence i must circumvent, thus must i bypass, forthwith must i repudiate what i may become which will, ironically , be a reversion to what i was.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013


She peeks into the silvered eldritch depths whose rippling, ensorcelled reflection enraptures her completely. The mirror is an affirmation of being and sanctification of self hood. If she were to deconstruct the constituents of this self gaze she would meet her antithesis converging with her. Her being is tremulous and requires an act of will to authenticate it. She is privy to the pleasures of narcissism yet a precarious undercurrent of indeterminacy studs it.

The mirror is impassive, a form of non being. It's silvered rim gleam coruscatingly under the crepuscular dusk where the luminous moon, burgeoning, casts everything it alights on with an unsullied whiteness. The glass vitrifies her image into itself. It transmutes nebulous intimations into circuitous self regard, inevitably culminating in an apotheosis whose tenuousness is momentarily suppressed but never obliterated. She conceals her uncertainty under a patina of solipsistic self assurance. Being gleams iridescently but the gloaming of insidious darkness renders the pleasures of self complacence wavering and quivering, in the wake of its own inadequacy.

The answer to her incontrovertible beauty , her ineluctable singularity which she seeks is a projection and externalization of the voice within. Hope outweighs doubt, amorphous certitudes surmount excoriating self doubt. She is accoutred impeccably in self regard yet her unconscious, repository of her vertiginous depths, reservoir of her unknowability prickles with unguessed at profundities whose indiscernible nature augments her shaking faith.

Yet remnants of self possession ratify the image, which is her own, and indubitably stipple it with daubs of inviolable beauty whose ubiquity, putative at best, nugatory at worst, affirms a being whose thereness and ontological crystallization redoubles its hieroglyphic anteriority. She could traverse a collective, navigate the tenebrous wastes of the reconfirmation of her undeniable beauty the world proclaims but it is in self communion with the mirror that a vestige of identity reposes. She unspools after immersion, she abrogates uncertainty insofar as what she discerns is a shaky buttressing of knowledge. The mirror, on the other hand is a multifarious conglomeration of constantly configurable aegis . A glimpse into consciousness yields uncertainty and only the scaffolding of intransigent becoming propels continuation of self deception. She is, she becomes. She becomes, therefore she is. Yet the is, contingent of if dissolves into nothingness when from her deeper depths emerges a being that throws into complete self destructive impulse, aspects of what she has made of herself. Either she could solder with this extrapolation or destroy what it contains. She chooses annihilation.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013


Whenever i visit my psychiatrist i see schizophrenics wrapped up in the involuted world of their hallucinations. And something in me wants to break open their mind, understand the constituents of their hallucinations and delusions and affirm that the fears they undergo are universal, that the psychosis that constitutes them comes from us, our communality, our collective consciousness. But i know that they will be given medication which, though alleviating their misery would also obliterate the larger consciousness from where these psychotic thoughts arose.

I visit my psychiatrist and try to articulate some of what i feel . He is receptive, cordial and respectful but uncomprehending. We revert back to my current healthfulness and blood tests and all the paraphernalia of chemical bipolarity. I shake hands and we part. Yet the train of association which witnessing those schizophrenics had sparked is obdurate and unavailing. It insists on itself. The threaded associations it contains expand, with the billowing of my consciousness, to embrace people, culture, society, history and memory.

As an ngo counselor i get opportunities to observe people. And most times what i discern is a disaffection with the external world a helpless awareness that the platitudes proffered are inadequate and unsatisfying. Yet most people who putatively recover, do not leave their therapist's offices having inner experience affirmed or the depths of being explored. They emerge, suffused with probity and self righteousness, armed with appurtenances to navigate a jaded world smoothly. They configure but their configurations are subsumed in the quotidian. The transformative experience of breaking down is never perceived. Instead the individual is made to feel a certain lacunae in their apprehending of the world, some emotional anomaly the restitution of whose integument would solve everything.

We put on masks and construct identities. We regard the individual as a fulcrum, an inviolable singularity. We are aware of what we need and desire but unaware of the same needs and desires in the other. We want to be heard, we want our essential presence affirmed, we want to demonstrate our there-ness. Yet how much of the other do we hear. Sheathed smugly in our cocoon of self sufficiency we negate experience, both ours and of the other. We abrogate our humaneness. We are so obsessed with self expression that we seek analysts to pour forth fusillades of pent up frustrations. We express disillusionment. What we don't realize is that the malaise whose external presence  we excoriate is actually a propensity within. Our expectations outweigh our responsibilities. We are fast fragmenting at a rapid rate. We are embracing the anodyne compensations of the singular by denying the collective. We are solipsistically submerging in our own corporeality. The ties that bind us have become precarious. We trudge forth tenuously, hoping for a soldering yet fearful of self exposure.

What has persisted as a constant amid all this compartmentalization is our storytelling impulse. We may trace an anteriority but we won't find a focal temporal reference. But we have the stories, the stories we created out of nothingness to create being out of non being. The possibility of recovering an ostensible wholeness is rather tenuous. But we can crystallize our indeterminate propinquities and create something out of the impasse of non being, to create hope out of cleaving and togetherness. That way, we can look ahead.

Monday, September 30, 2013


I was trawling the hall of mirrors that day, hoping for a glimpse into undiscerned depths of being. Yet the multitudes of reflections that reflected me back to myself were so profuse and variegated that my essence was obliterated in their midst. What that essence was to be was itself highly nebulous since seeing is contingent on perceiving. Yet so enraptured was i at the prospect of these numerous reflections that i, in partaking of their myriad richness, with ingenuous delight, returned homewards sated and fulfilled.

Remnants of those coruscating reflections, however continued to haunt me. And possessed of an exegetical propensity i began ruminating on the possibilities of what i had absorbed. And it stuck me, with pertinacious vigor that what i had managed to, unbeknown to myself, registered today was a proliferation of selves and possibilities The blueprint of my being dispersed, refracted and reconstituted into a mosaic. I was composed of polymorphous variations, singular and indivisible yet cohered into a whole with each arabesque patterned and whorled fluidly yet impeccably. To search for an essence amid this inexhaustible bounty would have been an endeavor to locate a temporal fulcrum. And the mediation of becomings these reflections proffered rendered the attribution of anteriority redundant.

What these reflections, in actuality seemed to propel was facsimiles of being, inverted and recreated. It began with the idea of a contextual being whose existence was its own affirmation. Into that tabula rasa, that blank ontological palimpsest were projected scintillating reflections, ricocheting, jostling, condensing, retracting, conjoining and severing. These undulant patterns of possibilities postulated a being that could be appropriated, accoutered and if necessary divested. Slivers of opportunities for creation abounded, suffused with protean energies . Into this vast pool of conglomeration lay the essence of who i was yet i was, in essence, essentially a component of this vast pool of nothingness from whence i was to emerge. Herein lay a blankness, an emptiness, compounded of nothingness yet constitutive of creation and i was being subsumed in this cavalcade of empty spaces wherein i could become a subject from the reflections of me, who was, in a sense a being but a being in potentia, an approximate being who could, from these latent, nascent hieroglyphs of identity, become a whole being.

And become i would but only by inevitably validating that i was a being who became yet became from an undifferentiated concatenation of nuanced hypotheses, as yet uncrystallized. That the being i carved for myself was as potent and as palpable a becoming as were the other reflections from whose amalgamated differences i became myself. The only way my being could be was by letting other putative beings be. The loopholes in the metaphysics of anthropomorphism has made a subject out of me. Iridescent crenellations have soldered to compactly sheathe an indeterminate me. Indeterminacy is my ontology and it is as an unequivocally self made being that i intend to be.

Thursday, September 26, 2013


Two weeks back, contingent on and a transcendence of the modernist fulcrum, i postulated a form. Though my allegiance to the modernist paradigm is incontrovertible i felt that one could use postmodernism too, both as counterpoint and core, to posit the idea of the form i did earlier, only reconsidered from a fresher perspective and realigned with contemporary theoretical bases.

Fragmentation constitutes contemporaneity. Yet a desire for unity underpins it. To acknowledge that uncertainty is our only certainty is certainly perspicacious but incertitude, ipso facto, cannot be constitutive of the human condition. If stasis is the ineluctable accompaniment of having crossed a threshold then poststructuralism certainly demonstrates this propensity. Theory, in many contexts, is essentially circumlocutory and in thrall of its own ingenuity. It takes a measure of ingenuousness , however, both for implicit belief and a radical questioning. 

The idea of what art is and should be is a timeless query. Should be inveigles an imprimatur of the prescriptive and must therefore be disavowed. Nor will an hypothesis of what art is yield any answers. There can be anodyne overcompensations attendant on such a train of thought but leaves fundamentals unexplored. It can be, though a pertinacious asseveration that art should be about the human condition. But of what aspects, of which dimension and how profound? Is verisimilitude a precondition or extrapolation? Should proximity to accuracy be a criterion, no matter how deviant the constituents and forms the integument might inhabit? Or should truth be the inescapable centrality, given variation in form, genre etc. 

All these questions are unanswerable as are the constituents they embody capable of being severed and analysed. Having posed these queries and explored the intransigent unknowability of phenomena one can conclude, rather tremulously that art is both infinitely appropriable and infinitely configurable. There is no unalterable finality or telos. Therefore if art were, in conjunction with theory, though not seamlessly amalgamated, represent certain human phenomena might it not follow that it can repudiate those self same groundings and entrenchments and, through its own configurable epistemology, point the way forwards. Might not the self contained, complacent sheathe be split, cleft and rent and multitudinous possibilities burgeon and unfurl in myriad directions. 

It would be, having considered so far our critique of postmodernity, naive to pause at this interstice of asking and acknowledging and stop here. Such a course of action, such stasis would embalm the very incertitude we seek to go beyond . In the previous peregrination of understanding form the individual as collective was stressed and highlighted. It would, of necessity be inevitable that contemporaneity can not be our sole base, that postmodernity, though undoubtedly self sufficient, would leave untapped many humanist possibilities . This lack, this absence of a transcendent propels the need for a new form forward. Renouncing the zeitgeist would be foolhardy and importunate because it is from within it that answers must be wrenched. Hence an expedient traversing of its exiguities would be expeditious. The genre is irrelevant or relevant as a means to an end. The genre itself can be channeled as a way of tapping into the new form.

Of what then, would the new form consist? The new form is promulgated both as fluid and as totality. Today constituents of consciousness are being explored and it is unavoidable that the constituent, the compartment itself betokens to the larger collective depth. The fallacy lies rather in a totalization of the fragment and its further scatteration. A kaleidoscope of multifariousness reweaves diffuseness into a prefigurable whole. The whole itself is composed of fragmentary daubs. Yet it is out of these gossamer, inchoate filaments that wholeness is to be arrived at. Wholeness is to be seen not as self containedly reposing within and in the interleaving of these fragments than as a way beyond them. If we suspend or search for humaneness by acknowledging that categories exist and that attenuation is our reality we leave undiscerned the deeper current of what binds us. Art and the new form could go some way in addressing this nothingness.