Saturday, May 4, 2013

THE INTERSTICES OF A NARRATIVE

The tightly hewn narrative stretches its seams and filigrees of association unravel from it, spreading profusely across the integument of form. The form contains, inviolable, slivers of meaning whose crystalline fluidity underpins intransigence. The veins of the frame palpate blood, each drop glittering like opal, an iridescent daub of the chiaroscuro of ambiguity, foreclosing singularity, attenuating variegation and signifying, through protean indeterminacy, the unknowingness at the heart of things.

The narrative is essentially confession, an unconfessed confession, a confession of unconfessed longings. The cognitive palimpsest contains nascent blueprints which burgeon into polymorphousness because out of the blurrings and blottings of the underwriting a new narrative emerges, impregnated,impregnable, suffused with undirected tenuity yet tautly, self containedly encompassing, incorporating a signification, a range of discursive spaces which repose amniotically, latently, dwelling subterraneously waiting to be disgorged, with an act of love, into the pellucid clarity of day.

The narrative is both sheathe and cadaverous. In it's bleached bones, desiccated out of primordial nothingness reposes the sheathe's power of enclosure and encasing. The entombing of emptiness is then disinterred, unlocking the ineffable mysteries of the unknown, the unknowable. Structures, signifiers collide, intersect, disperse, fragment, splinter and reconstitute. The mosaic of the reality which came to be becomes real when it congeals precariousness into hardened shards whose glazed nature, however underpins the ambivalence at the heart of narrative certitude.

The narrative betokens to itself, through itself and despite itself its own unfathomability. What the narrative contains contains the narrative. In its repressed interstices luminous mnemonics are recumbent,in the phosphorescent penumbra where that which is known, that which cannot be known and that which is brought into a state of knowability intermingle fortuitously. Forestalling intractability the narrative remains a gaunt shape with tightly stretched flesh which in its very structuration forces scatteration to proliferate. Can the narrative wrest, from its crepuscular undercurrents, incandescent remnants of meaninglessness. In those meaningless garnet's lies the true essence of narrative thrust and that is it's own inessentiality.

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