Sunday, September 1, 2013

ON FICTION

Contemporary life today ebbs and flows between profuse immersion in superfluity and a profound search for depth. The knobs of experience, though turned inward are yielding chimeras of being. And the sense of an inner life, with its tumults and incertitudes mingled with infinitesimal iridescent joys and affirmations is being imperceptibly obliterated. Constructs have billowed and meaning has shrunk. The impulse for truth, the alleyways and labyrinths traversed to get a vision of it has been replaced by a sublimation of our baser natures. At a time where the comforts of the outer have desiccated and withered the core of the inner, a journey into the depths has become ever more urgent. Existence is a facsimile of itself, a simulacrum whose veracity has dwindled. The mortal frame becomes and configures into many possibilities and the integument is infinitely appropriable. What has dissolved , in the process of obsequy to the surface, is the unplumbed depth.

And indeed one may inquire and hypothesize pertinaciously whether fiction should mirror reality, whatever its outer crust may be or delve deeper and offer, as a counterpoint to post modernity a rich, untapped, indeterminate sense of the inner. Consciousness is evanescent but it is patterned. It repeats stipples of experience. Memory is not a daguerrotype which alights on subject matter and plunges headlong into its intricacies. Memory peregrinates intermeshed temporalities. Blueprints of life yield potentialities that would, given our current depredations, be realized. Stories we have acknowledged as self creating. Perhaps the impulse behind it, the search for an anterior narrative can, while yielding uncertainty render monochromatic causality uncircumscribed.

Consciousness cogitates and experiences simultaneously. Arabesques of mnemonics float around, gossamer, to be captured by unconscious visitations. A daub is examined, held, absorbed in its myriad richness while that fragment, that stipple remains, through threaded associations intermingled to a permutation of thoughts. Each sliver is connected yet disparate, much like the singular's confluence to the collective. A string of evocations determines the flux of consciousness. Memory, ipso facto, is the fulcrum. And because these blueprints are predetermined yet retrospective they narrate, from the tabula rasa of anteriority , stories, stories we create out of the nothingness of being. The pattern, however, though underpinned by being is also wedded to the unceasing continuance and precedence of human consciousness. Singularity is blent with a larger atemporal conglomeration of infinitesimal multitudinousness. The convergence of attenuated consciousnesses is indicative of a storytelling impulse, an impulse to contain, within the interstice of form and content, the inexhaustible prodigiousness of human existence. 

There is a dire need for an exploration of the inner, the within. Because only from the internal can the external be apprehended. Indubitably the internal will not yield answers, not will it proffer platitudes which we seek from emblems of culture and tradition. But a radical reappraisal of our own appraisal of ourselves is essential and the co ordinates of our inner consciousness, their unfathomed complexities offers a glimpse, into the lucent surfaces and the self contained, exploratory depths.

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