Saturday, May 4, 2013


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.

Friday, May 3, 2013



The flurry of ideas
Traverses the temporal
Seeking to find discursively
A ratified oral.

Definitions dissolve into the ether
As uncertainty prevails
Bringing into narrative realms
Proliferating misreadings and travails


You are the image and the self
Seeking to create anew
From the nothingness we inhabit
Slivers of your being few

You billow outwards, expanding
With the shriveling of us
By negating the latent in you
Congealing yourself thus


We wrest from your self assurance
Remnants that we exist
In the teeth of your elaborate denials
On our presence we persist

Yet you clamp down inexorably
Muffling from us, our presence
In snuffing out variegations
Repudiating our very essence.

The mirror never lies
However much the aegis conceals
Elliptically reduplicating inversions
Immutable indeterminacy reveals.

Consciousness may dematerialize
That which it disperses as dross
Subterraneous phenomena
Reveals this deception gross

You have created a closed circle
Of solipsistic self communion
Thereby crystallizing intractably
Possibilities of disunion

However much you may emblematize
Difference , by any gesture token
We, with our indubitability
Shall leave your circle broken.

Thursday, May 2, 2013


I have just been rereading Doris lessing's 'To room nineteen' and i realize that it's power to disturb and haunt my imagination is as powerful as ever. Lessing captures amazingly the emptiness at the heart of Susan and the inability of marriage, kids, anything to ameliorate her sense of a vast gulf between what she sees as the live, throbbing world and how bottomless her despair feels like. Room nineteen becomes a symbol where she can actualize her existential crises by floating in a bubble of non being. She eventually takes her own life but her comatose nothingness and pure being ironically becomes a way of life. In lifelessness, inertia, lassitude she finds reasons to live. Yet her desire to engage in this colloquy of emptiness requires a blank space, a palimpsest under whose blurred interstices she absents herself into a state of unrelenting oblivion. When the consecrated space of 'being' is discovered she is unanchored. Too somnambulant to find another space, too bleak to look for an alternative she succumbs to her emptiness and kills herself. What assails susan is ontological incertitude. As a woman, unable to think of other possibilities, listless with empty stretches of time, circumscribed by her femininity she loses her core. She is putatively and ostensibly emancipated and seems to make choices for herself yet the manacles of patriarchy tie her into choosing conventional roles which serve to intensify and augment her loneliness. In one sense the psychiatric profession would diagnose susan as clinically depressed and attribute her sense of loss of herself as neurochemical. Yet lessing painstakingly points out that susan's madness is a cultural metonym for the lives of women. In the golden notebook Anna wulf goes campaigning for the communist party and sees housewives whose lives are totally bereft of meaning. Susan's tragedy lies in the fact that her being, which is her empty, passive non being and becoming, what she becomes coalesce. Unlike the existentials who lay the onus for becoming on the individual susan reverts to a tabula rasa state of blankness except that experience doesn't imbue her with variety but folds her back into the state of non being she began with. She is coiled in the foetus of her singular and social self absorption, ratified by patriarchy and authenticated by the nature of the times. Sylvia plath's depression in 'The bell jar' echoes the blankness of susan's life. At the crossroads of a burgeoning feminism of Betty freidan, Germaine greer in the 50's and 60's susan rawlings occupies an interstice, a daguerrotype of perspectivation that denies her agency. Contemporary thinkers would ask her stir herself up, do physical activity, take prozac, keep busy. Yet one senses that all this may momentarily buttress susan's tenuousness of existence but eventually in love with self obliteration as the only recompense from a life leached of purpose , her negation of existence would ultimately triumph

Wednesday, May 1, 2013


Ontology is a chimera, a metaphysical projection whose constituents determine the nature of reality we construct for ourselves. Extrojection/introjection are an inescapable component of the stories we create. In that sense reality is self referential, in that it betokens the nature of its phenomena to itself. Through overdeterminations, symbolic and symbiotic, a patina of a putative realness is brought into being. Metaphysics and reality are both directly and inversely related. Because the ratiocination of metaphysics is contingent on reality and reality, ipso facto, is inconceivable without metaphysics. Yet their conjunctions and ricochetings are indeterminate because they are mediated by a human consciousness which projects its anthropocentric sublimations on the nature of phenomene, both impalpable and tangible. Reality is constituted, or reconstituted by eldritch architectonics whose significations of nebulous certainties crystallize with time. Yet the self contradictory frictions of this self created reality, predicated on intersecting and conflictual subjectivities throws into relief its own tenuousness.

Let's say there is a pool and reality is gazing at itself in it. Yet the pool is an extrapolation of  reality from itself so that it can commune with itself. The symbolic pool is a wrenching of a narcissistic propensity and its emblematic exteriorization. Much like plato's prisoners in the cave reality is incapable of apprehending its own being because being has been split into object and subject. Objectivization signifies a structuration of teleology on the basis of a schizoid fragmentation. While subjectivization is the creation of a subject from the interstices of predicate and metonymy. Thus reality is both itself, i.e the itself it brought into being and what it makes itself to be i.e becoming. The incongruity lies in a misapprehension or (mis) apprehension of the intrinsic nature of uncertainty whose splitting is  both a survival and a defense mechanism. Hence it is narcissism redoubled or perhaps a narcissism folded in upon itself because ultimately solipsistic externality unspools into self absorbed internality. Or let us say that reality is a ball of thread unravelling into infinity. Paradoxically too this ball of thread, constrained by spatiality is impeded from where consciousness proliferates its filigrees of association. The thread ( the pool) and consciousness (the imaginary pool) commingle and branch out, dissolving into primordial , depthless unfathomability.

As far as the quest for a reality, outside of the pool and reality itself is concerned it becomes nothing but a narcissistic prolongation into self reflection. And reality, which sees its specular image is psychotically splintered into creationing and nothingness. Like narcissus the anomaly of reality lies in its misrecognition or meconnaissance that the image it sees is not of itself. The hallucination billows outwards into a collective psychosis wherein dream, phantasmagoria, reality, phenomena intermesh, collide and simultaneously sequester and alienate. The exactitude lies in the reality of unreality. The emptiness of unknowingness brings reality into being, self fragments it and strives for an amalgamation with that which lies outside which is nothing but its own fathomlessness, reduplicating itself in the closed circularity of the specular colloquy.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

A few random reflections on ideas around form.

Of late i find myself veering increasingly towards the idea of 'form'. And form as artifice, as a writer's attempt to cohere and sheathe a work of art. Form as such has no ontology, no teleological state. Form is much like creativity in that it accumulates lineaments and depths as we go along the way. Even formlessness is a kind of form. After all a thing exists not just by itself but in relation to what it is not. Formlessness does not negate form but reinscribes it as an artifact.

Sometimes i notice that giving oneself a tight structure or a putatively foreclosed form proliferates content. Form essentially draws attention to its navigable, negotiable space. It attests the boundaries that contain it yet by itself form is uncontainable. In a sense a form is like a definition, a category in that it transforms unintelligible epistemelogical, discursive domains into comprehensible structures. Love sonnets for example or Mills and boons romance novels or the golden age detective novels are examples of form , an integument that proffers its space for misshapen, capacious experience to be circumscribed into a retroactively pre determined signification.

From the point of view of readership form is both necessary yet extraneous in that while the architectonics of the form , distilled collectively, are acknowledged the content they encapsulate spills out. The subjectivity of the act of reading renders circumscriptions of form apocryphal. In other instances form, as a rigidly deployed category can be used to encompass content which the conventions of the form render inadmissible. Form becomes, then, a technique of attenuation wherein that which is assumed or purported to be said dissolves its self imposed rigidity and oozes out unconscious stuff. Sometimes the act of doing so may be conscious.

Form, ipso facto, is infinitely adaptable, capable of being variously reconfigured. A shakespearian sonnet differs from a plath sonnet in its construction and architecture. Form implies putative progression, a movement from chaos to order. Somewhere form is regression, a dispossession of indeterminacy, a propulsive progressive paradigm, into straitjackets and superimposed naturalized compartments. Form, in itself, is not inviolable. It is a pattern into which the vessel of multiplicity is poured and funneled into acceptable paradigms. Yet the hourglass of form can never give an exact measure of the unknown quantity it represents. Form works because it is capable of reconstitution, reconstruction, revivification . It is an unwieldy garment in that it will ensconce the frame but the frame will stretch, expand retract to readjust itself within the folds of the garment.