Saturday, June 29, 2013


Peeking over the rim of my impassive non being i looked up and thought a thought. It seemed to be about the nature of something indiscernible and nebulous. I tried to sift through the maze of my tangled unthinking to capture the co ordinates of what it was that i was so assiduously yet so indeterminately cogitating. Undoubtedly it is something abstruse because recondite phenomena are an abiding source of reflection for me. But before i can navigate the tangle of my being to capture the labyrinth of this thought i am being subsumed in a wake of a cavalcade of imponderables whose deluge bespatters me reproachfully with their incessant intimations of unknowingness.

What is an abstraction? Is it the unapprehended and therefore the unfathomable. And what, in any eventuality, is unfathomable? Is it something we see yet don't see or is its nature undiscerned by us. What, in any case, can be discerned. Does consciousness obstruct areas of knowledge because they are too capacious to be held . Isn't the mind a vast receptacle where myriad repertoires of forms of episteme can be embalmed. And one is tempted to ask what after all is consciousness? Is it something which eschews abstractions because there is only so much that it can contain. Beyond its endurance does knowing dissolve into inadequacy. Can knowing be known? Slivers of thoughts float around, some in the mind's gossamer regions but much remains unseen, unheard, uncomprehended. Writers have always attuned their inner forces of perception to capture these nuances of thought patterns. Yet as the mind knots itself into further loops of divisiveness the aspect of the minds ambivalence, of the incertitudes of singularity will become subject matter for many writers and scientists. They will explore chimeras and substratums of being and reality and how people respond to them.

An iridescent stipple of time holds crenellations of multitudes of reflections beneath them. The wave topples forward, disgorging foam and retreats from whence it emerged. Another wave spills forward dissolving, dispersing. So do thoughts jostling for primacy gather together into inchoate arabesques, hurtling towards the forefront. Out of this cornucopia a fragment detaches itself, attaching to the subconscious before another fusillade advances, leaving another fragment to momentarily repose before blending. Thoughts blur, are blotted out, superimpose, retract yet the seamless flow of consciousness keeps them entombed from whence they emerge and are disinterred. Yet what is left behind is an ineffable transformation of perception.

All of which takes me back to the quotidian nature of my original subject of inquiry which was about its own nature.
The thought that has informed these thoughts is the fact that i was thinking. Thinking was my thought.

Friday, June 28, 2013



Iridescent specks of light are insinuating through the mist, rending it. The mist, cleft, tries ineffectually to solder its dispersed wreaths but so complete it its fragmentary severance from itself that it dissolves its own obfuscation. As slivers of light, initially peeking in incandesce the sky a suffusion of light brightens the stratosphere and a luminous ubiquity permeates. Birds begin to chirp, flowers unfurl their petals and a panorama of brighness hangs like a canopy over a frenetic, disordered human hithering and thithering. Amid the ebb and flow of suburbia,a window is spangled with light here, an omnibus halted in its course there. There is a busyness, a disgorging of activity as thick waves of torpor, unmediated by the escapes dreams proffer, disperse into wakefulness and consciousness. 


The mist, concealed and momentarily sidestepped by light, begins to thicken. Where earlier its constituents attenuated it concentrates, creating a dense thicket of nothingness. A penumbra begins to obscure the quotidian. As shadows deepen the ebb and flow, incessant by day becomes restful, quiescent. A sense of lassitude billows. Indefatigably inconstant lovers congregate and proclaim prothalamions of permanence. They then move apart, holding the opalescent memory of their brief communion to their beating hearts. Pinpricks of neon flare up and points of light denote points of landscape caught and help evanescently in the points of time that contain them. Where permanence and solidity was betokened by the light ephemerality and incorporeality is signified by the shadow. As the elements intersect to create unceasing concatenations of light and shadow the consciousness of the slumberer flares up, marvels and lapses into dreamy somnolence. The belief in cyclical endurance is underpinned by the tenebrous reality of mortality.


I embody a contradiction which is in itself nugatory simply because only those who think in straitjackets find me questionable. I am fluid and permeable. The body is amorphous under the aegis of sexuality at the best of times. Yet i am seen as an equivalence, an either or. Yes i am ,in a sense, either or because it is as a woman that i identify myself. When my soul, my being,my innermost consciousness aligns me a certain way must i not then follow the promptings of what appears to me as incontrovertible truth. Must my luminous being waver and quiver when a wave  of social remonstrance sweeps past, submerging me. I don't question the facts but i question things which are self proclaiming facts. Many a putative truth resides as universal because it has always, intractably seen so. And tradition has embalmed me in her portals as anomalous. I inhabit myths, legends, oral cultures. Sometimes i have been consecrated, at others desecrated. What i seek is not just an affirmation of my being but an interrogation of what passes for being. I inhabit tenebrous landscapes of dualities yet i am, of myself, singular and indivisible. The crenellations of who i am flank my soul and i endeavor to wrest, from the indeterminacy of phenomena, a sliver of identity. Undoubtedly in the penumbral hinterland of dichotomies, in their opacities and subterfuges my difference is emphasized, rendered 'other'. Yet if i am an other then i am an other among others yes even others that pass off as norms. 

Equivalence studs me, stipples me but doesn't relinquish its irrecoverable finalities. It is as an adjunct to a narrative of multiplicities that i essentially function. Concatenations of possibilities coexist or at least ought to. I only seek legitimacy within that plurality, that polymorphousness. And what marks me out is my polychromatic sensibility. I am a mosaic where arabesques of variegations aggregate . I am the kaleidoscope where profusion and bountifulness converge. I do not desire to mythify myself or render myself romanticized. I simply asseverate that in me the differences intersect yet they don't resolve into ready answers. Rather i pose a question, a question which i seek an answer to from those who see me as alien. How normative is their sense of normal, i query? Are their self aggrandizements not a measure of how by shoving me aside they crystallized their presence. Might not i, not by asserting a predominance but by attesting to my ineluctable factuality defy the erasure they seek to impose?

My being spools out of nothingness. However, amidst the rubble of primeval non being i carve myself into the being i am. I feel what i am because right from the moment i came to be i saw myself that way. My actualization of my selfhood discomfits but is merely an obfuscation of how things get congealed as de rigueur yet remain pathologically precarious about their ubiquity. I intend to discomfit. Not by iconoclasm only but as a struggle against odds to claim remnants of the all pervasive pool of identity and establishing a unique space for myself. My iridescence shall be undimmed, my luminosity unwavering. I will, like a wave, ebb and flow but establish incessant cycles of continuity because in a protean, kinetic world of significations i am, for me ,the only certitude. Till i attain completion, wholeness i intend to fight.