Friday, September 6, 2013

THE BOOKSHOP

'Look at that collection of shakespeare over there. Covers embossed in gold with reddish gold spines .'

'Shakespeare was always allocated the southwest corner. And the hallowed texts, embalmed by tradition were always to be entombed in regal integuments.'

'And that title of Muriel spark there, 'The mandelbaum gate'. How exciting to find it there. How my spirit burgeons, exults and venerates this vast canopy of learning, where under the awning of a consecrated space emblems of erudition repose.'
'
Muriel spark was always to be found in rare bookshops. In fact, the specificities of book selection and stocking follows, often random caprices wherein what one has least hoped to find was inevitably to be found.'

'The corniced ceiling, the walls studded with wooden shelves, jutting out where lie waiting, indeterminate assortments of books is an expectation that one has from all bookshops.'

'Here lies a collection of georgette heyer's, there a collection of Agatha christie. All was incontrovertibly to be conglomerated in neat slots. See that Miss marple omnibus jutting out.'

'That's exactly where i had anticipated Marple to be, a prominent detective who, by virtue of her unconventionality, occupied a luminous space among her more active, muscled male counterparts.'

'Poetry, an august genre, inhabited a crepuscular yet prominent realm there . See how the slim covers authoritatively reside, hoping, yet disdaining, the uncultivated taste of the modern reader who unappreciative, undiscerning, overlooks, bypasses, sidesteps and moves on to the shelf with colin dexter in it.'

'Poetry, i see is in the shadows yet like all shadows, self contained and indivisible. Byron, shelley keats who, in their exploration of the myriad intensities of human consciousness coexist with the ranting plath and the elegantly whorled Heaney.'

'That's the blueprint of a bookshop for you.'

'Indeed it is, actualized now. '

Thursday, September 5, 2013

ON FICTION PART 2

Having acknowledged that the inner, the interior is a bulwark against the chaos of the 21st century we need to ask why is it that it is a scaffolding. What merit does a descent within possess ? The protean, evanescent nature of externality configures phenomena again and again. And regression, a submergence in chaos is an inevitable accompaniment of intersecting subjectivities whose singularity is held up as a sole defense where the outer has become precarious and uncertain.

To what end will a new interior form work and how much of it is a paean to modernism. The modernists turned to the inner as a result of disaffection with the outer. The post post modern has embraced the outer to negate the inner. Obsequy to cliches is an inadequate representation of truth, however much of a construct it may be . The interior is a repository not just of the contingent but the communal. A selfconsciousness permeates this century. The inner could perhaps be channeled to embrace that self consciousness, rend the intractable veils of self deception and arrive at the core, however indeterminate, of humaneness. Self consciousness of self consciousness can be embraced as a methodology in the new form. The form could reflect, albeit unostentatiously, the workings of the unconscious mingled with the stream of association that underpins the unconscious.

The mind is being inundated with a myriad of tactile, visual and written representations. Consciousness, laden with this cornucopia of plentitude gorges on the constituents but does not register the impalpable significations they embody. Knowledge, in its copious, exhaustible profusion proliferates but doesn't translate into self knowledge. What was anomalous has become the quotidian. The barriers of repression have been cleft and reconfigured. What has become apparent is a disenchantment with the replicating, tautologous structures whose pleasures are often a form both of regression and of arriving at a zone of knowing that is null and void. Forms of knowledge have become both self aware and fragmented. At a time when compartments are putatively eschewed newer compartments are being formed. There has been an unleashing of formal, ingenious experimentation with form and their nuances are commendable but their co ordinates reflect the incertitudes and non ontological reality of post post modern life.

Does a form that mirrors this tenuousness sufficient in itself? Is the inner to be turned to in order to escape the depredations of the contemporary? Is inner consciousness the sole defense against the increasingly subdividing, freneticism of the 21st century. A form doesn't merely mirror but informs the context it emanates from. And it is this aspect of form, its traversing of the singularly collective past by travelling through the inner chambers of unexplored layers of mind to affirm the present that can yield answers. The components of humanity are irrefutably patterned though their manifestations differ. The idea of a primordial reversion to our baser natures is nowhere apparent than now. A new form, a new episteme could deliberate on severing yet asseverate cleaving. A navigation of the past would answer the present. And the past would be constitutive of collective patterns of humanity that underpin the here and now. One is not suggesting that slivers of the past proffer solutions to the future. On the contrary the crenellations of the past would in their expression of our collective humanity, provide a framework to shape a nebulous sense of being and becoming . The inner contains ,in its interstice, a peregrination of metonymy and predicate. In the last piece i argued for a reappraisal of our reappraisal . Here i add to it, a reconstitution, despite its amorphousness,mystery and untapped, unanticipated and unrealized potentiality.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

ROAMING IN THE GLOAMING

The evening dresses rippled, sheathing lissome integuments with mosaic streaks. The air, enveloped by an imperceptibly thickening mist, doffed its pellucidity. Somewhere a cricket rasped, elsewhere a tinkling laughter pealed forth. Inside the house shafts of light were refracted by the chandelier. A dense thicket of suppressed emotion permeated. Superfices billowed and decorum prevailed. Latent, subterranean emotions bubbled up intermittently, revealing all too human attributes and, under the polite surfaces of small talk, were snuffed out. Yet they left behind nebulous intimations of human depth, glimpsed momentarily.

'On an evening like this shakespeare comes to mind. A great artist, a transcendent consciousness, a man who was unafraid to look at the profundities and embalmed them memorably.

'Certainly though great art endures retrospectively. It is absorbed through myriads of ages, distilled through the aegis of different temporal zones and congealed as sublime. '

'Still temporal is so subjective, isn't it? Even within it multitudes of consciousnesses repose. Iridescent prisms of individual genius, beyond time and age, exist and change the fabric of society'.

'Fabrics are constituted by infinitesimal threads of association, meshed to the past, yet subtly changed by the present. There is an unceasing continuance, though the constituents vary.'

'It is in the constituents that the essence lies. They, hurled indeterminately pell mell, bring forth variegated responses and inflict on the wheel of time and the kaleidoscope of history, cataclysmic changes'.

'Don't these metamorphoses have a precedent? Conditions change but the underlying human propensity remains unalterable. '

'Look at this champagne. Its bubbles float around, concentrate and disperse but eventually they burst out of existence. Nothing is unchanging. Only change is certain'

'Witness that evening gown. It is threaded with memory, speckled with causality. An incident, a time frame, a thought, a moment of being are not singular but part of a whole. In the subfusc transience of our existence our incontrovertible humaneness is the only certainty'.

'Deliberations on time , memory desire yield contradictory views. Yet this interchange has afforded a peek into being. Though the enclosures of polite talk undermines deeper depths to surface there has been, in this colloquy, bits of the inner, glimpsed evanescently yet, indubitably captured and held'

'And the human frame, composed of unknown quantities can never proffer more than a ephemeral hint. These visitations  are highly unconscious yet they, with their luminous edges, irradiate and intensify perception and transform being'

These filaments of perception, unmediated by deception, unflanked by despair illumine and intermingle, in the penumbra of human unknowingness, dapples of knowing. The cricket's screech whisks down the spines of the guests, the wine glides seamlessly down their parched throats and conversation lapses yet again into an interminable discussion of the quotidian. 

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

JOURNEYING THROUGH THE METRO

Human density, conglomerated pell mell, meets the eye. Decades of misted breath floats around, casting an imperceptible net over the massed physiognomies. Spaces to sit are cluttered and unmistakably  unapproachable so you stand by the corner. The mist outside has left the windows opaque. As a gloved forefinger rubs at the frame a sliver of perspective is discerned, an endless vista of houses, fields, roads receding and advancing, attenuated and concentrated. A wan, pale gleam of sunlight is ineffectual in rending the fog. Filaments of luminosity emerge fitfully, are rendered momentarily conspicuous and then, with startling immediacy snuffed out only to emerge again.

Within is the artificial light of the neon illumining countenances with yellowish light so that the variagated compendium of flesh, the ripple of individuality underpinning the collective , the mottled, striated faces gleam luridly yet palely, bleached of color. Here an old man reposes with criss crossed  veins,tinged bluish green, streaking his gnarled face while there stands a woman attired in a suit, reapplying lipstick and adjusting the folds of her coat. Her suit is impeccably contoured with no loose thread. Though she looks threadbare at the prospect of replicating, yet again, unvarying stipples of the quotidian.

However, the intentness, the singularity of rending the day, of slicing it up into segmented, rational portions , of plunging into the daily business of loving counterpoints the lassitude and ennui of the travelers. Routine abrades them, oft repeated patterns enervates them and the circuitous labyrinth of  ending at the beginning and beginning at the end robs them of vitality and vigor. Not all denizens of this subterranean hinterland evince the same stoicism. Few countenances are suffused with optimism, pulsating to the pulse and throb of possibilities unmet, potentialities untapped.

Becoming constitutes this tableau vivant. Each member in this ever shifting, transitory charmed circle is configuring himself into multifarious combinations. Being is a palimpsest over which self created narrative story is being written and authenticated. Iridescent affirmation of living, of being in itself counterpoints the jaded, beleagured discomfitures of the here and now. A performance is being practiced, for the benefit, both of crystallizing identity and reaffirming it. As the metro tunnels underground decades of human attrition, over the accreted grime of the railings, the faded upholstery and the peeling posters  and the entropy and reconstitution of human life proceeds unceasingly and desultorily on. 

A SLIVER OF CONSCIOUSNESS

It was perhaps fortuitous that i seemed to be cogitating on the nature of phenomena that day. I have a propensity to navigate recondite subject matter and perhaps it was inevitable the turn my thought processes took that day. Yet something is obtruding on my sense of things . There is an obstacle in the flow of my being. Do i circumvent the barricade or unravel it. The curved edges of my unconscious open inside out, providing stimulus for introspection yet their inviolable interstices disallow self knowledge to percolate.

Which takes me back to the nature of knowledge. What constitutes knowledge? Is it the known, the experienced or the absorbed. We can only experience what causality decrees. In that sense are we marionettes contingent on destiny or self acting individuals. And experience is in any case only experience unless it is experienced. Signifiers of experience compose the flotsam and jetsam of complex human patterns of consciousness. We dip into these gossamer arabesques, imbue them with the force of memory and hold them up for understanding. Their interlocked ridges render singularity null. A fragment is imperceptibly cleaved to other fragments through a concatenation of interlinked temporalities . Yet these stipples are not dappled by the temporal. They traverse the maze of past, present and future and inform perception and recollection with the coordinates of the conglomerated realms they inhabit. The chiaroscuro of memory embalms experience into rational whorls, capable of exegesis yet a fundamental unreason underpins memory. Unreason could, perhaps be seen as the mind's way of creating narratives from the void of the ontological. A nothingness begins and ends humaneness. Yet it is in the gaps, the intermeshed fibres of association and the complex peregrination of time, desire, memory that meaning, albeit self created, emerges.

Is meaning necessary? Can existence, self contained, coiled within itself make for a raison d etre to live. Can pure, undistilled being be a mode of being. Meaning necessitates story and story thickens meaning, quickens faculties of apprehending and transforms the featureless unscrolled palimpsest  into a rewoven memory . The story, after all, is nothing but our way of telling ourselves why we exist. We trace out patterns, identity emblems, commonalities that would solder what we are now to what we were then. What we are now is what we always were, always made ourselves to be, reconfigured. 

These ruminations are inducing a somnolent philosophic quietude in me. A cavalcade of nebulous phenomene have unleashed a deluge of the deeper recesses of life. Life, i reflect, is good, despite misgivings. Life is a luminous halo around which the mortal frame irradiates its constituents. I think of a flower enclosed by petals. The stalk oozing sap is the sap of life. The subfusc profusion of colors from the petals are streaks of mortality and entombed at the centre, around which the plumage folds itself together is the core of blankness. Around this core centers the narrative of human life. Yet the paraphernalia, the surrounding foliage suffuses with such irrepressible gaiety that one seeks restitution from these intangible accouetrements. Accoutrements, after all are myths, rationalizations that are built to buttress the blankness of non being. We need these components to scaffold existence as a self possessed force of life. Yet this proliferation of associations, with their zigzagging, bewildering byways are prompting in me a  perspicacious inquiry which is how this train of thought came to be.

The train of thought. Well the train of thought emerged from bypassing the original nature of inquiry which was the nature of phenomenon. But the train of thought veraciously authenticated phenomena in itself. 

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.