Monday, June 30, 2014


We live in times where self consciousness alternates with self deception. And i am no different. There are areas where my awareness of minutiae is exemplary, though i say it myself and others where, through a willful negation of what i know to be true yet pretend isn't, dissimulation is evinced. And i'm a clever dissembler. What compounds the deception is my subterranean awareness that i am deceiving myself, that i am, in a conscious way, though with a consciousness that is often unconscious of itself on the surface yet retains a knowledge of its apostasy, rationalizing a lie.

But such rationalizations are the fruits of self consciousness. I do believe that there are realms of consciousness and that they do interpenetrate. So an underlying awareness of the veraciousness beneath the edifice of prevarication is discernible at some level. Though indubitably the greater the discomfort such revelations engender greater will be the suppression of it. Our frantic and assiduous repressions are often conscious, conscious because we know the substratum of something being repressed but negate the constituents of in our everyday minds. Through such quotidian misrepresentations, or representations underneath the unrepresented, a simulacrum of daily existence is carried out.

As i spoke earlier about realms of consciousness. I think it is possible to know yet not know. Or to know at a underground layer of mindfulness and unacknowledge openly. Often lies are caught out in such a manner and a breezy, debonair outwardness exposed for the shallowness of its pretensions. Over the canopy of what is presented as self is the vast hinterland of what the self says about itself without saying it or what it leaves unsaid though not unexpressed. Then is that unperceived the reality of who we are or what is presented as a bleached version?.

I've indulged in such performances myself and indeed the self is a performing agent, reconfiguring and restructuring reality to suit its opportunistic ends. Whence, amid all this playacting, does being reside. Is being the detritus of the uncongenial that is divested or is being what we become, what we accoutre ourselves with publicly. I tremulously  sense being is the sum total of its own being and becoming but the query is unanswerable.

As a postmodern self  who exhibits a supercharged self consciousness i have chosen each word carefully, imbuing it with appropriate significations and predicates where i could. But i am now coming to terms, with a rather unanticipated jolt ,that in endeavoring to objectify what the coordinates of a postmodern person is, a subject has been made of me.  

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