Thursday, June 5, 2014


Memory was a phenomenon rendered threadbare through exegesis. The self too, as philosophers inveterately evinced, was exhausted. So when i began to put together self and memory as an area of inquiry which, given my rather inquisitive nature, augmented by the yearnings reading precipitated and notwithstanding the venerable work already done in these areas, i was aware of breasting choppy waters. I felt vulnerable, my ideas felt makeshift tenuous and presumption rather than iconoclasm constituted my chief misgiving about this whole enterprise.

However, my recollection of trying to find patterns is tinged with valediction because back then, i was, ingenuous, earnest, rigorous and relentless. The spirit of intellectual zest that infused me the was overwhelming. Often i would become enervated than galvanized when the possibilities stretched forth. It was a feeling akin to a momentary suspension before plunging into the abyss. I stalled importunity, hoping that this infinitesimal but necessary intercession, even if it manifested itself in paralyzing immobility, was a way of squaring my shoulders, taking a deep breath before the unavoidable plunge. Mingled with the preparatory forebodings were also vertiginous feelings of terror.

In any case the search for connections is, i feel, a universal one. As a child i sought to find and make connections because i had a naive belief that the world was explicable. Whole areas of unreason were still unopened for me. A safe canopy was a sheathe against the nightmares nighttime brought in its wake. But while my day self yearned, despite the safety net, for further inchoateness to be resolved my nocturnal self sought the very humdrum banality i eschewed in my wakeful moments.

A nightmare, i often find, is like a memory. It brings to the fore, through unclassified and unfathomed regions of the unconscious , areas of experience that clearly lie latent, incipient, awaiting actualization.The fact that the dream, might  itself is be reconfigured memory, for are not dreams wish fulfillment and memories commemorative. The recollection may be random but its emotional register is undeniable. A dream, like a memory may thrill, ennoble, excite, dismay, traumatize. But the underlying experiential constituent, however unfathomable, is inviolable.

Memories and dreams are different though repression, sometimes, contingently, solders them. And i think now that the self that experienced the experience and the self that recaptures or remembers are not static. Psychic propulsion happens, consciousnesses accumulate, discard, negate, affirm, accouter and relegate.

It was inconceivable to me to find, as my meanderings here suggest, a core philosophy around all this. The cadence of the memory was altered, experience was relooked at, the self metamorphosed. So finding a link between self and memory, which my impetuosity tried best to unravel, remained or rather resolved into protean horizons where the more relentlessly a fulcrum was sought the more insouciantly was another random, reconstructed whorl dredged up where in through  the mosaic of being, i became, from a pseudo philosopher seeking certitudes a seeker after the inexpressible. 

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