Thursday, April 3, 2014


There is in contemporaneity an awareness of a lacuna. With the faith in institutions being demolished faith in the self too, the humane fulcrum of becoming. A form, as with the modernists is both a symptom of a response to a culture. In a post post modern age, with the evisceration through deconstruction and post colonialism there has been a disaggregation of reality. It is a time of fragmentation, an assiduous seeking after a wholeness that is simultaneously circumvented and sidestepped. Metaphysics would imply a journey, a journey within and beyond but will such inexpressible knowledge, formless as it would be, only make sense if it is sheathed in a structure. Would its amorphousness itself, its unknowability curtail human imagination.? Or will the glimpses of the beyond it proffers be an affirmation of faith, a faith in our communality that has accreted over the years with opportunism, pragmatism and materialism.

There is an observable experimentation with form in our literature. The work done by the modernists is reaped beneficially from, Stream of consciousness has, as experimentation, seeped into writing and become de rigueur. What was metaphysically precipitated as experiments has metamorphosed into a technique to validate a post post modern sense of fragmentation. Is a disenchantment with all we have brought into being sufficient ? Is the undermining of structures so enamoring that a aspects of our basic humaneness which those structures upheld, are being repudiated? Can, in the name of subjectivity, unclassifiable experience be relinquished? And can a form, which merely adumbrates the absence of faith of the zeitgeist enough?

Such ruminations, observed for some time since my illness, constituted my search for a new form. As an indefatigable postmodernist i had done my bit with deconstruction. I didn't want to be a revisionist and reclaim the past because the past would be, ineluctably, ambivalently hued and if certain propensities, hitherto deemed reprehensible, proved to be sanguine, other proclivities would, take on uncongenial coloration. The past, though indubitably imbued with reasons to inveigle into the present would, enmeshed in its own contingent temporality, be unyielding to address the crises of faith. After all the fact of contemporaneity's emergence from the constituents of this past be an argument against unmitigated revivification.

Hence the new form. A tremulous hypothesis. The new form could instead of exploring aspects of consciousness explore consciousness itself. A traversing of the collective would yield blueprints whose iridescent sheen could irradiate the blueprints of the future. Aspects of the past and future would be allied to the metaphysical and being wrested from non being. The intimations of a greater reality would, through its indeterminacy, create grounds for becoming through the nebulous glimmerings of its visitations. The new form would not necessarily be uni dimensional but could partake of numerous genres to extrapolate, extroject and introject and reconfigure. The new form would not confine itself to the centrality of the singular, chimerical and only partly informative. The new form would find connections, associations and retain the specificity of the singular while amalgamating it to a conglomeration of interleaving consciousness, intersecting atemporally, prodigiously. The new form would emerge from contemporaneity but suggest a beyond. The new form would impugn stasis and demonstrate fluidity. The new form would not merely seek complacence through deconstruction but would reconstruct fluidly from the charred remains of the deconstructed. What henceforward? is what the new form would asseverate.

Monday, March 31, 2014


It was like watching a performance, what i did and its replication in the mirror. And i was amused by this playmate who seemed to put its hand on its nether regions as i did, sucked its thumb as i did and rolled on the floor as i did, as i watched it from the corner of my eye, being and doing simultaneously.

Because i didn't have a concrete idea of self i couldn't envisage the image as tangible either. In that state i was bemused, rather than confused, at the spectacle that presented itself before me. Because my self conception was uncertain my embodiment of the reflection with palpable form was equally uncertain. To give form presupposes an awareness of a pre existent form or sheath and i somewhere did not have that. Nor did i possess sufficient perspicuity to create my own form . So our colloquy, which was really a monologue continued.

Sometimes it did seem, in that state of unknowingness that i was watching a performance, something being demonstrated to me for my benefit, something that emanated from me and was being redirected at me. And if being and doing were revealed as being and doing then where was ontology. If, each time i performed, i accoutred myself with newer pantomimes , pantomimes  i created then why did i feel baffled that i was being externalized to produce this facsimile that reoriented me to the nature of what i was, indubitably, doing.

I have no doubt that the performative reasoning emerged from a lack, a lack both of wholeness which i yearned timelessly for and a structure i could inveigle myself into, inhabiting its folds, ensconcing myself comfortably in its fold and draperies. Doubt enters through absence of faith, a faith that has neither predicate nor metonymy.

Hence i existed, in the hinterland of my inner unbelonging, knowing that i was neither here nor there, watching my performance knowing it was a performance but desirous of obliterating this knowledge from my consciousness. 

Sunday, March 30, 2014


Of what then, was the space i yearned for, constituted by? What prelapsarian wholeness did i feel separated from. Throughout adulthood i delved deep to locate the source of this primeval jouissance and each time it eluded me. When i had sex, when an orgasm was wrenched out of me , constellations of red, blue and black dots would explode in my consciousness, betokening a feeling i experienced yet didn't experience. Even now i am forced to deploy abstractions to describe what perhaps is incommunicable.

Mum fed me from the breast. At that time, which years of psychoanalysis have imbued with theoretical insights, it was my sole reality. I glutted and wailed when i felt the promptings of a momentary severing. Hunger was an inescapable accompaniment to the loneliness i felt.

It is interesting to observe that i use the term loneliness in hearkening back to those days because loneliness after all exists in relation to its antithesis i.e company, conviviality, communality. So perhaps i must qualify what i felt as an unassailable feeling of being unmoored, as though, having no control in the process of my existence i was left bereft, solitary. And what reconnected me to that wholeness, which interludes of separation intensified, was the breast. My toothless mouth gulped voraciously draining to the dregs a source of energy i wished to partake of, to suffuse myself with momentary repletion until the chasms opened again and the hunger reawakened.

Because i had no language to articulate my sensations i inhabited a void, a blankness. Beset by a longing for that i couldn't represent, seeking temporary alleviation through the breast i emerged in a state of deracination. Was this unbelonging an unavoidable human reality? What larger experience was being withheld from me? were questions hindsight induced with urgent necessity while my mouth closed around the nipple, in a way that seemed, ad infinitum ,to palliate what i couldn't know or feel. 


In the beginning was the mirror. That is what i remembered most vividly. When mum used to leave on an errand or a general busyness assailed her she left me in the bedroom. And hanging, gilded silver, the rims glowing seductively, lay an oval mirror.

As far back as i can remember i loved looking at the mirror. I had, in that unformulated state of childhood, no idea of who i was. I was rather diffuse, all over the place. Only recently  had i let go of the nipple. And i missed it immensely. I shat in my nappies, copiously, indefatigably, often willfully to demonstrate my anger and frustration. My mother's unremonstrated ministrations annoyed me. Furrows of rage would striate my puckered face as i screamed unconstrainedly. In the grip of primal impulses my emotionality was ingenuous, untainted by adult canniness. It is with the benefit of retrospection that i enforce a willed regression which is really a progression from darkness to light.

So caught as i was in the interstice of my growing awareness of my separateness and my increasing need for a soldering time wrested from me, there seemed a void as though in the absence of a foregone impulse, to which time was an adjunct there was adduced the tabula rasa ness of unknowingness as though giving up infantilized blandishments and unaware of the knowledge to navigate the world i lapsed into stasis, suspending even will. Shitting too became a valedictory longing for a cleaving, a cleaving which temporality inexorably wrenched from me. The mirror filled the gap.

I see something that replicates me yet the nebulosity of my self conception erases the possibility of understanding what the thing  on the other side is. It seems to smile back at me as my toothless gummy smile is duplicated. I gurgle with pleasure at the possibility of this newness, this novel event in my life. As of now i see that there is someone there who mimes me. Who that is, why it does what it does and what such a thing betokens remains indeterminate.