Friday, May 30, 2014


I always find that consciousnesses interpenetrate. The feeling that one can get a glimpse into another person's mindset . This knowledge is both liberating and discomfiting. Somewhere one's own propensities are extrojected. Nonetheless the way we see and engage with the other is fundamentally altered. Such awareness can bridge fissures or can create a cleft within a precarious harmony.

I could see him clearly. I saw that underneath his patina of self assurance was a deep self loathing. His was a frantic endeavor to overcompensate for a lack, a lack that roiled and churned within, rendering him inadequate. Each time he expostulated with me on my shallowness and insincerity it was his own insufficiency he impugned. All his protestations of love were a congealing of his sense of wanting to love himself, given his self hatred.

His intentions were contrary to his actions. In each of his actions he demonstrated a fundamental falsity. If even a modicum of his authentication had revealed itself i might have bothered loving him or to excuse, even if it went against my own interests, all his anomalies. It was the hypocrisy which got to me. This superficial resolving of this  intrinsic incongruity, was, for him, a scaffolding, a way of tenuously soldering a nebulous sense of self. I could see the insecurity rampaging around. I could even understand why he sought self restitution so assiduously. Yet something in me balked at these methodologies.

It was because his essence was corrupt. Within himself, in the penumbra of his primevality, he was deeply unlikable. Had he reconfigured the constituents of his self differently, realigned them in a positive way he would have been a gem. As it was, with his narcissistic self enclosure his disagreeableness redoubled, his meretriciousness was intensified. And by essence i mean a space beyond categories, that which is immanent, indwelling, that sancrosanct space within from which directions in life fork out and bifurcate between good and evil. There was no underlying probity i could scratch out from the integument of his self regard. There was only his indubitable inauthenticity.

Such a glimpse didn't resolve my emotional dependence or alleviate the pain his defense mechanisms caused. But it did give me a certain detachment and impersonality in imbuing with retrospective rationality all the messiness and sordidness of his being. I know what to expect and that ,in itself, is freedom of a kind  .

Thursday, May 29, 2014


I burrowed under his skin and was stifled by his pores and tissues and sinews.I was, both complicitously and with unawareness inveigled into his psychic blueprints. He defined me, gave me being. And in any case any being that i may have possessed before his indelible etching was so formless and inchoate that it might as well have been a void, a nothingness that contained me in its amniotic folds. There i lay circuitously conjuring up fancies of escape but ending where i began which was the closed circle of the womb. He ejected me, unpeeled me, brought to life from the facsimile i had till then inhabited.

But was the nascency i demonstrated, the possibility of metamorphosis, a running away from the primeval darkness that was my ontology. Or was it my anterior, where it all began. When in the womb the possibilities stretched forth with dazzling profusion and variegation. In contradistinction to that this desiccated compromise seems defiling, sullying, incontrovertibly alienating.

Yes i do feel lonely, ironically at a time when i have company. He has introduced me to his other familiars who seem, in many ways, extensions of his own solipsism. Once he had insinuated himself into my blank slate and etched his hieroglyphs which, though initially indeterminate, gradually gained form, i became nugatory, myself the very emptiness which gave me being. He was indifferent to the possibility of my possessing any being of my own. Like a connoisseur he made a work of art out of me but it was his work of art, his conception , his image that the mirror he made of me reflected to him. I was unambiguously, totalistically subsumed.

As i pondered over my origins and looked carefully at his psychic ministrations on me i realized that he created me from the very nothingness i came from. And if i  possessed sufficient sleight off had to mold him might i not, through a similar process of configuration create him. Currently i am too submerged in the void to conceive of an identity for myself. Such processes take time and my life is before me, extending deliciously. I do want him to realize that the placid, impassive acquiescence he sees in my countenance is but a chimera. I intend him to see into the depths, find out what he thinks he is not but might actually be given a certain authenticity our projections have. As he loses himself in me i will find myself through him. 

Wednesday, May 28, 2014


When i look back on the pivotal moments in my life i find it difficult to think of an event that precipitated me into self awareness or crystallized my nebulous thought processes. Causality implies a certain ratiocination and reason, i find, has limited things to offer as answers. By no means do i undermine rationality because it can yield capacious insights but only that much. Call it a leap of faith or a suspension of disbelief there are areas that confound reason though faith has, as a certain coordinate , an unbelief for it to become faith. I find unmitigated belief, without the imprimatur of the deductive, rather apocryphal and i like to believe that the questing spirit, imperceptibly, questions unconsciously though an outward seemliness may belie it.

In any case the moments in my life that i find polemical are moments of thought, of rumination. In that stillness of mind, that freedom from the here and now, certain areas of experience come unbidden, unsought. When these amorphous realms enter consciousness i spend many a pleasurable hour cogitating, deliberating, teasing out nuances. At times i'd wonder at my perspicuity only to realize that others had also, through a similar mechanism, had the same thoughts, felt the same things. The terror of self discovery, with its attendant jubilation would coexist with the deliverance from self importance such revelations would engender.

But where, i wondered, do these phenomena reside? Did they choose me or did i dovetail with them, through a certain readiness in my own mind and being. The possibility of there being higher knowledge buttresses but the realization of the inward journey to immanence to make these imminences conspicuous is redoubtable. There is a part of us, which at different times have been assigned different names, that is unfathomable but there. And these small epiphanies which come our way are intimations, visitations of that larger unknowable. Is it collective because certainly the knowledge it betokens is transmissible to all of us but then not everyone can tune into or access it. A certain state of consciousness must be the accompaniment for such insights to occur or perhaps a indentation left by  experience to enable the corresponding knowing .

There is a void, a blankness where things roil and churn. Composed of their own knowledge, self contained, they inhabit a completeness that is both inviolable and communicable. It is not a closed circle but a nothingness that is an entirety, a cosmic conglomeration of wholeness, with each stipple , each brushstroke cleaved to the mosaic. From such a void, which i call metaphysics, we emerge, with the gift of this completeness indwelling before the caprices and exigencies of daily living distance us from this incandescence. And in my thoughts, which are my events in life, i partake of, momentarily, this large pulsating reservoir and find, in daily living, by such acts of metaphysical transcendence, a new mode of being and becoming.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014


Memory is unbidden, i often find. Sometimes its visitations are unsolicited. I found myself, many times, being capriciously suffused with memories i had neither any control over nor could control. Associations, though pouring in a cavalcade do reveal, after some analysis, a certain causality, a limited understanding of the nature of their deluge. Memories, on the other hand, are more imperceptible, insinuating themselves when least expected and when one tries, with a modicum of self belief, to unravel them, they evade grasp, elude.

On many occasions i ruminated on the ontology of memory, as to why it was so evanescent yet so persistent. Though the memory that came unasked for lay beyond any rational means of understanding their emotional impact, the suffusion of the mind with powerful feelings, became all the more piquant. Memory made indentations on experience, dappling it, enriching it so that with each recollection the indents were lodged deeper, their impact more durable, all the more so because each time i remembered i remembered differently. The constituents were more or less the same but the context changed. Like a cubist painting the same memory was seen from all angles, revisited with each renewed contingent and the insight it yielded, not simply about the iridescence of consciousness but about the complex conundrum of memory itself, was illuminating.

When i think of memories i think of the sea. Memories are like waves. In fact i like to believe there is a realm in our consciousness where meta memory reposes.In it lie a compendium of memories, huddled indeterminately yet causally. As the wave advances so does a memory. As a wave ebbs so does memory. Yet the unceasing advancing and retracting leaves behind sediments and  a subtle and hitherto unforeseen metamorphosis occurs, in the nature of our perception, in the way we apprehend reality . The cycle of memory, their concatenation is a wreath of remembrances which have, like arabesques in a mosaic, a specific temporality but which, as is characteristic in a mosaic, depend on each other's existence, are interleaved to each other for a full variegation to exist.

Some of the things i remember have been agreeable, others i have wished to expunge, even obliterate from my mind. The conscious mind, like a searchlight, sifts through the memories to find a structure, an underlying architectonic. Over the integument of consciousness, the unconscious exercises its jurisdiction through randomness and nebulosity. The memory, however, whether wrenched or materialized startlingly has an inviolable being. All i do, in the process of  alternating  exegetical experiencing, is to commemorate ,in a garland of the precariousness of phenomena, these studded memories which irradiate and affirm the limits of knowing and the apotheosis of transcending. 

Monday, May 26, 2014


A shimmer, a wave of pleasurable oblivion was a momentary suspension i experienced in my consciousness before consciousness itself hurtled in. The dazzling profusion of color, as of a butterfly's wing in the sun, proliferated in such coruscations that constellations of iridescences exploded before me. Before the cavalcade of interconnected memories poured in there was a pause, ephemeral as the interstice between  heartbeats. In that stasis, infinitesimal though it was, a conglomeration of associations intersected pell mell, associations i could neither explicate nor unravel. Hence there was, it seemed, an anterior and a cognitive. Both deepened and intensified their coordinates.

If i deliberated on the anterior i experienced stipples of epiphanic insights, whose crenellations prodded me precipitantly at opportune moments. Each visitation, though momentary, suffused with a glimpse into the communality of interconnections that bound me, concatenated me to people. And though ratiocination failed me, reason having stalled at a point where ontology itself became nugatory, imagination buoyed me. I experienced these intimations pleasurably, gleaning from them a certain anchoring in world whose durability buoyed me, scaffolding me.

The cognitive, on the other hand shored me up. Here, where the constituents of memory seemed locatable, i felt at home. Spatiality emboldened me, temporality augmented my faith in reason, metaphysics irradiated the soul. And all of these dimensions coexisted, equanimously, with the oblations to the quotidian with which i traversed contingent memory.

The contingent gave me nuggets of the here and now to feed on. The contingent facilitated a becoming i subsequently dappled with the repository of a collective incandesced being. The stasis and its subsequent freneticism constituted, for me, a continuation and dialectical mirroring. categories dissolved as lived experienced, predicated on interleaving of multifarious variegations , became, through the mediation of consciousness, an inescapable human reality.

So there was, it seemed, phenomena, occurring naturally and there was my supra consciousness cogitating on the phenomenology behind the phenomena. The two cleaved and became a mode of being, a way of life. 

Sunday, May 25, 2014


I seem to exist in a universe where categories predominate. Everywhere, everytime, all over i find compartments, atomizations , everything neatly labelled, allocated, slotted. It seems as though it would be inconceivable to envisage a world where categories were irrelevant. Imagine what formlessness, what inchoateness, and frankly what madness.

Though nowadays an excessive focus on categorization, slotting is a madness in itself. Some call it OCD for what will an obsession turn to, in the absence of chaotic constituents to latch on to, but categories, but yin and yang. I see the yin, postulate, metonymy susurrating with primal effusiveness, desirous of commingling yet joyous in self containment. I see yang, predicate, intransigent, resisting foreclosure through indubitably contradictory associations. Both forces simultaneously attracted and repelled by each other, hurtling precipitately towards a cleaving, a soldering that would transcend the coordinates constituting them.

But yin and yang, though amalgamated or rather held in balance, precarious? perhaps, reveal that before the coming together there has to be a severence. For only that which is cleft is reconfigured. But if the shards, indivisible, fragmented betoken one reality then a coalescence should ideally both contain and go beyond the contingent telos of the category. After all any sense of completeness is putative because a new reality, a new phenomena, supplanting a previous one becomes itself a new reality, another yin or another yang requiring another yin and yang. Hence reduplications are ineluctable, further convergences unavoidable.

It is therefore incontrovertible, to me, that yin and yang exist as themselves and that any synthesis replicates this closed cycle of colloquy, dialectic and signification. Does such replication render synthesis apocryphal? Or does the intractability of yin and yang, their obdurate persistence, in the teeth of all wholesomeness we as humans believe in, indicate a tautologous cycle whose ceaseless regurgitations are self reflexively redundant.

Does the fact that ultimately it all boils down to categories or rather category render null and void a blending of yin and yang. Or is the inescapable category, itself constitutive of an anterior yin and yang, a form of completeness in itself. It begins and ends with categories and if a category is both yin and yang and also a byproduct of their intersection then does the category exist, or yin and yang persist? It all begins with categories.