Saturday, June 14, 2014


My sense of the temporal has always been tenuous. I have a rich and vivid dream life. My dreams often lie but in the fictions i dream of, a modicum of realness is discernible. The propensity to dissemble is irresistible because in trying to apprehend the depths of my self in my dreams i often seal off and put a stopper on  those very depths, taking comfort in anodyne restitutions that buttress my consciousness but leave the depths unplumbed. Other times willy nilly the nature of my imaginings, the forms my subconscious creates around the misshapen narrative of my life as i tell it to myself betoken a deeper truth which is immanent. All i need to do is to access it.

Some dreams are recollected vividly, others fragmentarily while others not at all. Does the intensity of recollection rely on the intensity of the dream or is it that the conscious chooses to retain for itself what it finds sanguine. Memory sometimes proves to be intransigent because the vivider the dream the more indistinct the recollection and the more random the dream the more visible its impact on recollection. This intractability i allude to is a fluidity in actuality because causality functions capriciously. All the discoveries that neuroscience is making seem redolent of what theorists call deconstruction, the stripping away of all our imaginings and romantic fancies for  incontrovertible, indubitable fact.

In one's own self the progression from looking to perceiving is seamless, often unformulated but nonetheless conspicuous. Looking is itself perceiving while perceiving is, perhaps, a higher order of looking. The blank slate, the tabula rasa of consciousness receives impressions that are then sifted, sorted and allocated. But these allocations are predetermined because the texture of reality they reassemble is a retroactive assemblage of things previously known. Yet that which is assembled is configured, appropriated, measured and then acted upon.

Understanding phenomena yields no great insight because what is seen is what has already been perceived. What is perceived is merely a relooking at, from a prior point of view. Things can be seen from all angles, tilted, analysed, excoriated but the fundamental reality of irreality is unalterable . What is looked at is that which has already imbued with perception. What is perceived is that which has been collectively looked at and absorbed. All it needs is an instant, an infinitesimal moment where, through a blending of the 'I' with the 'we' a dissolution occurs, a fragmentation of self from self. That becomes becoming. 


I see a crimson splash of color exploding before my eyes. I see red. My blood churns within me , the cells of my brain explode into shards of red hot bursts of anger. I see red, i become red, i am red.

Madness is a sane response to an insane world, promulgates laing. But if the world is mad the is anger sane? Is the red i see in me, with impersonal exactitude, formulating it as disenchantment, a response to chaos that is rational, and if rational, therefore admissible.

The red thickens and attenuates and eventually thins out. It's rhythmic waves slap against my temples. I still see red but things are blurring and therefore concretizing. Other forms of being, others shades of color are inveigled into my incandescent, conflagarated perceiving consciousness.

Are anger,psychotic fusillades, collective madness sane because they mirror the insanity beneath a putative sane world. Do these emotions that tumultuously roil within me betoken my need for things to change. But i feel okay where i am, comfortable as a constituent in a larger mosaic of conformist non conformity. Each life is a life of redness, of seeing red, of being red.

The waves of the red are settling down now. An occasional wave advances and rocks my inner disequilibrium and retreats but it leaves behind a crystallization of unperception or deeper perception.
The red still simmers, still shimmers but not coruscatingly, more penumbrally perhaps.

History deems red unacceptable, myth romanticizes it, custom embalms it and the present posteritizes it. Red is, despite all the negativity it contains, a viable responsiveness, a pertinacious responsiveness. Red is passion, passion is red. Red rides on the crest of disillusionment, disillusionment is the crest on which red is astride. Passion is the red crest on which disillusionment rests and the disillusionment of passion intermingled with red is the crest mankind traverses.

Madness, in a sense, is redness redoubled. It is both anger and its manifestation, its behavioral underpinning. It is both unremitting polemicism and irrefragable inchoateness. It contains within itself both red and a more circumspect, transcendent red beyond this red. It is because it is pulled simultaneously in the interstices of responsiveness and a beyond beyond  responsiveness.

But doing that necessitates being mad, seeing red. Mad is red.

Friday, June 13, 2014


Often discussions around self consciousness are unprofitable because a self conscious of itself varies from a self conscious of it's self. And i am very grateful that you peruse my being with such intent scrutiny. A certain austerity has always determined me. Do not mistake austerity for frugality for i am generous, or at least sufficiently so, in spirit and in my charitableness. Nor do i believe in the dubious virtue of self abnegation. Why this self is all we have so we must nourish it, nurture it, cherish it. Through such assiduous ministrations to myself i endeavor to maintain a certain equilibrium.

When your eyes fall on me appreciatively i see their gleam of joy . They sort of light up. A luminosity undulates from your gaze in waves of iridescence and irradiates my own heart. I sense, though it may be  projection, the lift of your heart, the inward exultation your beaming countenance manifested in a flush of pleasure, with the veined lines mottled and striated with flushed patches. There is a discernible furtiveness in your gaze and i think an erotic undercurrent constitutes it. I see, with my own rather reticent counter gaze , a bulge in your pants, suggestive of a tumescence. Is this engorgement unprecedented for you, i surmise, given its importunate arousal and indiscriminate protruberation. Is it the sight of me that is the cause of excitation or an association i have sparked, a memory the presence of my being in your consciousness has precipitated. I would like to believe, given my healthy self regard, that my physiology has been a point of arousal. Yet i am humble enough not  to attribute unequivocally any such unperceptive self importance to myself. I am reasonably aware of both my charms and my off putting fastidiousness.

I see your self consciousness through my self consciousness. I am rendered self conscious through the self consciousness of your gaze. You reflect me by (re) flecting me. The  putative inviolability i claim i possess, the singularity i stake my hold on, attenuates when you look at me. My indeterminate being reverts to its fragments, i am cleft into multifariousness. And then, through accretion i reassemble a new me, a me reconfigured under the aegis of your gaze. At times it seems that your gaze and my answering responsiveness melt into each other. It is almost as if in sundering my being you grant me becoming while my disaggregation of you reconstitutes you anew. You know you are a conduit, unimpassive yet impersonal through which i funnel out composed differently.

Our respective conglomerations intermingle through our interweaving. A part of me is ingested by you and it is a part of me i , through the mediation of your perspectivation, reabsorb. Similarly a remnant of your gaze alters and shifts my inner contours so that unconsciously i become a blueprint of what you envisage. Are the parts we interchange our souls or are they the infinitesimal but daily additions the self accumulates. Whatever one may call it this resultant ramification incandesces me till you turn your gaze away and drive off in your car and i smilingly, self consciously, resume my gardening. 

Wednesday, June 11, 2014


Today i look back on the consecration my pen gave you. I breathed you into existence, transmuted through my nebulous imaginings the reality of your palpable being. I gave you being, i created you parthenogenetically. You were the result of accumulated accretion wherein knowledge gained was inseparable from knowledge discarded. In you, through you i articulated my anger against an unjust world which, by forcing me into concealment augmented both my feminist yearnings and masculinist appropriations. I became currer bell  so that you Jane, could actualize your being. In giving you being i became but as you became incontrovertible i reverted to my primal being.

I never got my Rochester. And truth to tell, that romantic, byronic hero, culled as a blueprint from a conjunction of my reading and latent fantasies, was, i felt, always already existent. But like a proper christian i forbore, i eschewed immoral excesses, i reposed faith in our lord and in the virtues of sobriety, frugality and meritoriousness i nursed my ungovernable, unconstrainable, limitless imagination. So, for me, it was a battle between the primordial and the social and i think somewhere i passed on that troubled contradiction to you as well.

I had to kill Bertha. Bertha loomed large. In her coarse savagery lay immanent the constituents of my own shameful yearnings. She represented a part of me i had to annihilate and obliterate because only by killing the devil could the angel triumph. In making you angry, impassioned and independent i had, unbeknownst to me, recreated a subliminal Bertha in you as well. And much as we may be puritanical Bertha is a force to reckon with. I found Jean rhys' recreation extremely sanguine though denuded of the firepower feminism my Bertha had.

As a woman writer in the victorian age i busted many a taboo. I was an angry young woman, so were Anne and Emily. But we didn't have outlets. As impetuous adolescents Angria sufficed as restitution but as we grew older and our circumscription was exacerbated outlets became scarce, indeed non existent. Yet i believe i communicated passion, energy, life force ,unlike Austen whose insipid homogenity was unprepossessing. I wrote with my heart.

I am glad to see Jane, that you endure though i wish, retroactively, for such an apotheosis for villette too. Writing was away out and became a way in to something deeper, indefinable, ineffable. Well premature death released me from the pressures of a repressed life and now i wander in the depths, seeking, from the amorphous intimations of metaphysics i gave you, my own transcendence. 


When he  looked back over the months of lustful fantasizing that he had, perhaps against conscious will, been precipitated into he always began and ended with that photograph. It was a handsome photograph, the pepper and salt beard and moustache of the profile erotic, suggestive. The sharp tilt of the nose was indicative of a handsomeness. Though rationally the man in the photograph was no movie star, nor imbued with the conventional good looks of a average celebrity. But there was a roiling within, a primordial churning.

Because lust was the principal response elicited the looks became irrelevant. The photograph showed a man in his late 40's or early 50's whereas he was only 25. Nights were imagined thinking of the striations of the beard rasping his skin, the lips pressed seductively against his. To the act of sex he never got into because it was at foreplay that his imagination stalled. However vague, unformulated primal sex scenes did flit through his mind, disconnected, random but indeterminate. It was enough for him to dream of initiatory lovemaking rituals.

Strangely he did not accouter the face in the profile with any emotions. He lacked imagination though he did evince a certain repressed sexual undercurrent. For him the face, mediated by a screen represented only the reflection of his own desire, his own sexual urges. In a sense the profile was not another or an other but an intensification and extension of his own desires. Into that blank, blank because uninflected by projection, he extrojected his own cravings. It was more as though a blueprint in his consciousness were given form in the profile and associated through with externalization. This man in the profile lived in europe which obliterated any tenuous meeting ground unless an expensive flight ticket and a modicum of familiarity brought it into being.

But such blandishments were unnecessary. It was because the profile existed in the mode of fantasy that its erotic potentiality was augmented. Too close an intimacy or a certain initiation of getting to know would have brought hard reality come crashing down , wherein imagination would have to reconceptualize possibilities which, informed with communication, would become unavoidable. And he didn't have that imagination.

He goes to that profile, visits and revisits, jacking off to expend his pent up frustrations. In this closed colloquy between self and image a circle of solipsism is created.And he, enclosed, replicates, tautologously, like a marionette, with inexorable inevitability, the ritual of desire and negation. 

Tuesday, June 10, 2014


I gave it to you, in retrospect thoughtlessly. I trusted you. And you let me down. I'd hoped, or rather believed that giving it to you as i did would consecrate its presence, that you'd value it, cherish it, see it as a precious gift i bestowed upon you, with full veraciousness and probity. I had assumed your circumspection, your discretion. I had thought my gift would be solely for you because it was meant for you, for you to examine, finger, explore and understand.

Because it was something important to me. I held it very close to myself, guarded it,  protected its preciosity. It was not something i randomly gave away, heedless of consequences. It was with not inconsiderate carefulness, consideration, judiciousness that i gave it to you. Now, in hindsight , as i reflect of human fallibility, i deplore my trust of you, knowing fully well that gifts of any kind, particularly if they are of a problematic nature get dispersed and attenuated.

Dwelling further on its importance to me, for me and given the fact it was a gift by me for you i realized how constitutive of me it was. I had suffused my being with the meritoriousness of the gift, assured myself, from all angles that it was safe to give. Because, you see, gifts often tend to be abused, only because the recipient either does not value it as much as the giver or ,in his excitement at the prospect of having been gifted something in the first place unconsciously and often unconscionably misuses it.

As you can see from my narrative, your apostasy has indented scarred and piquant craters on my consciousness and i can't overlook the significance of your dereliction. Each time i try to tell you how much the giving mattered to me i start reflecting on the trust i placed in you, a trust you shattered. As for what i gave you it was not simply a gift but a part of my being. Gifts, passionately shared, are not simply material objects attesting to their corporeal value. There is something metaphysical about a gift, a transmutation of inner life to one's recipient.

A gift is not unlike looking in a mirror. The bestower is convinced that the countenance the bestowal reveals to him is sanguine and prepossessing. It affirms his sense of goodness. It provides him with an image of himself that is what he would like to be regardless of its similarities or dissonance with his original being. The recipients moue of surprise and incredulity soon transmogrifies into a retrospective sense of having deserved, by virtue of his probity and specialness, of what he is given. The feeling is subterranean but yes it is there.

Hence my chagrin and unremitting ,relentless pain at your betrayal. Had it been a book, a painting or a box of chocolates i would still have, despite misgivings, forgiven your transgression. But you betrayed me. I gave you a sliver of my memory, of when i came out of the closet and by telling everyone of what occurred in the past, with all scurrilous ill intent, you betrayed me. 

Monday, June 9, 2014


My sense of time has always been blurry. When people make sharp distinctions between past, present and future i feel bewildered. Not because i inhabit atemporality or am muddled in my mind but because time itself, despite its passage, retractions and coiling back, remains ineffable. Even a putative linear propulsion baffles me because history is not complicit with time. It inveigles itself in the present and gets replicated. History seems to testify, for me, the circuitousness of time than its onward progression. Time progresses anyway, time progresses any way .

Ruminating on time often led to deliberations on memory. The instant when i experienced the experience i embalmed it. Each time i recollected the experience i found the coordinates constituting that experience realigning, shifting. Sometimes an aspect was centralized and focused on, other times another aspect was highlighted and emphasized. Could the experience though, experienced when it was, said to be unaltered, inviolable? I sense, though my hypothesis is nebulous that the crystallization of what we call experience is actually a configurable moment in time, internalized yet capable of metamorphosis. That instant in time is like a snapshot, it freezes random causality but not experience. Experience is the aftermath, the ceaseless living through of that captured moment, with all the variegated dimensions.

Sometimes the instant freezes , leached of significance. In that sense the eventality  is accreted but never experienced, never resolved. A photograph is, in its unvarying monochromatic nature, rather inalterable unless each glance, with a different context, reactivates the emotional significations it precipitates.

But to go back in time, to time, with time and by time i dwell on time again. I am by no means suggesting that inner time as bergson talks about, is the only  inescapable human reality. I am suggesting that time itself is indeterminate. When i think of the cosmos i find each instant of earthly time dwindling into infinitesimal nothingness. With cosmic time the journey is backwards, to a locatable ontology while mortal time is ,on the surface of it, forwards. To transcend the banal mortal a metaphysical is experienced, traversed as retroactive memory and blended with the present. This present, imbued with the encrustations of the past, informs the future. The future is irradiated by the present which, in turn is enriched by the past. Thus there is no chronology, i feel, to time but the dappling of time with experience. It is experience which deepens, intensifies and dictates the rhythm of the temporal. The temporal, by itself, is a blankness, an emptiness. Experience is the hieroglyph etched onto time. Thus time, which is ostensibly linear, at least outwardly is crenellated with experience which is retroactive. With time and experience intersecting, causality itself becomes consciousness.And consciousness, in all forms, is life.