Saturday, June 21, 2014


Call me pretentious or exiguous or both but i like to think of myself as a writer, as an artist. In addition, i see myself as experimental. I eschew conventional forms because i find them inadequate. This doesn't necessarily imply my disenchantment with them or lack of belief in their efficacy. I articulate clearly my own predilections for the unusual, the maverick, the anomalous.

When i began conceptualizing writing what i forthwith will i ran through the gamut of options available to me. There were forms i could deploy artfully, utilizing the potentiality of narrative thrust they offered with great skill. And i know i have it in me to use these forms successfully or ,at the very least, competently. But, as i mentioned, it is not the abilities of these forms but the possibilities of hitherto untapped ones that are propulsive for me.

The narrative that is forthcoming has a certain inevitability about it because i have imbued it with a finality, a self imposed finality that has ,nonetheless, the capriciousness of  fate about it. The circumstances are invested with retrospective insights but i want to retain, despite these retroactive constructions, an elemental sense of lived experience, its immediacy, freshness and unsullied purity. Can a flashback capture the rawness of events as and when they happened. Perhaps it is always a blend, an amalgam because memory is both deceptive and  traversable. Besides past, present and future are not inviolably differentiated. They intersect fortuitously. Besides there is something evanescent about compartmentalizing existence because though lived experience is reconfigured it is uncapturable. The emotions attendant on it retain their indubitability, however.

Rather self effacingly, though not without a measure of pride i set forth the eventful account of what happened. I will avoid embellishments and be austerely factual but will, despite the factuality render my account factitious. I do not intend a chronological, linear unraveling of what will henceforward be. Verisimilitude turns on its head when the conventions of realism, contravened by physics and indeterminacy, become constructed narratives, neither veracious nor apocryphal but fictional. So my account will be in the interstices between fiction and fact, in short like life. 

Friday, June 20, 2014


When i look back on the moments in my life where the whiff of reprieve was most conspicuous i recall , with great clarity, moments of nothingness. It was a form of existence that was non existent or rather non existence was the ontology of existence. I felt disconnected, as though i didn't belong and my unbelonging was in concordance with my sense of emptiness. Strangely when i felt nothing i felt most alive. I eschewed emotional blandishments, i forbore to embellish the relative straightforwardness of my outwardly uneventful but inwardly tumultuous life. In short, while a simulacrum of orderliness was maintained, even if that order emanated from non being, an inward freneticism prevailed.

To feel nothingness isn't merely feeling nothing. It is a dark hinterland where the unconscious is at its most primordial. When i felt non existent i meant perhaps my sense of detachment from the vitality of experience, its thereness, its aliveness. In the penumbra of blankness i felt like a blank palimpsest, all hieroglyphs erased, all meaning obliterated. And in the wave of this nothingness i felt unremitting, unbearable despair, a despair which pushed me, repeatedly, sometimes without my volition, to the edge of annihilation.

An imprimatur of sanctity underlies the life we are given so we sustain and buoy ourselves up as best as we can or at least most do. Even such self created absolution was denied me. I felt a certain crepuscularity about my life, as though in perpetual gloaming, neither diurnally incandescent nor nocturnally luminous but somewhere in the interstices. I was simply living out my days, waiting for the moment when life would prove to be too much and i could willingly, relievedly relinquish my hold on a life that seemed perennially amorphous. In fact life was, ironically, a waiting out, like the lady of shallott, in a state of passivity or rather impassivity.

Yet this interlude where non being asserted its presence most forcefully i felt oppressed as though my waiting for an opportune moment was unbeknownst to me a prolongation of the very life whose termination i sought so precipitately. Tired of waiting for my enervation to dissipate, exasperated with the unmitigated extension of what seemed unendurable and desirous of foreclosing, through the mediation of my own agency, an existence which neither fulfilled nor negated me but kept me on a limbo ,i took a decisive step.

I tied the knot around my neck and blissfully departed, as with one's best beloved, to the otherworld. 

Monday, June 16, 2014


It is difficult to differentiate even between categories because a certain intermingling is unavoidable. Time is something that dictates my life ,both in its linear and non linear manifestations. Did time exist independently for us to adapt to or did we bring time into being, to structure our existence. The rhythms of nature are cyclical but human patterns are irrevocable, irrevocable because of the spectre of cessation that looms large.

Between the past, present and future is the moment, the moment experienced yet not grasped. The moment, in itself, ephemeral, evanescent. The moment in itself, self contained, inviolable. Yet the moment ,in itself, transmutable and metamorphosable. Out of these concatenations of a single point in time are moments of being, multitudinous.In a single moment, a compendium of unsifted memories, recollections, reminiscences flat chaotically, hurled pell mell, inextricably knotted yet singularly disparate.

The moment, habitable, transiently, infinitesimally is the space where being is at its purest. In that sliver of time, interleaved to a fragment of experience, the entirety of consciousness reposes. It is the moment of aliveness, the moment of feeling free from the burdens of existential crises. And because this communion is ungraspable, uncapturable it evades , flees any attempt to capture and cohere. A human life, my life is a combination of these innumerable moments which strung together, tenuously expressible but tangibly experienced constitute a fluid yet inalterably incandescent fulcrum of becoming.

It is the moment that buttresses me though i am unable to pinpoint or conceptualize what that scaffolding is because i can only deploy language that is self negating, a language which, for all its concrete associations in a physical world fails to render this impalpable phenomenon articulable. I am forced to use abstractions which, though linguistically amorphous, are experientially conspicuous. You, reading this, need only close your eyes to get at and comprehend what i mean which you, in turn, will be unable to articulate but which will, through the mediation of incompensatory yet suggestible words, open a whole inner world within you.

It is difficult to trust memory in its entirety either because memory is, in  a sense, articulable retroactively. I know it is a memory because it comes back to me in a specific temporal context. It is something i recapture hence the retrospective constructions i impose upon it. Memory can irradiate these moments but it can romanticize them, put a gloss over their actuality. And,in a sense, the memory's constituents are themselves those very moments, reshaped into experience through their interchange.

Time present can become time past the moment the moment vanishes in the very utterance of its utterance. Time past creates patterns that shape time future, not inexorably but through possibility. Time present recedes into time past but leaves behind an imperceptible metamorphosis that impacts time future. Meanwhile the moment, by itself, rests while the whirling of time passes by and through it.