Saturday, June 28, 2014


I proffer myself before you, vulnerable. In writing, i lay bare my defenses. But i hold something back, in the hope that my concealment would, through the interstices of its camouflage, reveal a greater reality. And by a greater reality i imply perhaps that which is constitutive of yet is beyond me, that which, in self shaping itself shapes and molds me. I ingest this reality but i don't regurgitate it. It dwells immanently in me, undergoing imperceptible transmogrifications. Then amorphously, at times behaviorally or through my writing, it emerges, putatively disembodied but ultimately, with its own indwelling completeness, in a wholesome way.

This greater reality i allude to has a form that is fluid. It is not intractable. It is incommensurable with rationality simply because reason, a human construct, though limned with objectivity regarding phenomena, founders in unraveling a reality that plumbs deep into the recesses of human consciousness, that penetrates our being beyond the temporal and the spatial, which forms us as we form it in our daily lives, in an indiscernibly conspicuous way.

It is my quest as a writer to express, even if through the mode of inexpressibility, this deeper reality. I want to articulate the inarticulable. Because i think that even the non expression of the unexpressable yields an epiphany. When i endeavor to say the unsayable i reveal, though with retrospective misgivings about the failure of my enterprise, certain mnemonics.

These mnemonics, call them signifiers, as theorists invariably do, are iridescent stipples. They contain the atemporal yet can be understood only through traversing the temporal. And the temporal is itself as nascent atemporal because consciousness contravenes linearity. Cognition, too, is retrospective because the cognate is retroactive. The metonyms impregnated with nebulosities are not generally fathomable. It is their unbidden randomness that renders them overlooked. They are visitations, blessings, revelations that,in their collective demonstration of the unity behind inchoateness, indicate a higher order of things.

When the vision is experienced it is searing, incandescent. It dazzles the perspectivation of the beholder. The heart beats fast, breath quickens, pulse races. Yet when the vision is broken, as the blood quietens, the pulse slows down, the breath resumes a normal pitch, it is gone. And it is that which i, in my endless introspective excoriations, attempt to capture, concretize and hold. 

Friday, June 27, 2014


Mr. Ana was a handsome man in his middle 50's, on the plumper side. A bush of white hair , with salt and pepper streaks, aureoled  his head. Given to british colloquialisms, a remnant of his worship of all things english though he now proclaimed disdain for any colonial hangover, he liked  to see himself as an anomaly. He was gifted, unique, a maverick, chosen for a special purpose. His sense of superiority was unparalleled.
H believed, though with not inconsiderable righteousness, that he was singular.

And singular he was, as all of the human race is, in its constituent singleness. But the singularity he laid claim to was both qualitative and quantitative. In degree and kind he bethought himself singular. What distinguished this self confidence or indeed arrogance was an unhealthy self regard bordering on solipsism. What he sought, through the intervention of this solipsism, was a scaffolding, a way of tenuously keeping together his sense of being which was precarious.

And indeed such shaky foundations, based on such a weak backbone were collapsible, liable to a symbolic obliteration that was inconceivable. Mr. Ana was , in believing his handsomeness, imbued with a fallible sense of overestimating his irresistible charms. He has a knack of attracting attention but people never ventured close to him, fearful of breaching the vulnerable self belief he so assiduously held.

And he singled people out. By drawing out others, a select coterie he formed a circle of loyal acolytes maintaining whose unwavering regard became his sole obsession. A fondness for female flesh often landed him into unprepossessing propinquities with women who, sensing his real intention beneath the avuncular front he put up, fled incredulously but thankfully.

His days and indeed the years passed by with no spectacular accomplishments but a string of failed friendships, embittered relationships and rancorous exchanges unmitigated by any sense of reprieve from the unrelenting narcissism he evinced.