Saturday, July 5, 2014


Doppelganger's are fun. The ghostly  counterpart  of the self. And being fascinated by the human mind doppelganger's and their prospect suffused me with irresistible excitation. Yet, ruminating, with assiduous sincerity on the possibility of my own doppelganger i foundered. My conceptualizations remained unformulated and nebulous. Because to conceptualize an 'other' needed a self to fall back on, a self from whose inescapable coordinates the lineaments of the 'other ' may be promulgated. But then i scarcely knew myself and in the face of this disconnection from my own being my cogitations remained indeterminate.

So with indefatigable positive faith in my capacity for self discovery i took to glancing at the mirror. I saw myself yet it was a self unrecognizable to me. Where tufts of hair stood out on my forehead so did it in my reflection. Each aspect of my physiognomy was replicated faithfully, unambiguously and i could still not find myself. And that was because though the mediation of the mirror fragmented me it also split me. The other could not be me. Wan't the upward tilt of the nose in the mirror a tad bit more pronounced and the look in the eye cloudier as also the bushier mustache. Thus i rationalized to myself, though it involved a negation of what the mirror stood for, the negation of my own singular cleftness.

I went to a psychoanalyst and poured forth my inchoate meanderings hoping that she would cohere and render explicable the misshapen diffusity of my own life. Layer after layer of the past was unpeeled, interpretations were propounded, the integument of repression unraveled. Thus, with the analyst's ministrations a simulacrum of myself was aggregated, precarious but incontrovertibly its own reality.

Then i went back to the mirror with this facsimile of an identity. And this time around too, the doppelganger failed to materialize. With the retrospective knowledge that my being was composed of what i made of it i imbued the doppelganger with a similar set of constructions. If i persisted in sticking to the word doppelganger i would have to obliterate its actualization in my own being. Otherwise a doppelganger was being constructed out of me, by me and for whom? As a counterpoint that was indivisibly individual yet cleaved to me a doppelganger was simultaneously evanescent and tangible.

Eventually my search for a doppelganger was stalled when i came to the conclusion, though it is only my own construction and not unvarnished truth, that the doppelganger was a performance, a performance the self enacted to alleviate the unrelenting oblivion of existential unavoidability. A doppelganger was a split between collective being and singular becoming. Where the singular began, the performance emerged. And isn't it an irony of existence and being that only a negation of itself from itself and its reconstitution through the doppelganger that the true meaning of existence lies. Existential credibility is hard to sustain, the performance a defense mechanism against the oblivion of nothingness. Always easier to act than be. 

Tuesday, July 1, 2014


I trace the striations of his stubble in my fingers. My hands traverse his tall frame, grazing his chest and stomach. At the point at which my fingers touch his tumescence, the vision stops, the dream halts and reality breaks in.

He hugged me at an event. I remember the perfume and underneath it the musky, manly smell of him. The hug was too brief, the encircling of his arms around me too evanescent to constitute even a small intimacy. But that infinitesimal moment, made special to me by the fact of its having occurred, occupies my nocturnal dimensions.

Well he let me down. He promised to help me, render me a favor which i, in my ingenuousness or willful negation of the truth, immediately believed only to find that i was disappointed, my faith crushed.

His chest hair ripples when drops of water slough of it. Each drop, luminous, cleaved to the fur, cascades downwards leisurely, nonchalantly and i long to feel that drop of water wetting my lips, whetting my mouth.

At nights i practice onanism. I work away at my engorgement, accelerating with each advancement and retraction the motion that leaves me breathless, expended of passion with wet blobs as remnants of the emotional landscape i traversed.

When he wanted me he sought me out. He asked of me what i gave him yet when he, as i alluded, let me down through his lack of reciprocity, a side of human selfishness was revealed to me that still disturbs me immeasurably.

I tauten in response to him while responding to him. We shake hands formally, politely. Is the passion that simmers in me discernible to him? Or is my dissembling consummate enough to waylay him.

I furtively extract information on his relationship status. I seek factualities shamelessly from those around him.

I, quite precipitately though not unpremeditatedly bitch about him, impugn him. Yet the more his worth is lessened in my eyes the more conspicuous his desirability becomes.

I long for a soldering, a conjunction. And i know, though without conscious awareness of how i came by this knowledge, that i am in love yet not in love. The downsides are palpable, the positives corporeal.But my blood still beats fast, my lips still part with unconsummated desire.

In any case i have made up my mind. And making up one's mind is, ironically, a belated realization that the mind was already made up.

I see him on a platform, speechifying. His eyes graze mine, then look away to others in the multitudinous throng.

He descends. Passes by me. Sees me. Hugs me. And we kiss.

And i, inveterately, unavoidably, inescapably, incontrovertibly, wake up.

Monday, June 30, 2014


We live in times where self consciousness alternates with self deception. And i am no different. There are areas where my awareness of minutiae is exemplary, though i say it myself and others where, through a willful negation of what i know to be true yet pretend isn't, dissimulation is evinced. And i'm a clever dissembler. What compounds the deception is my subterranean awareness that i am deceiving myself, that i am, in a conscious way, though with a consciousness that is often unconscious of itself on the surface yet retains a knowledge of its apostasy, rationalizing a lie.

But such rationalizations are the fruits of self consciousness. I do believe that there are realms of consciousness and that they do interpenetrate. So an underlying awareness of the veraciousness beneath the edifice of prevarication is discernible at some level. Though indubitably the greater the discomfort such revelations engender greater will be the suppression of it. Our frantic and assiduous repressions are often conscious, conscious because we know the substratum of something being repressed but negate the constituents of in our everyday minds. Through such quotidian misrepresentations, or representations underneath the unrepresented, a simulacrum of daily existence is carried out.

As i spoke earlier about realms of consciousness. I think it is possible to know yet not know. Or to know at a underground layer of mindfulness and unacknowledge openly. Often lies are caught out in such a manner and a breezy, debonair outwardness exposed for the shallowness of its pretensions. Over the canopy of what is presented as self is the vast hinterland of what the self says about itself without saying it or what it leaves unsaid though not unexpressed. Then is that unperceived the reality of who we are or what is presented as a bleached version?.

I've indulged in such performances myself and indeed the self is a performing agent, reconfiguring and restructuring reality to suit its opportunistic ends. Whence, amid all this playacting, does being reside. Is being the detritus of the uncongenial that is divested or is being what we become, what we accoutre ourselves with publicly. I tremulously  sense being is the sum total of its own being and becoming but the query is unanswerable.

As a postmodern self  who exhibits a supercharged self consciousness i have chosen each word carefully, imbuing it with appropriate significations and predicates where i could. But i am now coming to terms, with a rather unanticipated jolt ,that in endeavoring to objectify what the coordinates of a postmodern person is, a subject has been made of me.