Saturday, July 19, 2014

MEANT TO BE

Meaning lies within within lies meaning lies within meaning. Memory shards dissolve dissolve memory shards shards dissolve memory . of sense pixels pixels of sense sense of pixels. Truth does matter does truth matter truth matter does. Deception wreaks destruction destruction wreaks deception wreaks deception destruction. Life ends somewhere somewhere life ends ends somewhere life. Theory fails everything everything fails theory fails everything theory. Life moves on moves on life on moves life

 Existence precedes essence essence precedes existence precedes existence essence precedes essence existence. Life begins anew, begins life anew anew begins life anew life begins.

Peace. Peace .Peace. 

BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS- AN EXPERIMENT

Waking from from an uneventful slumber that morning i thought of the lie i'd spoken yesterday. It was not a very pleasant thing for me to have done. A lie is not just a denial but a negation of truth. But then what is truth? Simply another lie we tell ourselves believing that it is true. If a lie is negation then truth is abdication. It is an abdication from the spirit of subjectivity which is the only truth. The only truth is that there is no truth. Yet certain things in nature and phenomena are true. My hand touching your face or a needle pricking my finger. In the tangible world these are instances of how beyond us and outside of us certain things are incontrovertible. Do they pass away with the dissolution of the human race or do they persist? Any centrality is anthropomorphic and therefore egotistic. It is important to know the limits of being human as much as it is to know the transcendences of being human. But the metaphysical retrieves us from indeterminate reflections on the amorphous concrete. The metaphysical betokens an aspect of consciousness that hints at a beyond that is immanent though uncapturable. With the presence of the metaphysical consciousness expands. The wave advances and the ripples proliferate.
And after that. The ripples dissolve and the wave retreats. Consciousness reverts to the quotidian after metaphysical oblations. The beyond becomes the quotidian and consciousness is forced to come to terms with its own materiality which is imminent. The concrete may be what we made of it but it is all we have and is therefore irretrievable. Being human also means having that additional sense and implies a certain superiority. We populate the world with our consciousness and memory and anthropomorphism is ineluctable Everything will be obliterated with our cessation. And because the world is anthropomorphic there is no external reality except what we create. If my hand touches your face it because i choose to make it do so and thereby render inevitable the corresponding touch as also i  as man  create the pin and it sometimes gets the better of me. Nothing is true except the impositions of human construction.What we create objectively is what there is The only truth is the human truth. A truth adheres to the spirit of human consciousness  while  a lie abdicates it. The truth and the fact that we've made it what it is attests to the truthfulness and  the authenticity of our promulgations. And speaking of the lie it was unavoidable for me to have uttered it. And going back to sleep that night i ruminated on the lie i'd thought of having uttered the previous night today morning. It all began with a lie.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Dilemma of a postmodern scholar

He has read all the theories yet the theories he has read despite the fact that he has read all of them and given the fact that he has read them leaves him groping for a meaning that is ungraspable though it was the desire to grasp it without knowing that it can't though believing that it could because his reading had rendered him obtuse as the obtuseness of the thinkers he read left much that was unchallenged as lived experience though lived experience is a challenge and it is a challenge to experience living and live and experience living it therefore he feels inadequate since the circumlocution of what he has read is so complacent as complance is manifested in circuitous reasoning which revels in circumambulating itself with no conclusion or perhaps its circuitousness is a revelling in the fact that inconclusiveness is a human reality and human reality is inconclusive because reality as we live it is composed of different things and different things make up the reality of what our sense of it is as a reality made up or a reality made up of the evanescent and the tangible though the tangible is almost always evanescent as the evanescent is the elusive and what we make outwits us and we,in order to outwit what we make end up being outwitted and thus the conundrum that he faces as a putative scholar as all the theories he has lead henceforward lea to a nothingness though nothingness was itself something that had to be lead to, given the fact that it is nothing and will always be nothing and hence create a microclimate of nothingness which leads to a theory that believes nothing about the coordinates of the world man made though the very coordinates he made from nothing outwitted him and led to nothing because that which begins with nothingness given the nothingness of nothingness and the nothingness in nothingness which is therefore nothingness ad infinitum though the ad infinitum implies a tautology which is a prolongation of what ad infinitum is which itself tautologously replicates itself ad infinitum and finally all the jargon leads to nothing and the impasse or nothingness jargon leads him to makes him contemplate afresh the meaning of life which itself emerged from nothingness and will end in nothingness.

CONVOLUTION- AN EXPERIMENT

The convolution was necessary, necessary because it imbued his art with depth, which, given his desire for experimentation was unavoidable, notwithstanding the ease he felt in writing the maverick that by virtue of its difference from the mainstream proved helpful in honing his craft since his main deal in writing, and a venerable goal it indeed is, was to perfect his writing that was, to begin with , quite formless and indeterminate, given the randomness with which he infused even the concrete that led to, sometimes unfortunately, a degree of obfuscation that was baffling to those who read him, not just thematically or fictionally but as writing in and for itself too that did, however spiralled into non comprehension and a non comprehension that was a convolution and not a transcendence of formal logic anyway, which, by means of a circumlocution, became a postmodernism that was inescapable, a postmodernism he consciously eschewed when he wrote, hoping that over time this obsession with form would resolve itself into a wholesomeness that would undeniably lead him onto creating a new form, a form which, in its own would create a new way of looking at life though the life he lived right now, with all its chaos and indeterminacy was unconventional, unconventional because while the superstructure was unalterable, the constituents were metemorphosable, a metamorphosis which, like a quark communing with other quarks produced configurations that transmogrified the internal structuration and since the internal's fluidity is,in any case, a prerequisite for the superstructure's mechanism, mechanisms which cannot remain monolithic as structures that are monochromatic dissolve into oblivion subsequently and why only those even structures that don't change with changing times become arcane, thereby losing out on contemporary correspondings which are necessary to cohere with the zeitgeist and his search for a new form, one that goes beyond and finds a way out of the morass contemporaneity finds itself in seems a chimera at times though a chimera, like the holy grail is sustained as attainable through expended human effort if the effort, in particular, is authentic and honest and therefore postmodernism becomes simply a label ,a signifier and his writing is more, much more than a signification as it is a mode of being, a way of life.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

MANIA

He feels manic, a mania manically manic, a mania maniacal. He is buoyant, manically so or a buoyancy manifested manically underscored by a sleeplessness, a sleep that is less, less sleep, a sort of willful wakening, a wakening that is full of his will, a wakening that his will has filled to the fullest. He feels fully alive, alive in the fullest possible sense, a state of fullness that is underscored by an aliveness.

His senses are stretched to the limit. His limitless senses are rendered limitless through the stretching he imposes on them. Nerve ends jangle, their jangling syncopates as a jangle of formlessness. Formlessness constitutes the jangle that syncopates in his overstretched senses whose limitlessness is reflected by the atemporal stretching of amorphous filaments.

Filaments of perception irradiate from him. Perception shredded into filaments of luminosity, or luminous filaments irradiating perception. He is vigilant to the world around him, his senses sharpened. It because his senses are sharpened that he is vigilant, and he is vigilant and can be only to the world within his head and outside of it. The world within his head mirrors the world outside his head as it affects the world in his head. The world outside his head is a blueprint of the world within informed by the world outside his head. So between the inner and the outer he is practically headless.

He pops a quitipin and drifts off into slumber.

EACH OTHER

Outside the night was punctuated by neon lights whose yellow patina gilded, albeit tremulously, temporal points of solidity along the roadside. The moonlight was muffled ,as though penetrating muslin. It was a tenebrous night. And i , standing outside, in the winter cold, in my pyjamas, felt most intensely, the discomfort and traumatizing impact of my presence here which, though indubitably incongruous, was exacerbated as an anomaly given the circumstances which accounted for my presence here.
I think i am equable by nature. I also discern, though i hope unostentatiously, my powers of understanding human nature. If the concrete, by virtue of its prosaic quality baffles me, the recondite, given its abstracted nature, augments any knowledge i may seek to possess or lay claim to.
He has been ignoring me. There is nothing tangible to corroborate this misgiving of mine. He is as solicitous, as concerned as ever. However, these outward ministrations of regard, more pronounced now, intenser, indicate a guilt, a crises of conscience. I strongly feel i am no longer an anchor in his life but expendable. I have deployed indirect stratagems to extract a confession from him but he seems outwardly irreproachable and that raises suspicions.
My own position of unremitting honesty is conspicuous to me. I have given this relationship not just my fidelity but my entire being. While i have endeavored to evince incontrovertible allegiance, i have expected a similar loyalty from him. I do suspect men, in general. I think they are distractable and prone to fastening their sights on other things if suffused with boredom. Has he met someone? Is our intersection a done story now? Such imponderables lead me to behave irrationally and stand outside his house, seeking evidence for an apostasy that i have already predetermined as ineluctable though i lack proof.
I daren't alert him to my presence though i want evidence. I stand vigilant for hours till sleepiness and fear of catching flu propels me homewards.
In the morning, first thing, he calls. Is this an exercise of self exoneration or exorcising guilt. Hello, i carillon, in a tone sweetened by optimism. We set a date for lunch.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

RETURN

The whole day, or rather if yesterday night were included too, has been spent beside the phone. I anticipate his call any time and am fearful that any momentary departure from my proximity to the phone may occasion a deep dereliction. That i should not be disbarred from spontaneity was my unrealistic expectation from myself but any freedoms the self envisages for itself is always undermined by a patina of choice that entombs, with irrevocable finality, absence of options.
Well my assiduous vigilance regarding the phone is a proof of my love. I would say, with utmost candor that i am reluctant to sidestep self knowledge for the sake of an anodyne illusion. To me unimpeachability precludes all relationships and any incipient insecurity my waiting by the phone may demonstrate is fictitious. I am i love, madly so and i want to savor every single moment of our unpredictable intimacy, unpredictable because temporality bars an unmitigated propinquity.
It may also seem ironical, given the self knowledge i allude so strenuously to, to see me sitting beside an intractable phone whose machinations are designed to foil, whose impropriety to the proprietary feelings our relationship impels in me. I must curb any misgiving that i may experience, eschew any convoluted consciousness of impenetrability this silence may betoken. Above all,in the face of the fact of not being called , considering my sincere belief in the veracity of our love, i must maintain an equilibrium, however precarious it might be.
And indeed it seems inevitable that though circumstances may have rendered the unresponsiveness i see in him not calling unavoidable i am beset by contradictory, conflicting feelings of dispossession. It is not fear of being overlooked that affects me thus but the fact that i believed the intensity of our love overrode causal capriciousness. I thought, knowing fully well i had a sufficiently viable reason for presuming so, if presumption it is, that it is not the fact of his not calling but the ineluctability of his calling that would be incontrovertible.
And indeed call he will. My vigil shall not be fruitless, nor my sincere watchfulness unrewarded. Latent dread is really just subconscious insecurity. I believe unequivocally that our love shall withstand all travails.
I must be careful, when he calls ,to obliterate any trace of misgiving the inopportune time of his call would have engendered. And by a sleight of insouciance i shall just about manage it.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

INTERCHANGE

Are you familiar with NPD?
-Well i just thought it glaringly obvious that you have issues with narcissism. Your control over my tremulous uncertainties demonstrates just that.
How do i make the accusation?
- Yes i have the temerity to make it. How could you be so self obsessed with the image you love and not be narcissistic.
Am i really a narcissist myself?
- There you go, projecting away shamelessly. It is far too easy for you to extroject from your own misdemeanors and accuse me thus. But then you always were self righteous.
I am in denial of my narcissism?
- Well i am an honest person. I believe in unmitigated probity and transparency. If it were not for my assiduity i'd remain trapped in this relationship for ever.
I am being insensitive in understanding your intrinsic self, is that right?
- I understand you all too well. And that is how i figured that you are a narcissist. You are a control freak, you think the entire world circulates around you. Firstly, you counteract my accusation with a counter attack and then you conveniently deny what i'm saying by alluding to nebulosities like intrinsic worth. I'm so unimpressed.
 If i leave you, am i correct in discerning this from your statement, i am abrogating my own worthiness as a person of probity, you are suggesting?
- It is precisely because i am suffused with probity that i refuse to countenance your unconscionable conduct. I've always been just, fair and self effacing. By rendering me incapable of loving you you have committed the ultimate apostasy.
My leaving you is itself an apostasy?
-Well so be it. I need to protect myself. With you i was going insane. I have my own being to protect from the onslaughts of your invidious defense mechanisms. I too have a worldview. I like to believe in a world that reflects my goodness to myself, that affirms to me, what i already know and that is my own sufficiency and abundance of goodness.
I fail to see you as you see yourself.That is ironical?
-It is you who fails to see me as i am by making me a conduit for your own narcissism. Enough of this discussion. I'm the victim here and now i'm moving out. Take care of yourself, by yourself. Goodbye. 

SUBSUMED

He subsumed me, that was for certain. Perchance i was able to utter certain missives, wrought from frustration but the raiments of his consciousness remained unaltered. He was pugnacious, and in that very belligerence, lay his veracity. But consumed as i was by lust and subsumed under his spell i mistook the belligerence he demonstrated for love, as a confirmation of his essential authenticity. Waves of disquiet lapped at my feet, broke upon my benumbed consciousness but fortified by denial i pushed them back.

In any case it would seem incongruous that i allowed myself to inhabit the same tenebrous space for long. I opted out. It was self preservation. My censures to him went unresponded to, given his self image as irreproachable. I felt rather dull even when i was with him as though i suspended my normal exegetical faculties. The torpor of dispossession claimed me and i sank gratefully, unresisting, to its insinuating onslaughts.

Desirous of love but aware that my sincerity is off putting i have entered into many a relationship, though with least expectation of a responsiveness commensurate to my own proclamations of  truthfulness. And i do believe, very assiduously, in the virtue of truthfulness. I desire to have no blueprints of any potential lover i take to having. I prefer reality  undimmed .Scrupulous considerations must take precedence. Scrupulousness is a virtue i consider sacrosanct. All subsequent prevarications and they are inevitable are immaterial.

Which is why his untrustworthiness was so disappointing and disillusioning. I had thought that his perturbation at having to reveal his real self may have discomfited him. But now i wonder as to whether there is a real self. All that seems discernible to me is a conglomeration of lies he's told himself to buttress his own sense of deracination.

So i left him. I felt my own edifice of unimpeachability dissolving in the wake of his tireless, ceaseless dissimulation. We squabbled endlessly and endeavored to hold on to the selves we believed in. That i inhabit a skin of unquestionable honesty is clear to me. He is the narcissist. Yes i've had issues in the past but psychotherapy has resolved all that confusion and chaos. I am ready for my next relationship knowing that the authentication of my being will be my bulwark .

A TIME OF TRAVAIL

I spent those few months in a tumult of worry.His protracted absence, unenlivened even by a letter or mail, was a stimulus to worry. And worry i did, fulminating at his unconscionable behavior, of the justifications he'd ineluctably provide and my subsequent acquiescence to his dissembling. I saw the script clearly, knew the conclusion clearly.

There were moments when, with lucid certainty ,i knew that i needed to change things by changing myself. His interplay of rejection and acceptance became a canopy i sheathed myself in, hoping that thus i could circumvent the emptiness of my own life, the nothingness that often fell on me, unresistingly, on a particular point of lonesomeness and insecurity.

Nights i scour my email, hoping for some intimation. By day i am so enervated that even moving my fingers seems insurmountable. I ought to be sitting down and working on my book. So does my rational consciousness expostulate with me, remonstrates me but the obsessiveness that this relationship has wrought in me renders any absolution inadmissible.

And it isn't as though i don't know myself. I know i have self esteem issues and have had them for quite some time now. I know that i have a propensity to seek out experiences that mirror past experiences. That i am, in many ways, a masochist and despite the knowledge of the convoluted spirals of my own unconscious here i find myself, yet again, unavoidably enmeshed in a conundrum of my own making, a tautologous phenomenon from which both escape and transcendence seem inconceivable.

I intend to call it quits now. My mind is circumambulating the cancerous heart of our intersection. I need to step outside this loop, i need to find a way to extricate myself from this solipsism he has brought out in me with regard to him. Him, on the other hand, will be impassive, impersonal, agreeably philosophic while my mind will run in crazy circles trying to find out the temporal circumscription of our togetherness and the subsequent interlude of self disgusted narcissism i will go through.

Here's a mail from him. He wants to drop in for dinner tomorrow. I better buy some wine.

Monday, July 14, 2014

UNMET LOVE

I flattened my creased pyjamas and sat down with my laptop atop the stool, looking at his profile picture yet again. And i saw, what i had already seen countless times, but felt impelled to again. I saw the stubble with the rasp of beard on it, i saw the handsome face, the thatch of brown hair and the ceaselessly proclaiming yet scarcely committing sensibility. And i realized, through retrospectively i should have known better, given the fact that i had courted such disappointments earlier, that i was replicating patterns of behavior from my past that were nothing short of pathological.

In the morning i wake up. I sip a glass of cold milk with crumbling biscuits. Such, unfortunately, is my oblation to a morning whose fatalistic undulations, even in my contemplation of them, seem enervating and bone chilling. But i feel a sense of urgency. It is not an altogether unanticipated urgency because at eldritch moments of my life , self realization has crept in but i have always indefatigably repressed it for fear of acknowledging my own dark monstrosities. When such unbidden moments do arrive i rush to the supermarket and buy diet coke, subsuming any incorporation of mortification that may have been inveigled in the hours of unsolicited introspection.

Today the sight of his profile picture arouses the usual commingling of yearning and disgust. At my age i should know better but this grovelling, meretricious seeking for attention is deeply disgusting. The overtures, insidious in hindsight, seem repulsive as though each act, each word, each sliver of my consciousness exists in relation to my dovetailing with his masochistic approbation. Is it love or ratification that makes me step out of myself, suspend any modicum of sense i possess and surrender vulnerably before the other ? Am i not, in a sense, trying to buy his love and if the spontaneous feeling of love in him is not forthcoming then the lacuna must be in me, i must be an unworthy subject to love.

Don't get me wrong, i am not entirely unaware of his monumental selfishness but i do realize that my failure to irradiate even a spark or conflagaration in his breast is my failure, my loss. But i choose not to let this loss render me suicidal as past rejections have. If there is one thing i have learnt from past failures it is durability. It breaks my heart but it doesn't break me. I am no longer in touch with my therapist nor do her anodyne platitudes any powers of restitution for the devastation my own stupidity has wrought in me. I will eschew melodrama and move on.

I go to his profile one last time and click block thereby obliterating the compendium of an entire conglomeration of complexities, both past and future, from my life. Sometimes i really think i am neurotic.