Saturday, August 2, 2014


I began the day, though beginnings are, by their very nature, both promising and anticipatory, given that what is anticipated can only be done so when it is begun, or if not begun, conceived ,which is just another beginning that, starting with the conceptualization of a conception that was a beginning filled me with anticipation though anticipation is also, somewhere, somehow, a pleasurable hope of an optimistic outcome which is why anticipation is what it is in the first place as a new beginning , a new beginning forthwith, with a putative positive outcome as life is indeterminate and the outcome uncertain, yet, amid this uncertainty a spark of hope irradiates as hope is what, in trying times, sustains and buoys us as human beings though with our anthropocentric self importance, the buttressing through hope is perhaps inevitable despite the fact that, in all ways , we are part of the cosmos, a cosmos that is a conglomeration of the quotidian and the metaphysical wherein the quotidian, with its focus on the minutiae, the day to day business of living and being is stippled, inveterately, with its own moments of the metaphysical which is, indisputably immanent in it so that ,though indwelling, we are capable of a certain apotheosis for ourselves, an apotheosis that reaffirms the transcendence alluded to earlier, though that allusion was not alluded to, specifically, in conjunction with the quotidian yet the convergence that is now being reaggregated is, undeniably, of an altogether transcendental order but then is transcendence possible in the washing of a teacup given how banal the washing of a teacup is but still it gives, in the very face of its purported banality, a certain pleasure or, at the very least, a certain satisfaction that a daily task, however infinitesimal it might seem in the larger scheme of things was ,nevertheless, with a certain assiduity, accomplished , an accomplishment whose sense of contentment, despite the mundanity of the task in question, was redoubled, redoubled because it was both a means of doing the concrete thing, which the washing of the teacup is and the attendant emotional satisfaction it engendered, a satisfaction that soothes the mind, pleases the consciousness and gives, amid the depressions that this day and age invariably engender, a working towards something, something in the here and now achieved seamlessly, with great practicality and speediness which, in the being of a person with depression, would be impossible to carry out, given the inertia, listlessness, unutterable, unmitigated despair that constitutes depression reflective of, as i said, this day and age which is fragmented, chaotic, which atomizes ,compartmentalizes and indeed all that frustration of unbelonging, of being anomalous, of standing out, can be incredibly, immensely frustrating in a culture that prizes competitiveness, success, material wealth, fame where everybody, yes, everybody is a somebody and a somebody is actually a nobody, part of the rut, the normative which, despite its irresistible allure is, taking all into account, repressive , constricting and damning because at the end of the day who wants the norm yet we all end up, unconsciously, sometimes, unconscionably, adhering to it which is why, for a breakthrough through this breakdown of culture a journey is essential, a journey to the anterior where things began, the beginning of our beginnings and really, that thought which is the beginning, was what enthused me with anticipation of a better outcome for all of us, with a deep cogitation on how to better our lot.

Friday, August 1, 2014


Nights i search his pockets. It has become an unhealthy obsession. I seem to be deliberately seeking evidence of his double timing to feel that my worst misgivings are justified. It seems, as i frantically scour his toilette for traces of unfaithfulness, i am preempting my own fear or perhaps bringing it into being by conceptualizing it. 

So far i have not discerned any damning evidence. There are traces of lipstick and perfume scents but those are emanations of my own physiognomy ,rendered indistinctly olfactory but never entirely obliterated. It pleases me to thus encounter my being in the detritus of his daytime self. Possibly i am hard to shake off or so i would like to believe.

Which doesn't mean that a putative unimpeachable front may not conceal deeper infidelities. I am certain, though it is a hypothetical certainty, however rendered veracious by the general fickleness of men, given my own evidence from past relationships, that he is hiding something, some disagreeable fact that will spring up and strike me square in the face. I would not like to anticipate foreboding but circumstances precipitate an antecedent foreboding, even before facsimiles of it are conspicuous, thereby problematizing my belief in his goodness.

As i said earlier i am yet to find anything that crystallizes my suspicions. He may, alternately, be consummately putting up a front of innocence, to waylay me and belie my nightmares. But it isn't as though i would like not to believe. Rather, it is, as though, through a neurotic preconception of a indeterminate misdemeanor i am steeling myself against disappointment or complimenting myself for my perspicuity and sagaciousness.

So i check his pockets and encounter daily this musky perfume and lipsticked mnemonics of a person who resembles me yet is not me.

Thursday, July 31, 2014


I would like to believe i am pragmatic. Indeed, practicability in the most mundane transactions is my forte. So when i go out to buy the groceries i carry change with me, to facilitate a smooth exchange. I keep my things carefully, each important object allocated its specific space. Even if, i sometimes think despairingly, were i to contract alzheimer's i'd still, through long force of association, locate each object exactly where it is. Protracted habit is hard to lose hold of and my unassailable practicality, as i mention it, in its manifestations even in the quotidian, will be, useful in the future.
Thus does the everyday world, with its routines and customs, croon the soothing rhythm of efficacy but when he calls or sends a letter my sense of balance vanishes. I'm thrown into disarray, my routine askew. A confusion assails me ,ineradicable and i often find myself, with great trepidation ,possessed of a primeval anarchic power to destroy these structures i adhere to so assiduously and forcefully.
The self control putting a euro in a drawer or a sock in the cupboard, with its anodyne alleviation, deserts me. I rush around, scrambling, indefatigable, adjusting my life to correspond to his. My meticulousness is counterpointed by his chaos and unregulated habits. I earnestly wish him to stack the dinner plate just so, put the napkin in just that right place and he inveterately doesn't. On the contrary my obsessionality confronts me with the specter of its unreasonableness and redoubles my guilt.
He pokes gentle but excoriating fun at my clean routines. He says he feels enlivened with the chaotic reconstitution of my fragile perfection. He times his visits, it seems to me, when i'm at my most perspicacious. He unravels me ,disperses me, attenuates the constituents of my being so that the chimera of unalterability that precariously buoys me dissolves and recedes.
Yet his visits are indispensable. I can't think of my life without these frenetic interludes. Uniformity is frightening and lonely. And it's not like i have OCD or something. The pragmatism i alluded to is my chief virtue. But virtue has a comical side to it. Sometimes it seems that when he is not there i am neurotic and when he is there i become neurotic.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014


I often dwelt on the nature of reality and it often baffled me. But then, concerned as it seemed i was, not with the existence but the realness of it disappointments were bound to be inevitable.

Inevitable disappointment occurs because the reality whose realness i took for granted unthinkingly was being proved chimerical. A patina of authenticity  proved illusory.

Chimera is perhaps  unavoidably a condition or rather precondition of human existence.

The disappointment was augmented by the realization that any substitution was also going to be another construct, a superimposition of another simulacrum, parading as real.

I came to the conclusion, having dwelt on the nature of reality that my search for authentication was a very human need, a need for veracity to validate the coordinates of my conception .

If chimera is the blank slate over which hieroglyphs are etched then reality is as it is made or made up.

If reality is what it is made then what makes reality is what makes it real and uncertain.

And indeed it was disappointing to cogitate on the provisionality of any human conception as makeshift. It robbed the human species of its specialness in the cosmos.

I actualized my ruminations on the nature of reality by conceding the indeterminacy of it all. I did not seek certitudes though i was compelled to postulate as real something concrete.

I read the quantum thinkers but are not their putatively objective criterion of the phenomenology behind the universe equally uncertain. Is not the whole cosmos an illusion?

Illusion masquerading as real is illusion redoubled. Reality underscored as illusion is irreality confirmed.

All these disappointments in the amorphousness of objectivity confirmed that the search for knowledge was illusory though knowledge did repose somewhere, but needed a leap of faith to be known. 

Monday, July 28, 2014


Memory disgorges disquiet. The skein of prevarication is tangled deep. And consciousness fragments. Much of the post post modern consciousness is a tabula rasa, wherein an ontological nothingness prevails. Skepticism about institutions, structures has wiped out any hieroglyphic remnants of a recoverable past. Into this blank slate, a willed blankness, a blankness conducive with the zeitgeist, are poured sensory, corporeal, stimulating impressions that alternately inflame the senses and supercharge the brain. The inexhaustibility of information, its prodigious downpour cascades in runnels of unintelligibility down the framework of the mind. What is retained is transmuted as experience, substituted for collective memory and embalmed as a visceral response to indeterminacy.
Memory is complicit in an erasure of the collective. Too much knowledge is diffused and regathered, only to be attenuated further into pixels of opportunism, resurfaced at will. There is no longer only a self consciousness but a self conscious self consciousness. All this does not translate into self awareness nor does memory, with its forceful obliteration of a collective, conceptualize a whole within which a part exists. All at once it seems that the kaleidoscope has cleft, the mosaic shattered and each arabesque floats and whirls in state of isolation. The severing of experience from memory is then restituted by an adherence to a false collective, a false consciousness wherein not only is the true invisible but where simulacrums of generalities proliferate, burgeon and then burst.
There is a deadlock in memory, a crises of willful negation. In the sea of consciousness the wave emerges and retreats but leaves behind only a bleached imprint of its life affirming presence. The foam spills over and dissipates, memory expands the diminutive and implodes. The walls of the mind heave and surge in nothingness, the nerve ends syncopate a blank amorphous melody. There is a void, a suggestive void, a suggestible void. In this void are the possibilities of submergence and transcendence. And a gossamer line separates them.
The post post modern consciousness is poised over a brink. Below lie the precipitous, vertiginous depths, putatively impassable. But it seems that a journey is necessitated, into history, pre history, the anterior.Over the recondite quadrangles of the parthenogenetic lie immanent the opportunity for reconstitution. It is up to the mind to wrest meaning and being from non being.