Saturday, August 16, 2014


If we consider our minds as they stand today. There is consciousness and there are myriad realms of information hurtling. Sometimes they intersect, often pell mell. There is a tangled conglomeration of knowledge which requite a sifting and sorting to extricate layers of meaning. As a tube rushes past so do thoughts.
So there is this rich kaleidoscope of the mind with each arabesque syncopating, jangling, aflame with sensation and stimuli. Overlaying it is consciousness with its modicum of reason and pragmatism, negotiating the quotidian. A surface seemliness belies a subterranean unconscious process of navigating entangled threads.
There is a discernible fragmentation. Compartments come into being, slotting causality into neat slots. A sense of the collective inner, traversed communally has become indistinct, substituted by a throbbing singular, where modes of peregrinating chaos repose. Not only have the outer and inner severed but the conscious and unconscious have blurred too, are no longer cleft as sharply and indivisibly. In an atomized space possibilities of authenticity are apocryphal,where it is indeed, in certain contexts, nugatory.
There is an outward simulacrum of obsequiousness to the inner, buttressed by contemporaneous significations. But such an inner as there is has been kitschified, rendered meretricious. An exploration of the inner wouldn't merely be compensatory as an exploration of inner workings, inner dynamics. What constitutes the inner, or what the ontology of the inner is would provide a space to wrest being from non being.
This methodology of exploring the phenomenology of the inner wouldn't merely demonstrate the telos of the inner but its concatenation with other inner's. Each inflection, metamorphosis would be like overlapping waves wherein the singular and collective would be inextricably enmeshed. Each contingent transformation, registered, identified would create newer configurations from the present vantage point. The genre would, in combination with a fluid form, create fresher ways of looking at reality by questioning the zeitgeist.
The hypothetical form would, thus, traverse the entire circumference of the inner. There would be an exploration of the inner within the inner, the process within the structuration, the interstices within the form. An inside out turning of the inner would explicate, not just knobs, loops, knots and constrictions but the way out ,the way beyond.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014


Whenever my lover, and it is an old fashioned phrase stops by to meet me, arranging, inveterately, our unhabitual intersections, i am thrown into disarray. I rush around doing different things. A part of me reapplies the deoderant, the eggs in the fridge must be fresh, his favorite brand of coffee available. A multitude of confusions assail me. I scramble hither and thither, daubing ineffectually here, rearranging uselessly there. The more i seek to make things perfect the more chaotic they end up.
And the protracted waiting. He is never on time. His lateness paralyzes me. Where i could add finishing touches i recline restlessly, knotting and unknotting my fingers, beset with a nervous irritability. His arrival is usually an anticlimax. I have already traversed the whole gamut of anticipation and foreboding. I am resigned and calm. Perhaps this pleases him, alleviates any residual discomfiture on his part. Though if there was any discomfiture it would, at least, ensure his punctuality.
There is a masochism discernible in him. He likes to inflict pain to feel it. He's not quite sadistic. I think his boredom is too diffuse to allow for sadistic manouvres . And it is not only his lateness that bothers me but his detachment, his fundamental apathy. Even i, in all my resplendence, evoke a disaffected sigh as though the chief reason he fancies me is that i ameliorate his boredom though i am certain the pattern of our relationship bores him stiff.
Which is why my frenetic scramblings are undertaken to ensure that his sense of his own disaffection is retained. The calm front i present, with an impassive profile, surely redoubles that. Unbeknownst to him is my assiduous disengagement with my own effervescence, the split i feel between what i am before him and what i am to myself.
And in the midst of it all my essence is lost. What was that essence anyway. A dab of chanel to obliterate quotidian stench or an oleaginous texture in my brain that signals to me my being. I must be careful not to let the mask i put on for him become my reality. I prize my perspicuity. Without such self knowledge i would become an emanation of him. And once he looks in my mirror and finds himself he'll break it off because his boredom is predicated on an illusion of his specialness .
He has rung to say he is on his way. A heavy langour infuses my limbs. There are no eggs in the fridge, my armpits smell musky and the coffee machine is unwashed. There he is at the door, a full half hour earlier than expected.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014


I was waiting for the cab to take me to see my therapist when i heard or rather saw on my facebook app that Robin williams had died. I experienced a momentary sense of unreality which is usually my response to death. My senses clamp down, i feel vertiginous, my mind disorients. And then came the gradual onrush of reality, the imperceptible inner tweaking with which i managed to reorient myself.

Travelling through i anticipated the hour i'd spend discussing the suicide ,the whys, the wherefores, the philosophical implications. I was hoping to inveigle my own existential predicament alongside Robin's. I looked forward to a methodical exploration of creativity and madness. I expected my therapist's prompt foreclosure of such areas of inquiry with a perfunctory reversion to the present, invariably directed at me. But this is the present and i was willing to forestall her misgivings with my own counter rejoinder.

I feel a kinship with Robin williams because i am bipolar, as i do with plath or woolf. Their irrevocable deaths rationalize my imminent one. Their explosions of insanity preempt my putative ones. In general i am a very self contained manic depressive. I am not given to undue theatricals or needless talking about it to family and friends. That is an indulgence i preserved in the salad days of my therapy where meanderings, ineluctably inchoate, cohered into possible, plausible channels of action.

And really the number of manic depressives who commit suicide is shocking and painful. The numbers are increasing, the case histories proliferating. Perhaps it is the madness of our age , our fragmentation that necessitates these inexorable conclusions. Was Robin williams happy? What were his thoughts before he died? How did his struggle with mental health manifest itself? Such were the unanswerable imponderables that surfaced in my mind, floated around unsorted and resolved mentally into questions, queries directed at my therapist.

My therapist comes across as rather inimical to discussion sometimes. I hesitate to call it intractability though there is a certain stubbornness in her unwillingness to discuss bipolar. She seems to feel that dwelling on the illness is part of the illness and that pragmatism lies in looking at the course of action that is to be followed than the past. Philosophical divagations, metaphysical detours are not agreeable to her. Which is why broaching this topic today will require some forcefulness on my part. But i desire to bring the crises this suicide has activated in me to some closure. It feels like my loss. So i sit on the couch waiting for her.

'Good morning. I know of Robin williams suicide. Can we move on to the next issue please' she asseverates with a steely glint of determination.

I proceed to tell her about the current crises at my workplace instead.

Sunday, August 10, 2014


It is a cavalcade, a large number of spectral presences i will get to know vicariously. Intersections will occur or mutual indifference. Because over consciousness will be poured numerous claims on attention, with varying degrees of interest . The mind will be deluged, the imagination stimulated. And then the sifting and sorting, the choosing of areas of interest, points of confluence ,punctuated with an acknowledgement that yes, the imagination of the other has been apprehended, absorbed and reciprocated.
But the possibilities burgeon as the list extends before me. My eyes scan down, looking at physiognomies, picking, choosing the ones whose claim on my attention corresponds to the attention i am willing to claim from the suggestive countenances. Some presences are familiar and i accept immediately, grateful for a resumption of propinquity. Elsewhere i scan interestedly, as though to glean mnemonics which would betoken areas of interest i could identify, build on and crystallize as friendship.
Memory imbues these exercises of interest with deft touches of simultaneal surface and depth. In some instances depths deepen, with a pre existent familiarity, the congealing of a bond. In other areas interest quickens, fascination fastens on grounds for interchange. In the vast mosaic of consciousness lie multifarious possibilities, contained in a world where provisionality of form coexists with latent depth, a depth configurable, metamorphosable through an exercise of durable human faculties.
As of now the list is a nebulous intimation of nascency. Opportunities flash, shimmer, burst into pixels of putative delights to come yet instances of incongruities, anomalies detonate the luminosity of choice. A world beckons, a world at once real and yet a simulacrum ,of an entire conglomeration of human variegation. I start accepting, albeit judiciously.