Saturday, September 27, 2014


It is unfortunate that wisdom is often retrospective. Or more accurately, the conscious awareness of it. Misgivings, ineluctable, are lodged in the unconscious mind, where they churn, manifesting themselves in a slight here, a reproach there, somewhere a compromise, elsewhere renunciation. Because when one is in the middle of a relationship one is caught, as it were, in an interstice, between giving it a go and relinquishing entirely. Stasis, the accompaniment of indecision, is unavoidable.
The day in unseasonably warm. Even though it is day a tenebrous nullity benumbs my being. My plate of scrambled eggs, half eaten, lies inert on the table. Light pirouettes on the chequered tablecloth and its dancing reflections spangle the wall with lurid light. A sharp sense of unreality, a bewilderment negates any conscious certainty i might glean from these quotidian mnemonics. Rather, they augment the sense of chaos that my life is.
The thing is, he left last week. It seemed both a befitting culmination and an inevitable outcome. We never bickered but an inarticulate rancor corroded our togetherness. Had we voiced our doubts and insecurities, given tangible shape and form to our disquiet, we'd have found a way around what seemed irreconcilable. But we were both intransigent, uncompromisingly tight lipped and our putative reticence, in actuality a willed obduracy, let us down eventually.
The strange fact is that it would have appeared, given our self imposed withholding of our selves that a willed illusion, tempered by a resigned unknowingness about each other, might have obviated the possibility of differences. That because we were private, our privacy would be a bulwark against dissonance. However we divined each other's being quite well. Albeit through a process of rational construction , we formulated blueprints of the other's being, oscillating between an awareness of its precariousness and a self deluding belief, compounded by egotism, in its veracity. And ultimately the incontrovertible proclivity of authenticating our postulations, rendered incontestable by our privacy, widened the gulf between us, strengthened the sense of dislocation we felt with each other.
By no means do i imply that the insights we had on and about each other were fictitious. Clearly a certain truthfulness underlay it. Loquacity dissimulates interiority and makes the process of discovery harder because the integument of conviviality has to be unpeeled for the bare bones of hostility to emerge. And with rectitude, while the unraveling is easier, the signifiers and hints a gesture, tone or expression reveals is missing. But, nonetheless, with unmitigated impersonality, we observed each other unflinchingly. In our case the simulacrum and the actual intersected fortuitously to create a new configuration, that of complete bafflement.
And since he's left i am completely alone. At least with him even a facsimile of being together sufficed. All my eviscerations into his essence have now become excoriations. I pick the wounds of my hubris. The evening sets in, penumbra is inveigled, shadows deepen. The lamp incandesces the patterns in the tablecloth with a pellucid glow with striations of raveling threads, betokening hints of dissolution. With incipient night encroaching i subsume my unpartenered solitariness and take the plunge into nothingness and hope.

Friday, September 26, 2014


The mirror is both a tangible illusion and an impalpable reality. Of itself, it is impassive. Its rims are encrusted with kaleidoscopic whorls. The mirror is man made yet it is also a component of consciousness. The glass is an actualization, a corporeal embodiment of what, in the human psyche, constitute amorphous realms of unknowingness. The mirror is both there and not there. It is both self and other. The finality of the mirror is its fluidity. It ripples both consciousness and physiognomies with a constellation of coruscating configurations, alternately luminous and crepuscular. The mirror is both light and darkness. It is both revelatory and dissimulative. But all these cornucopic contradiction it embodies are mediated by the lens of those who gaze at it. The mirror thus is a compendium of human density and destiny.
Sunlight dazzles the mirror. It's rims glow incandescently. In absorbing light the mirror expels light in a daze of blinding intensity. The sight is seared, consciousness inflamed. Dust motes float disembodied, illuminated with limpid clarity, caught, in their zigzagging movements, as impersonal forces,gradually but imperceptibly accreting in a protean and wispy mass, infinitesimally agglomerated.
Gradually as the day advances the blinding luminosity recedes. It isn't rendered indistinct as much as unpeeled as though the mass of light, so blinding to the corona, gradually divests itself of ray after ray until a few visible rays repose, reflected , not in the mirror but on the mosaical floor where they lie aslant, bent, shadowed. The reflection reflected in the floor is the point where light and mirror converge, assuming a form that is visible but evanescent, part of the ephemeral paraphernalia of the caprices of things man made intersecting with force of nature.
The moon comes out. The mirror is now opalescent.

Thursday, September 25, 2014


Memory is so many different things at the same time. It is a way of embalming, holding on to, recapturing and simply recalling. Often the recalling is unbidden.It is uncertain as to what prestidigitation is happening in the unconscious from whence certain memories spring. Or a sight or smell, as proust's narrator demonstrates, evokes strong associations.
But in the unconscious, amorphous processes work. Memory is a vast pool. There must be ,in the unconscious , a meta memory wherein constituent memories are conglomerated, resurfacing either by will or caprice. This meta memory is like a mosaic. And these constituent memories fragments aggregated randomly. Through some unforeseen, undiscerned mechanism these memories emerge, transform perception and dissolve and sometimes  re emerge. At other moments experience is allied to memory though in indecipherable permutations. An experience reactivates a memory, any memory. Or sitting, unthinking brings to the forefront, often as a result of being outside of cognitive ratiocination, an unanticipated flow of memories.
And sometimes what strings these memories together is our self. Threaded by experience, studded with piquant significations, non linear and defying spatiality these memories, like quarks, reconstitute in multitudinous combinations. This nebulous process is as yet unfathomed by human consciousness. Though psychoanalysts inch closer, or so they believe, to a causality their explorations remain unproved and irreconcilable.
In my consciousness there is the vastitude of the sea. Waves of memory roil an churn, advance and retreat. As a wave juts out a memory surfaces, leaves behind sediments and detritus and retreats. Follows another memory. The concatenation is incessant, tethered to the mortal frame yet memories transcend even mortality. In human consciousness mnemonics huddle experientially, through human intersection. In the collective consciousness memories are grafted, reinterpreted, rejuvenated and passed on. The corporeal physiognomy obliterates but the consciousness lives on.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014


We'e met a few times. Our intersections have been nebulous, our interchanges tremulous. I find that, even in my wildest imaginings, love seemed inconceivable. Habitual self doubt rendered its possibility inadmissible. What i felt earlier, and with great intensity, was an unfocused ,diffuse sexual energy, attenuated in fantasies of primordial commingling that always left me feeling guilty and panic stricken. My fantasy life, more capacious and sexualized than my real life, betokened, with its chaotic freneticism, instances of primal intimations of apotheosis i couldn't conceptually transmute to real life.
In a way though i love him it feels indeterminate. Part of the reason for this uncertainty is my lack of knowledge about him. As far as contingent details of his life go i have only hazy mnemonics. I could, if i desired, seek information circuitously, by asking around but such sleight of hand is something i eschew on principle. Nor will i, through prestidigitation, divine his being. I'm only human and the process of familiarity takes time. If i figured him out would i still love him? Were he to reveal unprepossessing dimensions of his being would my regard still be unambivalently unwavering? Would not my aegis subtly but surely metamorphose.
So who he is what i have built him up as. His reality corresponds to the signifiers i dapple his personality with. Looking and loving him is like looking at and loving ideal aspects of myself, churned from unconscious processes of veneration and devaluation. The mirror, impassively, may tell its own story but i impose my own perspectivation on it. Constructions are unavoidable, as are misapprehensions. But this camouflage, of which i'm consciously cognizant does not discomfit me or distress my unduly. I cherish the process of unraveling which is tantamount, in my mind, to discovery. Meanwhile i invent him and isn't invention, somewhere, a precondition for discovery.
Needless to say i entertain the gravest doubts about his perception of me.Our conversations, though intermittent, have been sanguine and their manifestations salutary. By concealing this poignant feeling i have for him which stipples me with prismatically iridescent shafts of luminosity, i am left with conjecture. Would an avowal of my regard detonate our precarious propinquity? Or will this emotion, subterraneously repressed, remain unconsummated and unresolved? I am yet to make up my mind.
So i flit between this oscillating paradigm of wanting to demonstrate and fearing it. If i were to avow at least the outcome would be certain, however precipitate my avowal would be. But not admitting would leave the possibilities infinite where i could carve out my own blueprints of the actual and the realizable. But such speculations, preponderant through a willed illusion, would dissolve when unmitigated reality inveigles its incontrovertible significations and hence it is incumbent on me that i take up a course of action.
Meanwhile the process of alternating heartfelt experience of love and its putative negation, with an incipient heartbreak as its inevitable accompaniment, suffuses me with delicious, vertiginous piquancy and incandescence.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


I met him on facebook. I had sent him a friend request seeing his comments on another thread . Because the comments seemed agreeable and appealed to me at a personal level i sent my request which was, soon, accepted without delay. So, on paper, on rather on facebook. we were friends.
Being naturally gregarious i began the path towards intimacy. After discovering that he was a poet i was doubly assiduous in persuading him that i didn't initiate this friendship with opportunistic aims. Well, i do write and sometimes quite decently . And i do think my expostulations convinced him of a complete absence of any ill intent on my part. Thus clarifying my probity was the first step in building this friendship.
Initially i proffered tidbits about my life he responded equably to. Subsequently he reciprocated in kind. Soon we were writing frequently, almost daily to each other. While he was forthcoming it was my revelations about my life that were more detailed and precipitate. Habituated to candor i opened myself up to this impersonal interest and felt gratified, more than what he said, by the fact of his having said anything at all.
His information about himself, which he proffered became for me blueprints to his actual being. I took for granted the mnemonics he yielded, constructing a mythology around him. The fact that, at a subterranean level, i knew of the tenuousness of our closeness did not deter me. It,on the contrary, redoubled my denial.
In many ways, since i didn't actually know him i felt that i was looking into a mirror. I saw what i sought but what i sought was at odds with what there was.What was equally ironical was that i was seeing him as he wanted to be seen. And that compounded the self deception.
Eventually he blocked me. Because our relationship had grown so intimate, or an intimacy i misconstrued as propinquity i was heartbroken . I had come to rely on him. Perhaps he was tired of projecting an image. Perhaps he was terrified of my voracious hunger for human warmth. Perhaps he felt i was like a succubus, consuming and possessing him and for his own self preservation he had to block me.
It was not the fact of his leaving that left a rancor as much as the unexplained, unresolved cessation of this friendship. With a casual encounter such a perfunctory gesture could be dismissed as a foible but in this case, given the intensity of our intersection, the irresolution left a blank, black hole in my consciousness, never to be filled up again.

Monday, September 22, 2014


It was the dismaying prospect of a forthcoming marriage that did it. Throughout our courtship i deluded myself into thinking that my better nature was being upheld as restitution for the misgivings of my primal self. And by primal self i refer to attributes that were, through force of circumstance, ingrained intrinsically in me. That what i showed of myself was opposite to what i felt myself to be. Though i was unsure whether what i felt myself to be was what i really was or whether further folds of darkness, hitherto unperceived, draped my amorphous being.
I think i performed impeccably. I convinced him that i was what i showed to him. But the question is that since what i showed him was what i wanted to be so was not what i showed him ,ipso facto, what i was since that was the becoming i chose for myself. Or were the primordial impulses that i fought so assiduously to circumvent instances of a reality of me that was inconceivable to me.
So at a certain level i oscillated between what i sort of thought i was and what i knew i wanted to be. And one reason for this protracted courtship is the irreconcilability between the two. I could not find a way round my conundrum and alternated between prevaricating and genuinely demonstrating my regard. And my regard was indubitable. What was at stake was which aspect of my self would respond to him at any given moment.
I hesitated being forthcoming of my predicament, fearful that he'd be unnerved. I was neck deep in this relationship, inextricably enmeshed and any other alternative except its consummation terrified me. My desire to have him cherish the blueprint i presented coexisted with my fear that a glimpse into my darker side would cause a terrifying breach.
Now i realize that my camouflage, though precipitate was sagacious. I was saving him from heartbreak as much as i was preventing myself from collapsing with self loathing. I am certain, in retrospect that i must have, ineluctably though inadvertently shown glimpses of my insecurity and passion. I think, however, that such demonstrations soothed his ego, leading him to negate what were to me earth shattering primeval mnemonics as cute and pert traits.
Well, i called it off. While his confidence in our relationship grew my insecurity about my sanity diminished. I could see indwelling negative feelings, centering around him, making him a symbol of my self dispossession. So i watched, with crumbling clarity, this dissolution of what was once so luminous and i felt pleased, in a corner of my heart, despite the weight of misery, at the termination of a relationship i never partook of with the entirety of my being.
I've not been in any relationships for a while. I'm still hoping that i can work on these intractable qualities that have congealed and make them something bearable, liquiefy them, attenuate them, make them protean. But this part of me that i don't have control over and which predates me will always exist as a discomfiting reminder that i will never be sure of my feelings in any relationship i enter into. But that part that performs will hopefully obviate them. Being and becoming are irresolvable. One day somebody will understand that and love me for all that there is in me.