Saturday, November 1, 2014

LOVE,OF A KIND

I am fairly self reliant. The only self i have to look back on is my own. And my experience of the world has amply demonstrated that abdications of friendships, abrogations of decency , apostasies and defections are pretty much unavoidable. Human nature may be unaltered but there is something about the zeitgeist i find myself in wherein provisionality and transience in human relationships seems paramount, indeed ineluctable. And in such a state of things a certain self sufficiency can be a great bulwark against eventful, heartbreaking encroachments.
And i've learned my lesson. My initial floundering attempts at self containment were foiled by my excessive idealism. I believed, though unrealistically, in the probity of people. So my initial response at curtness, brusqueness , abrupt termination from contact by other people was bewilderment and confusion. Naturally, given my introspective disposition i held myself accountable, accused myself of some fatal flaw in my own being. Though the nature of this lacunae was unformulated it nagged away at me, suffusing me with inadequacy.
It became, in many ways a pattern that replicated itself. People came and went. Each subsequent presence would give me hope while each departure , after a interlude of closeness, break my heart. And at the heart of this self dispossession was my precarious self esteem. Because i lacked, conceptually, the strength to negotiate life on my own terms with the resources i had at hand. An excessive dependence on my interlocutors indicated both my desperate need for this closeness and my fear of it.
And these two putatively contradictory impulses aren't necessarily irreconcilable though i do see them more as coexistent, immanent proclivities. It was also observable that while i desired other presences to compensate for my inner emptiness it was precisely these other presences that , even at moments when my life was replete with them, indicated how empty they themselves were. And that this oscillation between the life and being i had and wanted was a closed circle. To transcend this circumscription i had to expand my horizon although such expansiveness, given my taciturnity, is inconceivable to me.
So i closed in on my self. I enclosed myself in the cocoon of my being. It was partly defensive, an endeavour to obviate the exigencies of navigating an indifferent world and partly, a relief , a restitution for the vast reserves of potentialities that reposed in me, inexhaustible yet actualizable. And really, it seems, in myself i found both escape and oasis, a move away from and a plunge into, the amorphous yet capacious receptacle of my untapped self.

Friday, October 31, 2014

BLUEPRINT

All my projections dissolved when i got to know him better. Rather, he became, in his unequivocal singularity, a projection in himself. I internalized him, absorbing the blueprint he proffered. And though possessed of watchfulness my process of inoculation was both precipitate and thoughtless. In abrogating my cognition, i found a relationship but the relationship i found abrogated even me from myself.
What, i often wonder, renders this process possible, indeed plausible, this process, in a sense, where the worldview of the other, becomes, a self inflicted masochism. Granted that indeterminacy is unavoidable is not a certain veracity, underlying our projections, discernible. I am willing to concede that i imposed constructions and blueprints as to his being but given the vast untraversed consciousness of our collective nature, certain mnemonics were bound to be true. Relationality rendered that incontrovertible.
I quashed my impulses and intuitions as our relationship progressed. I suspended all scepticism. I circumvented disquieting intimations by forcefully repressing them.I eschewed misgivings. And the reason for that was that i loved him. And it wasn't simply falling narcissistically in love with an image or a love of self as the self sought love. He got under my skin. He ,through some alchemical imperceptible osmosis leaked into my sense of being. As our identities coalesced or more accurately he was superimposed, with my own complicity, into my consciousness i found in me reserves of sadism, perversion and darkness which were incommunicable.
The process by which these latent, immanent propensities were acknowledged by me was that while i abdicated on general awareness i immersed myself in the quest for self knowledge. It seemed that my collusion in the monochromatic power politics of this relationship was my desire to find myself out, to find out for myself what i was, could be capable of. My exegesis revealed in me, to me, primal impulses, unassailable and unassimilable to my rational consciousness.
So this self analysis, which is equally evasion, that i present here demonstrates the limits of self knowledge. Unconscious projections accepted consciously mitigate as ostensible absolutions of one's baser nature but their unsublimated, unresolved ramifications lodge one deeper into the neurotic morass which was, in my case, both alternately sought and desisted, accompanied by a spurious self examination which has become, in its circumlocutions around the ellipses of its own parentheses, a tautologous replication of my inner emptiness, unalleviated and unmediated by a metaphysical beyond. I need to find a way to break this circle.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

THE MEMORY OF MEMORY- AN EXPERIMENTAL PIECE

Thinking through memory was not very wise, not only because anything i recaptured would be not the original memory but a constructed memory but also because the immediacy of the experience i then experienced, overladen by temporal embellishments and reconfigurations, would lose its poignancy . By no means did i feel that the remembrance would be dessicated but the intervening gap would have clarified the obscure, illuminated the penumbral blurrings and revealed a certain element of the subterranean, now conscious.
In the meantime it is disconcerting to think about the ways in which the experience, which became a subsequent memory, made indentations in me unconsciously. What slips, ellipses, parentheses would have laid bare, to any discerning observer, the lineaments of the imperceptible forces of my consciousness. Thus there would be the memory, revealing its impact on me through my behavioural depredations ,as yet undiscerned by me but subsequently dappling my consciousness, retroactively, with both a recollection of the original experience and the configurations hindsight would inveigle. In a way this renders time fluid because temporalities intersect and overlap.While an ostensible breach, which the interrugnum signifies, indicates time past and time present in actuality they have coalesced wherein time present is immanent in time past and time past a manifestation through time present.
Is the nature of recollection always a construction? Is it not possible, hypothetically, that though each contingent recollection transforms context certain bare bones of the original memory still remain unaltered. The fact that though additions, elisions, superimpositions, disavowals are ineluctable they still testify, despite their tenuousness and ephemerality to a certain authenticity of what actually supervened. That even within the indwelling nature of apocryphal incertitude there is still a certainty. The question of essence, of being. Undoubtedly given the precariousness of memory the original experience would be an amorphous conglomeration of variegated permutations, reshuffled contingently yet randomly. But still, the question arises as to whether underlying these nebulosities there is a certain undifferentiated and veracious aspect of consciousness. I suppose my query is as to whether, despite the dubiousness of memory there might still be something unassailably , inalienably genuine.
And the more i ponder this the more i am convinced that an undercurrent of truthfulness underlies memory. Of necessity, this truthfulness is a fluid truthfulness and its constituents undergo continual metamorphoses but still, the integument is constant. And that perhaps is the protean nature of experience and memory, its unclassifiability, its appropriability, its attendant debasements and transmogrifications. Is it not then, in a way liberating that there is this elastic experience, entombed as memory, sometimes unknown, sometimes visible which, by retaining its polychromatic profusion gives a new way of looking at, interpreting and understanding memory. Therefore, perhaps, memory in itself is evanescent and transitory yet durable and persistent.
Ultimately the being, the palimpsest on which becoming occurs amalgamate and interleave harmoniously and kinetically. Being is becoming, becoming is being as far as memory is concerned. So the question of realiability and unreliability is superseded,in my mind, with the association of what experience is and how we experience it, what is real and how real do we see it as or make it to be, what is essence and what is existence. By blurring these categorisations memory becomes and demonstrates the irrefutability of its provisionality and the authentication within its indeterminacy. Thus it becomes a mnemonic of life itself.

Monday, October 27, 2014

WANT

What do i want is unknown to me. To know wanting presupposes a knowledge about the self. When who i am is indeterminate to me how can i be conscious of, or cognizant of what i seek. And in a way it is a relief. My mind is preponderant with things that i believe i know. Lately though this belief has been undermined. I find myself, through a process of rigorous introspection, being baulked at the accoutrements of satisfaction i have. All at one the whole satisfying edifice, only putatively consolatory, seems inadequate, indeed meretricious. And in the face of this irreconcilable dichotomy between what i don't know i want and what i do have i founder, my certitudes attenuate and my equilibrium dissolves.
Often the platitude of being satisfied with what one has crops up in my mind. As though desire were stoppable, as though a conscious foreclosure of wanting would obviate the unceasing concatenation of desire and wanting that constitutes any human life. The compensations are anodyne, predicated on repression. And though an assiduous conscious circumvention of wanting may confer an ostensible self containment its cropping up as a neurotic symptom or a slip as psychoanalysts postulate would testify to its intractable persistence.
Sometimes i wonder if i should eschew wanting altogether, create a self imposed wall of my own reality as a bulwark,.Can i handle, therefore the emergence, unconsciously, of what i truly seek? I could, perhaps take it in my stride knowing that a forceful suppression of the unsavoury could get me through the motions. But is such curtailment judicious? Might i not go neurotic?
Hence, in cogitating these imponderables do i realize how precarious my own sanity, indeed sanity in itself is. That no matter how indefatigable my self censorings my unconscious will, inveterately, rear its head. The unbidden nature of its visitations redoubles my horror. I fear self exposure and if that self exposure is not just unprepossessing but downright inexcusable then might not my interlocutors, confronted with this primeval darkness obliterate my being from their consciousness. And the attendant solitariness such a fate betokens suffuses me with unutterable terror.
But these speculations, though precipitate are also fruitless. The avoidance of future discomfiture, no matter how skilfully traversed in the mind, collapses when real life, with its capricious visitations, clamps it down. Radical uncertainty and inexorability render fate ominous and unknowable. Forebodings may sometimes be sagacious but a sagaciousness underpinned by insecurity, uncertainty. And i may perhaps , discover mnemonics ,intimations of what i desire but while the emotional reality of that desire may be unalterable its permutations, dependent on its importunate manifestations in real life, infinitely mouldable, transmogrify faster than my ability to capture it. So perhaps the only course of action possible is to relinquish action. So i surrender to destiny and let it carry me whenever and wherever it chooses to.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

ESSENCE

Ruminating about souls and metempsychosis i thought about consciousness. Much of what constitutes consciousness is nebulous . There is the corporeal physiognomy encased in the sheathe of integument and there is consciousness, composed of dreams, memories, ideas, thought processes which are both inherited and configured. There is the relational aspect of consciousness. So there is a vast amorphous concatenation of filaments of variegation which is the complexity of consciousness and the mortal frame in which they are entombed. How much then are our minds really ours or how proprietary our possession of our consciousness?
Even in a narcissistic space, i cogitated, with its attendant self enclosings a process of externalization is conspicuous. The self or consciousness bases its idea of itself based on certain mnemonics, mnemonics , disparate yet reassembled in fortuitous permutations. So, in a sense narcissism is giving a form, a shape to indeterminate masses of disembodied arabesques. And then, subsequently, falling in love with the form. Sort of like man being in god's image or as an equivalence man being enraptured in the mirror image.
Thus there are our frangible bodies and our overflowing consciousness. While a lone body may survive the cataclysm of solitariness through a quotidian immersion in the survivability of necessity consciousness requires interlocutors. Even the mirror is an interlocutor. So even at our most solitary we are schizoid, cleft, rent, communing with an idea of ourselves that emanates from but is not authentically us. And the authentic being, in many ways, an indeterminacy which time, with its attendant blueprints and conjunctions, congeals.
Since the interlocutor is ineluctable consciousness is a feathery, gossamer, floating, protean mass, both impalpable yet durable. Consciousness traverses temporality. The flow of consciousness is non linear and generalized. It is both a palpable concretization, embossed by the self and an etherealized abstraction, dispersed and attenuated across intersecting collective consciousnesses. Consciousness, with a butterfly's touch, perches and irradiates through a memory here, a dream there, an association here, a wistful commemoration there. Its fragmentation into coruscating shafts of polychromatic munificence refracts its constituents across time and space. It is passed down through temporality, reabsorbed, recomposed in a different variation. So that while the inexhaustible revivification and reconfigurations occur they hearken back to the self, the mortal frame from whence they issued and spread out. This being so, is physical, mortal death the irrevocable finality it is? Might we not, somehow, somewhere, anywhere, be living on.

APOCRYPHAL

I will never know him, that is for certain. I also know the inevitability of my building up of his image. In a way it is a relief, this knowing that i cannot know him. When too much onus is placed on knowledge the inadequacy of unknowing is all the more harder to bear, the uncertainty all the more intolerable. Because , constantly, what is being pitted against understanding anyone is our insufficiency. So by forestalling disillusion i prepared myself to negotiate this relationship with equilibrium.
In a way not knowing is also a form of surrender,a surrender to the unknown, to that nebulous force which governs our existence. Unpredictability is very much a given in life. I am quite prepared, in the absence of a blueprint, to discover him as we move along. But who is to say that my discovery may not be, insidiously, another form of invention. That discovery is making up. And what ratifies this doubt is my growing awareness that he is going to be perennially protean. I have to suspend anything i may discover because anything i do discover will be undermined by a contradictory proclivity he evinces. So while the thought of discovery is agreeable it is, nevertheless, illusory.
As a human agent this radical uncertainty scares me. I like to base any understanding on a certain form. Form is what gives shape to misshapen experience, it is what protects against chaos. When our zones of knowledge recede we are confronted with a primal blankness. Or rather such is my experience. The human consciousness is a process of negation,of circumventing things that threaten the tenuous order that constitutes our life. By such a process, the unconscious is pushed away to some corner from where it continues to exert its inexorable hold.
Though it is equally certain that perhaps true freedom lies in a certain giving up. Holding on to the edifice that has sustained us, however tremulously, proves, in the long run to have been a form of betrayal. In a way this not knowing i alluded to earlier is a gesture both of conformity and defiance, depending on how one looks at it. I am being veracious to the unconscious, leaving open possibilities with an open mind. I am neither anticipating anything nor dreading anything because ultimately what is going to happen will happen anyway. So my being unprepared is a higher form of preparation, a willingness to mould myself to the exigencies of a given situation.
And that is why it is fruitful to disabuse oneself of any certainty. It is bound to founder and undermine our sanest protective barriers. In a way by relinquishing knowledge i have symbolically relinquished a base, a form of our intersection itself. My regard for him is unaltered because he has touched a space in my heart which is durable. But the regard, in itself, is enough for me. I have freed myself from the caprices of his heart by embalming this warmth for him as an inviolable fulcrum. Whatever happens remains indeterminate but i will face it calmly.