Friday, November 28, 2014


I dream, though a part of me knows that i do so. First there is the dream experience, imperceptibly transmuting to consciousness, followed by a residual conscious awareness of it. While dreaming i know that i dream and a part of my mind accepts, with full certainty, that it is a dream experience. But despite knowing that i dream, with full cognizance, i dream away and the immediacy of the dream as i experience it is not forestalled, attenuated or diffused in my experience. What is equally striking is that when i woke up and tried to recapture the dream all i had were fragments, mnemonics, intimations i couldn't reconstitute authentically. A simulacrum of the actual is all i have as recollection. I had thought, or rather hoped that my conscious awareness of having dreamt while dreaming may have lodged the experience in a more memorable format. But a part of my conscious mind, colluding with the conscious, seems to have obliterated ,in great measure, the original experience.
What i do recall is walking down a long corridor, a rather archetypal dream symbol. I remember wandering aimlessly, desultorily, with no destination in mind. Perhaps this peregrination is an indication of life itself, the journey aspect of life. Perhaps the purposelessness that constitutes my present experience is being, in a subliminal form, being articulated. Or perhaps i am seeking something that i neither know the form of nor the fact of my seeking it. The interpretations are numerous, the associations manifold and the interlinked memories interlocked, resisting interpretation.
The dream could either be wish fulfilment or overcompensation or denial. The mutations of memory and experience, recaptured and re-formed and reinterpreted in dreams, take on an unrecognizable form. They assume a form that is the concrete reconfiguration of disparate bits of our life, many of those bits unknowable. There, in the amorphous antechamber of memory and experience these kaleidoscopic slivers conjoin in a patten that is uncapturable. It is equally possible that the same experience reshuffled differently, permutates differently, in a completely different form. So a reversion of the dream experience into its constituents is not only difficult but inaccurate. More than that these constituents lodge in the unconscious mind.
Which does not, of course imply, that patterns are indiscernible. Commonalities are ineluctable but their ontology is unlocatable.All i have, despite my assiduous excoriation of the dream, is the incontrovertible reality of the dream itself. And it leaves much open to the imagination. In the desiccated, shriveled, remnant that i now am ,this dream, with its possibilities of reconstruction, revivifies and imposes meaning and structure, exacerbated by my search for inner truth, into my waking, conscious life. So the dream becomes reality.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014


Waking up from a dreamless slumber, unmediated even by routine disturbances,i had a thought. The thought i had was composed of a process which was thought. Something was being thought out or over. What i ruminated on was the phenomenon of anonymity.
Sometimes my relative insignificance irks me. When i see capacious, expansive, convivial people around me my inadequacy redoubles. I could, with sufficient assiduity, simulate these feelings. But more and more i realize that an impenetrable wall sheathes all social interlocutors, both from divining each other's being and from plumbing the darkness of their own mind.
What then, constitutes a conversation.? Is it a desultory interchange where surfaces are grazed but depths unexplored. Does the possibility of contretemps, glossed over, convey a subterranean layer whose exploration would be inimical to all involved. Conversations are as much about what is unsaid, or implied, or unconsciously felt and circumvented as much as the integument of conversation. Irreconcilable it seems, is the gap between what is said and what is felt. And untraversed is the realm where what is assimilated as felt feeling and what is negated.
Sometimes interlocutors dissimulate impeccably and assume a patina of irreproachability that belies their latent intentions. In the absence of, what to the other, is a conspicuous signifier alerting one to the palimpsest of discourse all one is, including me left with is our own powers of divination, putative at best, at worst hideously miscalculated.
I distrust my own instincts though i have found that they have often led me, through a circumlocutory process of ratiocination, to the inner reality of the other. I alternate, when i see my dire misgivings authenticated, between self aggrandizement and self loathing. Usually what i feel is an admixture of the two, each feeling dissociated yet conjoined.
So the anonymity i experience in conversations is both situational and experiential and they both merge imperceptibly. But nonetheless this thought i had on waking up , with its attendant discomfiture, returns me back to my own zone of anonymity with imperturable veracity.

Sunday, November 23, 2014


He promised me he'd take my call and respond. And i've already called him seventeen times. If my calls were in quick succession i might absolve him of this contretemps but i've spaced out my calls. A phone call every hour. The nature of exigencies alerts me to the fact that he might be caught up, be busy or preoccupied. But seventeen hours is a long time and i wonder if something calamitous has occurred. I hope he is safe.
Seventeen hours is enough time for anyone to check their phone. I don't expect a call back but at least a message, however truncated, to suggest that my presence has been registered. I am really unsure about how to interpret what has transpired. Though it is the absence of anything having transpired tangibly that worries me in the first place.
I've sent along a few messages. My frustration is mounting. I want to slam my phone against the wall, break this egregious, intractable excrescence into irreparable shards. But the termination of such an endeavour would offset the resolution to this conundrum i find myself in. I both need the phone yet deny its superseding my own sense of my well being. I long for a cessation of this predicament yet its protraction keeps me alive.
And i can't believe that i am of such negligible significance that he'd obliterate me from his daily life so precipitantly. He has not even told me where he has gone and in the absence of information i have only my convoluted misapprehensions at hand. I know my reasoning is bound to be faulty and importunate but knowing is insufficient. It does not alleviate anxiety and augments discomfiture.
I pick up the phone and dial his number. Then i put the phone down. I type out a text message but delete it before sending it. Then i hang up the phone in the middle of dialling his number. I think of calling up his workplace but even they might be unaware of his whereabouts. I think of calling up his wife, a desperate measure because it might bring about our relationship to an end. I long to alert her about our relationship while simultaneously suppressing that impulse. A disorientation has occurred. I begin desiring contradictory things at the same time. I both need him yet am repulsed by him, both want to end our relationship and hold on to him with intransigent certitude, desire, ineluctably, both his unhappiness and my own misery.
And ultimately despite this whole apparatus of worrying and self tormenting he will either call up or not call. I guess i'll just have to deal with it.