Sunday, January 4, 2015


On first awakening from slumber my first thought was about stream of consciousness. My night had been restful, punctuated momentarily by disturbing mini dreams which coalesced and ricocheted off my consciousness with such rapidity that they blurred and blended with each other. The individual dream became indistinct, becoming rather a panoply of intermingled dreams that revivified, through memory, the concept of dreaming in itself.
Stream of consciousness is, for my academic snobbery, ample food for reflection. And it isn't as though ,on this morning, when i thought of it, it floated out like a disembodied arabesque, awaiting assimilation in the vault of memory. No, it always reposed in my mind, indwelling, suffusing me alternately with moments of revelation and stasis wherein what i figured out became, by virtue of being always already known, what existed as a conceptual coordinate striating its phenomenology.
Well a stream forks out, meanders, zig zags, folds back on itself, traverses byways and forks out. Such perhaps is the nature of our thought too. We don't leap from one causality to the other conglomerated linearly. Nor is a leap from one thought to the other a flow of free association though it is partly so. Rather the intersecting movements of a stream i alluded to earlier testify to the stream's fluidity and protean limpidity. The movement, albeit kinetic, though interspersed by stoppages ,is largely unaltered. Unaltered as a state of flux and metamorphoses where things are added on, repressed, mulled over, wilfully obliterated ,reminisced, recalled unbidden, sometimes wrenched into recollection. It is an interlinked chain which leaps over temporality and strings together past, present and future.
It is when i write down my stream thus ,in a logical sequence ,that i impose control over it. In reality the tenor of my thoughts was exactly thus. Stream of consciousness. Thirst. A glass of water. Craving for cranberry juice. Tropical forests ,Need to call up friend. In love with german singer. His beard is delectable. Consciousness flows though not seamlessly. Finished ulysses last week. Is that stimulus for current cogitation? Woolf does a more authentic job. Proust embodies the stream perfectly. Modernism is my area of interest. Its metaphysics are agreeable. I wish i could write like that. Publishing is tough. Experimental writing has no purchase in commercial scenarios. Oh yes, Faulkner and gertrue stein, lawrence's objectionable sexual politics. William james's coining of the term. I love Henry james's last three masterpieces. Tough writing, impenetrable prose. My own writing attributed with verbosity. A culture of minimalism.
And all this undergoes shifts and amalgamates imperceptibly as i think through the stream.
At a certain level both the flows of consciousness i appended above are veracious. One is the integument and the other is the substratum, the subterranean. Both are indivisible and run concurrently but both merge and conjoin and in their intersections random thoughts, huddled pell mell ebb and flow, combining into concussing waves that break in on the shore of consciousness and leave behind foams and sediments which deepen, sometimes sweeten and altogether transmogrify the nature of rational consciousness itself. Each emotion, memory, experience comes with a history, an attachment of nebulous but palpable signifiers which reactivate differently each time, sometimes instantaneously. A continual, incessant superimposition, refraction, ellipsoid disavowals and passionate comminglings are occurring simultaneously. So my attempt at disentanglement founders in the wake of its articulation. But i've learnt new things about myself, plumbed putatively inchoate patterns. That is, in short, a blessing in itself

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