Monday, January 5, 2015


I fell for him and i must admit that. My analyst told me that he was a solipsist who drew me into his orbit. But surely there was something that drew me to him or at the very least made him seek me out as a potential conduit for the self perpetuation of his delusions. I've always had a weakness for any patina of sophistication and he seemed suave and debonair. It wasn't merely the accoutrements of his self regard that charmed me. He was devilishly handsome. I suppose an unconscious sexual churning was working away in my substratum of intentionality while i succumbed gratefully to his graceful ministrations and solicitousness.
I suppose if he is a narcissist then i am a masochist though this retrospective realization is discomfiting enough. Besides i am excoriating to the point of self flagellation. In everything, with utmost severity, i am prone to over analyze, examine minutely all the possible angles and dimensions. It is not an agreeable propensity nor does it do me any good. But it imposes a distance from the depredations of the many men i've been involved with. By no means do i grant them absolution. I'm too shattered and broken to bestow that kind of forgiveness. But i like to keep things in perspective.
Memory plays odd tricks. Sometimes i subject my memory to my will or my incipient desire for self ascendancy. Even where i am self reviling there is a subterranean self importance. So that my memory, imbued with the emotional overtones in the unconscious , is directed into channels where my sense of self is revealed to me in the embodiment i enclose it in. But the embodiment or integument is metamorphosable and fluid. It changes and with it the nature of the memory and its overlaid associations change too. But experience has made irrevocable indentations so that while the form changes the hurt is unaltered.
I alluded to my masochism. At a very simple level it is low self esteem. His preponderance over me was proportionate to my increasing self dispossession. He became a bulwark, even if self destructive,in a fragmented world with no anodyne compensations for my existential disenchantment. I dare say if i had a modicum of self awareness i would be opting out instead of immuring and abjuring myself in a closed circle of self exoneration and self hatred. Or maybe i needed to navigate this circuitous terrain to find a way to break through.
To lay out the lineaments of our tortuous intersection would be fruitless because it is an all too familiar patten. But it did seem that with my growing misgivings about him i was rationalizing his perversities to avoid confronting the truth. And such assiduous circumvention, which never took into account the ramifications of his self absorption, was bound to be precarious and consecutively falter. To be honest when he fell in love with himself all over again, through the mediation of another woman, i felt emboldened to walk away. The external world is scary and ripe with possibilities. But i'd rather be partaking of it than be down there with him.

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