Friday, January 23, 2015

INITIAL LOVES

When i first fell in love, as opposed to lust the being of the one i loved assumed prominence in my conciousness. My focus shifted from his body to his heart. Or rather perhaps i blended the two. Each physical caress, fantasized by me, betokened to his emotional depth while his emotional profundity transmuted itself corporeally in my imagination. It was sagacious, this intermingling because loving either the body or only the mind hints at a narcissistic dissonance, an incongruity between the spirit and the flesh.
I congratulated myself on my clear sightedness. I harboured no illusions on his account. I allowed myself to be prepared to be surprised. Not dumbfounded because i had,in a sense presaged the surprise by anticipating it. But the bittersweet redolence of being unsurprised would have left behind a remnant of vanity, although a wounded vanity because my emotional landscape, given the importunity of love, would be implicated.
The contours of my own sense of self realigned when i fell in love with him. I had to reformulate the coordinates of my being. Now that i had, although without professing my love to him, incorporated him into my worldview seismic shifts were ineluctable. I tried to reach out through phone calls, surprising him with random intersections. But my percipience regarding my motives did not transpose into his realization of my growing fondness. Rather it was immanent in me, sporadically surfacing in efflorescent deluges of articulation through expression which he was either impervious to or uncognizant of.
I never told him about my feelings. I was terrified that it may distance him, make him detach himself. And i was willing to put up with this facsimile of a propinquity than to be consumed with unassuaged, unconsummated desire. Which doesn't mean that my forays into professing love were silent or unexpressed. Rather indirections, ellipses, parentheses, suggestive in themselves, were insinuated into my linguistic register. Though these inveiglings were largely unapprehended by him.
Certainties in life are illusory and the compensations of solipsism either anodyne or self destructive. So i knew that if i made him an emanation of my desire i'd be brutally counteracting my commitment to love. And if i allowed him ascendancy then where was my being, my identity. I neither desired total coalescing nor self regarding extension of being. I wanted self and other balanced, counterpointed harmoniously yet conjoined expediently. In this expectation of balance i was prescient.
The interminable protractions of unreciprocated love dampens my spirits considerably. But him, as the other ,is also an arabesque, a luminous arabesque i hug close to myself , knowing that even if reality fails me these iridescent moments of conceptualization of a putative union would be ample recompense.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

ALTERNATIONS

It was awhile before the thought, which had been at the back of my mind, came to the forefront. There was nothing dramatic in its emergence or materialization. I am often accustomed to being surprised by unbidden thoughts, unbidden not because i wasn't residually aware of them but because i could discern no causality in its surfacing in my conscious mind. And therein lies the nebulousness of what one ought to be able to articulate and that is one's own thought.
Thought. Unanticipated. Accreting. Disillusioning. Knowledge.
Uncertain. Unknowable. Unknowability. Fragmentation. Chaos.
Chaotic order. Indeterminate knowing. Disconcerting unsurprise.
Startling immanence. Fluidly immutable. Amorphously congealed.
What i know. Can i know.? Will i know.? Should i know?.
Necessity of knowing. Knowing to figure. Figuring to concretize.
Irreconcilables amalgamate fortuitously luminously narrativizing discursive ambivalences efflorescing effluviums desideratum conspicuous incandescences detonating incertitude unfathomability hieroglyphs gossamer palpable actualization conceptualization essence things palimpsest unearthing subterranean dichotomies putatively irreconcilable eventually harmonizing amalgamating wholesomeness being becoming.
While i thought through the thought and while i was thinking through it i realized that i had in the process of thinking through a thought which had already been thought through arrived at a latent sense of the unknowingness of things and its latency signifies that unconsciously i had already thought it through and the latency testified to the imperceptible veracity of the unconscious mind whose imperceptible veracity was rendered veracious by the latency it reposed under which left the fact of having thought through the thought not only ineluctable but incontrovertible.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

GOTHIC REVIVIFIED

I am accustomed to nightmares, so much so that i am no longer discomposed by them. Rather a certain reassurances suffuses me with feelings of familiarity. I suppose i have a rather gothic imagination. It is an imprudent folly to allow the mind to indulge in these tenebrous ramblings. I embroider ,in my dreams, though presumably with conscious complicity, though i remain unaware of it, scenarios which meander, twist and turn with disproportionate rapidity. Because it is a flight of fancy it is unrestrained, untempered by salutary and expedient intercessions of rationality. But this flight from reason is most prepossessing.
I rarely read gothic literature. All my imaginings have been culled from fanciful reconfigurations of popular cinema. The tropes, a castle, a coffin, a woman in white with a lone candle are all imprinted firmly in memory. I reshuffle these mnemonics, sometimes as the centre of a nefarious situation amid them or in the periphery. More often than not i like to be a watcher by. I suppose propensities like mine were what Austen parodied in her novel Northanger abbey'. I am aware that my inveterate fantasies render incongruous my relationship with what is deemed to be reality. I have ceased to respond to shibboleths of common sense and reason not because they are inimical to my inner life but because the reality i traverse partakes of these dimensions. They are subterranean, though and inconceivable to prosaic minds.
It might seem anomalous, though not altogether inconceivable, that my admixture of self consciousness and immersion might betoken to a reconcilement of dichotomies that are severed and disjointed. But it is precisely in the blending and mingling of these putatively disparate realms that i find my apotheosis. Psychologists often adumbrate that the gothic is the landscape of the unconscious mind. Might not my veracity to my unconscious evince an authenticity to myself which refutes the expostulations of unreality that often striate me with reproachful intimations of an overstimulated imagination. Besides the imagination partakes of reality so an assumption of its irrecoverable sundering from commonsense seems apocryphal to me.
As the aforementioned account demonstrates i am possessed of sufficient intellect, sufficient to obviate the misattribution of schizophrenia . We are creatures of imagination. While it is sagacious to check an unrestrained submergence it is equally foolhardy to suppress every sanguine impulse, withhold every consciousness of iridescence which might, if pursued assiduously, be a revelation. We all need an inner life, an inner being. It is the spring that nourishes us, sluices our unimaginative repressions by dappling them with inwardness, sustains and buoys during a lonesome night. And might not the gothic, with the concatenation of entrapment, subsumption and release it embodies be a similar form of transcendence. I alluded to nightmares earlier but they are resolvable and end in sanguinely affirmative ways for me. At any rate given the specificities of the gothic hinterland and its exiguous tropes i still manage multitudinous permutations. So while i manufacture my fantasy i watch with delight the accoutrements it dons of its own volition.
Reality, mediated by a circumscribed human consciousness, is incompensatory at the best of times. The gothic is my reprieve.

Monday, January 19, 2015

BLUEPRINTS OF AN ABSENT LOVER

I feel the warmth of his kiss on my flushed face. The slightest trace of saliva, imperceptible, makes a damp impress on the indented spot of my forehead where his kiss, traversing time, imprints indelibly its impression of purity.
My fingers trace the wry pucker of his lips. My forefinger runs around a smooth rind of skin which is flecked with foams of moisture. I press upon its centre with the thumb and a dampness seeps through the skin, wrinkling it. I plant on that thumb the imprint of my dry lips. A kiss, like ink on paper, spreading like filigree wrinkles across the circumference of my thumb to my entire body, irradiating me.
My hands flick through his neck length hair.As i peregrinate their silken waves my fingers alight on his stubble. Their raspy abrasions send currents of electricity coursing through me. My hands tremble and he, cognizant of my passion, turns over my face in his hands and kisses me.
Absence. Valediction. Commemorate. Moments. Preciosity.
I miss him. He is missed by me. I enable myself to miss him. His absence enables myself to miss him. He is gone now .
Why he left is a conjecture though i can, but only, guess.
What is the point of my guessing as it doesn't lead anywhere.
He loved Said illusion shattered reality inveigled
'In the gaps you fill the story' I say
'What story?' you ask softly
'Why, the story of my life'. I limply assert
And you take me in your arms.
He has wept in my arms today because he has faced a disappointment in love which is traumatic because i can discern when he tells me thus that it is the story of his life as to how the absence of the one he loved leads him to recall those moments of preciosity which in the absence of any concrete continuance of to him can only lead him to commemorate them.
A hen clucks about, fishing for a grain of corn amid the vegetable refuse. A sow reposes gently, langorously, her gargantuan physiognomy counterpointed by her lassitude. Flowers sway their heads, opening up their petals to the warm sun. The waves sparkle with oleaginous specks of foam wetting the shoreline.
I never realized that in comforting him i'd fall in love with him.
I have fallen in love all over again.