Saturday, April 4, 2015

THE ANTECHAMBER OF MEMORY

I had had a moment of contretemps, in a dream. I recalled it now. My face was flushed, my heart beat fast. Blood raced through my body. And my mind was in a tumult. To calm down, focus, in a rather unfocussed way, to relinquish this dream memory and direct my train of thought to a more conducive channel was my thought. And thoughts, i do find, with sufficient will ,can be made to assume the form one's mind creates for them. It is as though the mind is a vessel into which, with its predetermined form, consciousness is both enclosed and shaped. Clearly such an exercise requires prodigious skills in blotting out the extraneous. Such a process also necessitates a willed, wilful obliteration of unsavoury intimations. No doubt in some deeper vault all of this stuff churns but in my mind, at this conscious juncture, foreclosure is the modus operandi .
The unbidden nature of memory, or involuntary memory is often spoken about. But what i find most extraordinary is the mind's ability to, even without, external stimulus, like in a vision or an apparition, materialize things deemed long forgotten. Is there, perhaps an antechamber where all our memories lie entombed? Is there a part of our mind that has a record of everything? Clearly such a realm, even if existent, is indiscernible to a rational, empirical perspective. Yet none of us remembers everything down to its most infinitesimal detail. As the experience, transformed into memory, surfaces it seems as though it is not surfacing as much as being funnelled. There is the original and there is this recollection. They are both similar yet dissimilar. What strikes me is how, very often, details which the conscious mind, while experiencing the experience, fails to capture are in their subsequent recollection delineated with a greater clarity.Texture, hue, detail which are then registered subliminally are refocused on with a more lucent clarity. So sometimes the recollection may be more piquant than the original.
If i allow myself to dwell of my dream memory contretemps i will recall, without obfuscation and without the haze of the tenebrous somnolence, the actual dream or memory. And i conflate the two simply because the dream betokens to an experience my memory is prefiguring. The possibility of this dream becoming a potential component memory is highly likely. What i seek, from this dream, is also a realization of an unconscious wish. Do i then, by deeming the wish articulable, make it a reality or do i, by self restraint, push it into a subconscious dimension? And does it stay there the way it is? A memory can be wistful and valedictory by virtue of encompassing that which never happened though was wished for fervently. Inner and outer blur imperceptibly. All that matters,in a sense, to coalesce the two is action. Acting out is what i seek, most assiduously, to circumvent, even avoid altogether.
But what discomposes me is a certain contretemps that might happen. I have given him, unwittingly,an impression of permeability with regard to him. I wish i had exercised circumspection, let him know that he couldn't thus assume my pliability . I alternate between a willed imperturable gravity and a feverish excitement. I dreamt, after all, of an already latent possibility, with a not inconsiderable veracity to true life. So as i had dreamt so do i both desire and negate at the same time, the possibility of a kiss.

Friday, April 3, 2015

THE FRIEND WHO THRILLS AND SMITES

Looking through the messages i wrote to him i found unexpected, though,in retrospect, obvious silences that i mistook as reticence. When all was luminous i regarded his silence as taciturnity. But now, reading this message, the tenor of my consciousness changed. Crepuscular hues, always latent, revealed themselves. The structure of my sense of myself collapsed and all at once i discerned,in my mind, layers that extended and convoluted interminably. I had eschewed obfuscations for a simpler explanation and now that very simplicity, defiled by doubt, exacerbated by scepticism, became impenetrable .
Polychrome and heterogenity became my nodal points. It seemed as though the protective wrapping through which my self enclosed itself from complexity had been unwrapped. As in a palimpsest my anterior narrative got foregrounded over my social narrative. My mind regressed to those primal realms where knowledge comes at a price. A commingling had occurred wherein time, space, being and my relationship to him conglomerated so precipitately that i became a volitionless agent in a random world.
Thoughts raced through me. A fragment would dissociate and imbue with meaning before another contradictory fragment confounded that meaning. Beneath this visitations to the conscious mind lay a roiling churning dense aggregation of things i had thought through or were distilled to me , coiled and intermingled. These were contingent on time and moment. Repetitions were unavoidable but they were transmuted into fresher and newer permutations through each reappraisal. Certain strands were inviolable but they cropped up in unidentifiable patterns.
His silences became troubling. I could not reconcile the discrepancy between his habitual indolent responsiveness and unprompted recoilings from contact. I could, if i tried, make excuses but they would explain nothing that would quench the seeker in me. Indeterminacies would abound, things would be unanswered and i resisted this incompleteness. Given that any understanding i arrived at would be from my mind compounded my misery. This uncertainty grates and galls.
But somehow these cogitations are working upon my mind in strange ways. I alternate between a numb quietude and frenetic chaos. There is a becalmed interlude in my head punctuated by the crackling static that sends shock waves of pleasure racing up my spine. These pleasurable currents congregate and then disperse, like a falling avalanche, into the multifarious apertures and crevices in my consciousness.These alterations of energy, this limbo and tumult intersect in my head in a blinding explosion. I see red, black and blue dots. And then a white ,peaceful, tranquil light. Some imperceptible reconciliation has happened in me. Chemistry, feeling, sensation, memory and experience coalesced to diffuse and fracture my anxiety into copable shards. I am spent, expended, exhausted.
At that very moment, he calls.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

CALLING UP

I call him. We talk for a bit. I don't manage to say exactly what i want but i say something. At any rate conversational gambits intersect. I sense his impatience though he never says anything. I guess i'm boring. I call off.
I call him again to alleviate an urge i can't control. I need to speak to him, hear his voice. It doesn't help that we have already spoken. I feel this need.We talk, yet again, desultorily.
I call him. He doesn't respond. I think he sees my number on his mobile phone and silently withdraws. I feel an unutterable anxiety. I alternate between guilt and anger. It is not a pleasant mixture.
I call him again. This time he picks up his phone. I am relieved that he doesn't deem me ignorable. This time i inject into the conversation titbits of interest and solicitous queries so as to disarm him. I think i manage well.
I call him a few times. He gives me a missed call. I am thrilled that he wants to talk to me as the missed call suggests. It could be pure formality but nonetheless the gesture counts, hinting at a responsiveness that relieves me.
I pick up the phone to call him but resist. I need a few days time to think through before this importunate calling becomes obsessive. So till late night i manage to stick to my resolve. Five minutes before midnight he calls me up.

THE QUEER MAN ACROSS THE STREET

Awakening from a tumultuous slumber i looked out of the window and saw a queer  man across the street. He was dressed in garish rainbow colours and was waving a banner with indecipherable words. I was dishevelled in the aftermath of having woken, my thoughts, like my hair, rumpled and indeterminate. At any rate , in the interstice of awakened sleepiness and wakeful lassitude i focused on this man . 

A deluge of sensations are crisscrossing my consciousness. I reflect that a queer celebration  might be happening somewhere near. Queer celebrations  are such delightful and meaningful events to consecrate  a communal sense of togetherness. Yes, i am queer. Though queer in a more amorphous sense that as something appertaining to my sexual identity. Queer encompasses the totality of who i am, my unclassifiability, my indefinable nature. And what might definitions betoken except a foreclosed sense of siphoning off the extraneous. What is extraneous is what is wilfully omitted as disagreeable. And that which is wilfully obliterated is most significant. A process of excision is fruitless because the excised excrescences inveigle incisively, cutting through the bone of language and discourse to demonstrate a substratum of reality that dwells immanent in the phosphorescence of a tenebrous sense of being. Like undersea life, these anomalous, though indubitably pertinacious intimations attest to the nature of reality which is provisional and tenuous. 

Sunlight penetrates the aperture of the window to warm my face. The cavalcade of these ponderous ruminations induces a prepossessing philosophic sense of calm and equilibrium. But at this distance, as the man across the street recedes from my view i look at a polychromatic  scaffolding with the word queer scrawled in it. Was this man i saw, then, an optical illusion or did i imbue him with queerness to actualize the latent dream thoughts i had only barely allowed to surface in my consciousness.

I dreamt, as i now recall, myself attending a queer event amid many other familiars and friends. Polemics, extemporaneously intoned, send forth carillons of purposefulness throughout the audience. Despite the histories that sever us, we are cleaved by a commonality that transcends our singularity. At some point i went to the podium and delivered a passionate speech, peppered with invectives against those who oppressed us unduly. Some alchemical process of transmogrification made the dream, on remembering, a kaleidoscopic patchwork of blurred and superimposed faces of those who were with me. This intermingling of gesture, tone, voice, intent, garb, mode of address became a jangled conglomeration of diffused countenances i feel too jaded to unpick. But i remember my speech clearly. 

Why, when we dream, do we recall certain things vividly while others remain indistinct. I think it points to the insubstantiality of the dreamscape. One inhabits a spectral, and sometimes penumbral landscape. Everything that in real life is disparate and indivisible is jumbled higgledy piggledy. There is an underlying concatenation but usually, to a more langorous mind, indiscernible. In dreams things permutate randomly. Life, memory, experience, desire, motive, intention coalesce and aggregate in putatively inchoate arabesques.And isn't queer itself one such arabesque among the multitudes of others. 

The sun has thoroughly warmed me now. Time for a cup of coffee. But what was i thinking of. It began with a man, all right whom i designated queer and then went on to dreams, sexualities, identities, the nature of reality and many other meandering strands. I can't quite cohere my train of thought and all i can grasp at are a few signifiers here and there. Certain spiral loops congeal, other, more transitory thoughts disperse. No doubt when i remember this moment at the queer book club meeting  in a fortnight all i will have are nebulous intangibles. Even now all i can focus on is the man i elucidated ,in this account as queer. Everything is a dense, inchoate phalanx and myself, the perceiving consciousness is suddenly being waved to by someone down the street. 

The ostensible queer man waving jauntily at me  is a clown dressed in garish clothes and the scaffolding  queer adduced with ink ( queer ink) for a book promotion. 

CATEGORIES

He said he was an atheist. I didn't mind. Why should i given that i wasn't exactly a believer. But the word lodged in my mind. I thought it elucidated a position of scepticism which proved the tenuousness of the believer but couldn't eradicate the nebulousness the believer laid claim to. Was he rejecting the edifice of metaphysics or the idea of a institutionalized god was something he didn't expand on. I let it rest at that , desirous of acrimonious dialogue.
'Is belief without a name still a belief?' I asked
'Belief needs something tangible', he postulated.
'Is that which is intangible to us therefore to be disbelieved or are we to accept the limits of our vision.'
'The world is mediated for us by our sense of reality. We must have got it right somewhere.'
I resist the idea of 'god' as though it is a palpable figure. I resist idolatry and superstition. But i do believe in a beyond.'
'Would not the idea of a beyond one couldn't conceptualize be a source of deep terror and uncertainty'.
'Yet in that very dark we could reconfigure ourselves'.
'How, it baffles me?'
'By the very fact that being part of a cosmic reality we get intimations through visions and dreams of that which is beyond us. Those hints are enough for the moment'.
'How do we know it is a vision and not a projection of the unconscious?'
'Because it expands and fills with exultation about the immensity of what is around us, humbles us, connects us with other forms'.
This dialogue with his brother, recounted in retrospect, breaks my heart , given, that metaphysics, which philosophers explored so assiduously remains, with all analyses and theories, an unknown and unknowable realm whose unfathomed reaches, glimpsed, momentarily, sometimes rapturously, elsewhere with misgiving, nonetheless transmute consciousness, from the banal and quotidian, while acknowledging their indubitable worth, to the transcendent and the ennobling.
Categories. Compartments. Fragmentation. Atomization. Discrimination. Hatred. Wars. Pillaging. Killing. Death. Destruction. Darkness Unconscious.
Sane, Insane.
Proliferating madness, Cultural breakdown
Neurotic stipples foreground, amid sane coordinates, limits of ratiocination.
Reason attenuates chaos into, Pores encumbering inner beings
Inner being becomes to asseverate, the only reality of itself.
I begin my narrative with a fruitless dialogue which then results in a more fruitful dialogue which opens up a space for my meanderings and culminates in a breakdown of words structurally to create a higher meaning while the higher meaning collapses in the wake of its articulation given the space i open up through their breakdown which emerged from a fruitful dialogue that becomes fruitless considering that the meanderings collapse in its own wake as the original fruitless dialogue comes full circle.
Compartments create fragmentation which becomes a space where, with sufficient pressure, meaning and language collapses. It leads, either, to a new order of being or folds back on itself self annihilatingly. But a dialogue, whether within or outwards, is never unfruitful. Imperceptible transformations of perspectives occur. A sense of reality, incorporeal, impalpable, creates new spaces for breakthrough. Whether one is inclined to metaphysics or not is irrelevant. The beyond persists, regardless.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

A CURIOUS PROPINQUITY

I knew of him vaguely. I found him handsome and agreeable. A chance message on facebook made me seek him out. Since then we've met numerous times. I consider this friendship solid. And i do love him inasmuch as i wish him well and admire and cherish his sudden bursts of laughter, his lovely smile, his thoughtfulness, bashfulness and gorgeous eyes. He is very dear to me and i do , as i said, love him deeply as a friend.
Was this an easy conclusion, though? I went through hours of soul searching, turning my preconceptions and chosen coordinates upside down, questioning myself rigorously. I sought to confront and unearth any underlying motive so as to face it and accept the complexity therefrom. But try as i might, any lubricity failed to materialize. I alluded earlier to his handsomeness. Even that made me delight in his company in the joy of his wholesomeness. When i had examined myself scrupulously and discerned no dissimulation i felt emboldened. I enjoyed his presence and wit, his gentleness and generosity. About certain aspects of life he evinced uncanny wisdom. About others a disarming ingenuousness that redoubled my regard.
His sensibility was luminous. He wrote beautifully. There was, even in his moments of naivete, an observable strength and conviction. I could see beyond the barricades of his self protection into his inner being, inner incandescence. And what i saw there was awe inspiring and humbling. I perceived a potentiality so profound and pertinacious that i stoked it by constant asseverations, expostulating with him about his intrinsic talents. Sometimes i allowed exasperation to creep in. But even his lassitude was, to me, but the integument. Underneath was a strong self possession and stoicism that ennobled and terrified alternately.
I sense that he can hurt me. I don't blame him for this hypothetical hurt. Circumstances often induce behaviour patterns that, unbeknownst to us, hurt those around us. Given his inveterate tremulousness i fear an abrupt, precipitate withdrawal from him. Or a decision to negate me for his own self preservation. These apprehensions are not unfounded though perhaps inaccurate. Such, at any rate, is my sincere hope. I only pray that our iridescent and intense intersections are protracted long enough for us to get a secure sense of each other. As far as i'm concerned i'm confident that what i feel is love, concern, deep respect and affection. Self excoriation has affirmed that. What he may feel is uncertain. And i don't know.
But it doesn't really matter. My regard is both unmitigated and unaltered. He has opened up a space for warmth in me and i shall forever harbour a solicitousness no matter how events unravel. If anything calamitous does happen i can live with it. It is a risk, like any friendship and the tides of love that buoy me, shore us up, are, though latent, incontrovertible. That, for me, is enough.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

THE MISTRESS

Is a rather portentous form of self referral. Though undoubtedly, accurate enough. The language has an old fashioned quality, it solicits felicitously, betokening an embalmment in a becalmed interstice of the sacred and the profane. At any rate such is, given the ontological ground of my aetiology, the address directed at me.
Nobody comes up to me and impugns me. People are either too intimidated or too contemptuous of my peripheral state to bother accosting me. I am used to cold, hard stares which i return with an equally frosty glare. People drop their eyes then. Insouciance , with nonchalance, can obviate many a cold countenance of its sanctimony. It is the contumelious objurgations, however, that i find hard to shake off. They follow me everywhere. And i feel helpless.
The man who loves me loves another man and is married to another woman and is having an affair with another man. These putatively convoluted shenanigans testify to the vagarious nature of his love interests. Do each of us, in our indivisible ways, gratify an aspect of him the other cannot. Sometimes i think of him as a mosaic, a composite aggregate of our respective selves, each of us being arabesques concentered around him. But i am tired of being a festoon. I desire a certain centripetal propulsion.
It is not that i am jealous of his numerous partners. We've all met and liked each other on separate occasions. And this dispersion of love is perhaps wise. Too concentrated a focus intensifies and imperils at the same time. That we can become, theoretically, as partners, sole receptacles of each other's madness is a frightening thought. The mind needs distraction, consciousness seeks attenuation. Am i then justifying this state of affairs as it is. Perhaps i am, but given that i quail against the epithet mistress suggests that in my heart, i am a conventional woman.
Though speaking of diffusion such a state of affairs as mine requires a mutual reciprocity and openness. Eschewing possessiveness, a very human trait is not easy. It is my belief that underneath all the flim flam of our paraphernalia of romance we are all seeking to consume each other, incorporate the other in our mythology of ourselves. This ravenousness is not inimical to our humanness but determinative of it. But we seem to have managed reasonably practicably. I, for one, alternate my own sexual rendezvous with his other partners. It is all intellectually pat and metaphysically inviolable.
But lately i am tiring of this process of adjusting and reconfiguring. I am concerned, with the passage of time, that repositories of each other's iconoclasm as we are, we might end up entombing, in our collective consciousness, the irrevocable imprint of mortality and disillusion. That, in seeking uncertain certitude in the face of a provisional and fallible humanity we might offset , as our unconscious unravels, a process of regression so irrecoverable that we might end up hating each other.
I can sense such attrition even now. There is a forced joviality in our comminglings. Our banterings are stained and febrile. And he, whose mistress i am, embodies an ineffectual jocoseness that exacerbates my misgivings. I need to settle down, by fructifying the lessons of largesse i learned through these intersections. To transplant this myriad profusion to a singular relationship is far more agreeable than disintegrating and nullified into non oblivion, which is how our polyamorousness began.