Tuesday, June 30, 2015


Love baffles me. Not the acknowledgement and professing of it but the uncertainty it generates in the interlocutor. Language slips away. Sometimes my assiduous protestations of a humane love are mistaken for lubricity. I certainly don't discern nor possess any tangible concupiscent impulse though my unconscious often unnerves me with its disquieting intimations of sexuality. Even where an awareness of my exiguous circumstances might induce a certain shifts in aegis i sometimes get misunderstood and unfriended. My impulse is to elucidate the specifics of my position but i know that the unfriending is an irrevocable act.It is redolent of something final and immutable. Any resumption of a friendship then seems makeshift, an etiolated diminution because a misgiving, lodged deep in anyone' mind cannot be easily relinquished. It may very well be a way to obviate the threat of what love can do .
A proclamation of love is often interpreted by some as a claim on themselves as though by uttering the word one is staking out a territory, with proprietary presumption, within the jurisdiction of their psyche.The underlying fear being that of something being expected , of something being demanded, indeed wrested, that cannot be bestowed without a grievous damage to the self. Thus layers of dissimulation and self denial obfuscate and distort the processing of love . It may attest to human fallibility but love is never simply a simple feeling of being, however undefinable but a compendious cornucopia of the self where certain metamorphoses might be inveigled that may destabilize the sovereignty of the self, its precarious foothold on its singularity. I don't claim to be above these fears. Doubtlessly i partake of their messiness.
Love ultimately is what we all seek and perhaps the acknowledgement of this terrifying need leads to a regression to childhood where our importunate petitioning for love is interlaced with a fear of our dependence, our helplessness, of our sheer survival. It is then that the arbitrariness of being human strikes us. As we grow older we reconfigure , we do find love but for many the undercurrent of a primordial fear ,of a retraction to that infantilized state, ruptures equilibrium.
People do find love. And it may be an acceptance of its sheer randomness that may inform our experience. It moulds itself to the other, incorporating the other while affirming the self, finding ,in accepting the other's love, with all its limits and apotheosis, a measure of our own transcendence. I prefer being a vessel of love, a reservoir of reserves of that uncontainable depth which is unconditionally absorbed by me. It is not erotic or candyfloss. It involves human darkness. But it is its own light.


Experience is not linear but circuitous. It stakes out territories for memory and coils them back into retrospection. The waves of experience, under the velocity of a moment, jut out. They ebb and flow, leaving behind foamy sediments. Drops of iridescent moisture, moments of being, seep into consciousness and alter perception.
If memory is a wave it mimics the naturalness of propulsion. Yet the wave never advances and retreats by itself. It is superimposed by other waves which blend with it, the flow disperses and attenuates, then intersects and intermingles with the expansive being of the ocean. Certain memories gleam in the penumbra, with phosphorescent limpidity. The subterranean underground life ceaselessly goes about its natural course. But here a mnemonic is irradiated, there an association becomes luminous.
The waves will continue, it seems, regardless. The sun may dapple them with incandescence or the pearly moon set them moving hither and thither. A human life is but a drop in this vastitude of being. The oleaginous waves striate the skin with specks of sand, rasp and abrade it deliciously, cool the heat of feet with sand that is traversed culminating in immersion in water, man's natural element.
They make time circular. The cycle of living and dying branches out, folds back on itself, stretching and contracting , setting forth and refracting carillons of vibration which thrum, throb and pulse with the elasticity of movement. In that very thrill energies are concatenated with the chain of the collective consciousness. Conglomerated memories huddle , underpinned by causality yet aggregated by the laws of capriciousness. A moment in time is but an echo in space, both a warbling aria and a discordant shriek of torment. But in between is the stasis of nothingness, numbness. It is the realm of wordlessness where time is suspended and a moment of convergence, connection ripples out concentrically, spreading outward in circles of expanding circumference before dissolving into the roiling chaos of ostensible stillness.
In the crepuscular remnant of being, death becomes spectral, an apparition. It ceases to stipple life with hope and desultoriness. We await, with dispassion, the ultimate emptiness. But we live on, our drop enriches and fecundates the ocean while living proceeds ,impersonally yet indelibly imprinted by us.