Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Made me realise the tentative nature of my subjectivity.
It is always so easy to think the reciprocal, that I am too much of a subject to indulge in the simple complexity of nature, but perhaps it is precisely the opposite.
That I as a subject am constantly threatened to fall into it. To fall into the ocean.
The ocean is a great analogy for the universe. (As trite as that may sound, and as trite as my justification of triteness may sound, infintely collapsing!)
I stood on the pier, and peered in tunnel vision at that expanse which I could not comprehend, but knew I lacked somehow.
I faded into and out of its beauty. Constantly fighting, pitted in a struggle against my want to collapse, and my subjectivity's defiance. Fractured between crying and discontent.
I stopped peering for a second, and moved by head downwards, to look at the water right below my field of vision, wherein I realised it was not the 'water' that I wanted to be a part of, but the entirety of the ocean.
That is, the drive is not to be water, or the ocean, but be the entirety of existence.
That sounds trite also. The quest for originality is a stifling endeavour.
To look inwards, not within ourselves but look inwards out of ourselves, as if we are not a subject. Like a secondary, more knowledgable subject, one which is detached, and more consienctious, and lesss subjectable to the whims of the all-ruling unconscious mind.
The moment we learn language, we continually fall into the conceit of the symbolic. The trauma thereby sustained is irreperable.
Write about a somnambulist.
Saturday, 25 December 2010
Sun shining, through the window, hazey and diffuse
sun scatters, segments space
born again, alive today
sends me whirlwind in a trace
alive today, in tune again
hypnotic paths are made
in tune again, defiant yet
a gentle thud
but she cannot reach it though it's in reach.
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
it has no limitation
it can exist in whichever shape or form it wants to exist
this randomness is what we observe in other objects,
their non-constancy of being.
that is, their assimilation with the universe
being at once nothing and everything
our mind, we are cogniscant of
we can observe herein the terrifying infinity of form
that our mind is everything
and we cannot fathom this very limitation
because the mind is an object
being aware in and of itself does not, cannot, must not reduce it's very own infinity
it's as if we suddenly an inanimate object became aware
what never disappears is the inconstancy of existing
we exist because we are aware
we exist because we are
and by that logic we are infinity
just as we may propose an inconstancy of an object
that it is infinitely reducible in and of itself
a puppet who can see the strings
perhaps that is like the eyes looking at the mind
we are layered unto a subterrenian layer of constancy
one which permits illusions in its very infinity
we cannot necessarily understand it
it is the law: of infinity
one which exists within must not see without
without this law the universe would cease to be
the ability to create an insulary environment is one such way a universe, or any system could be categorized.
the ability of a system which could not overlap with other systems, a self-contained tautology
and yet this erection of meaning means naught
we do not exist in any way shape or form
are not aware
we are mute
we are objects
we are things
awareness is a sideeffect
awareness is non-biological
awareness is primordial
awareness is a second layer, sandwiched between constancy of infinity and semiotic appelation.
it exists in and of itself
without the requirement of scaffolding
the semiotic struggle is fought against it
we have no access to the cosntancy of infinity
it is only with this second layer that we can play a role
repeat our trauma, obsessively detangle it
awareness is not illustrative
awareness is not anxiety producing
it is only the universe without awareness that is completely limitless in its possibility
there are no rules
everything is simulataneous
nothing is occurring
yet it is beyond possibility
it is all permeating
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Your skin, which he wished
Was his to touch; he stitched
His hand to yours and gripped
So hard you felt your bones,
Crush, curdle, you plead, don't let go
But he did, he tore away
Two weaved hands, they bled that day
Raw, afraid, with dread you felt
Your way through the darkness in which you dwelt
The hand it scarred, it left its marks
On the walls you scraped, bled, dried and marred
Sunday, 18 April 2010
The topic was: write about a learning incident, and critically reflect upon how it helped you grow as a person, and how it'll help you be a better Doctor. This is my response:
As I strained my eyes on the bright yellow paper outlining the agenda for this report, I looked back at my life, realising that no such pivotal learning moments had in fact occurred. Or rather, worse, that they had occurred but their weight, their significance, was somehow lost upon me in the hyper-real haze of mundanity. This troubled me then, as it does now. However, I cannot help but consider that perhaps it is not so much my history that is at fault, but the dynamics of the very question itself. So often we choose to answer a question without regard of its phrasings, its assumptions - without recognizing that its skewing is implicity subservient to a greater purpose. How can one truly hope to answer a question without that recognition, of what really is being asked? Though I am ill-equipped to answer such a question due to its inherent complexity and the high probability of my ill-interpretation, I do not fail to at least perfunctorily recognize the agenda that does belie this question. We are training to be Health Practitioners, a certain role in society, the importance of which does not escape anyone, especially those who run such training faculties. We are expected to give certain answers to certain questions which are befitting of fulfilling such a responsibility; and furthermore, we are graded on such subjective measures as to how adept, as indicated by this paper, we may be at this task. Though I appreciate the thought and the intent behind this project, I also object to the multitude of assumptions, teleological or otherwise, about how this task is supposed to link to our futures and what it ultimately assesses. That is, I object the ‘utility’ of marking/grading such a paper as an indicator of ‘sensitivity’ of ‘tactfulness’ or a whole host of other such wobbly adjectives which supposedly correlate with ‘good practise’ or general ‘goodness’.
Though I make no assumptions about the marker, I may however imagine at this stage that the above diatribe may seem to some as off-topic, off agenda, and even insincere. Already, the structure of my essay leaves a lot to be desired, especially in terms of the points I should be covering. However, I must herein emphasize that I consider this all as part of the critical exercise. What does it mean to be a good student, and ultimately Medical Practitioner? What are the answers that are meant to be given, and what are the answers that I wish to give – to myself, markers, and society. What is expected?
With such thoughts, and a general sense of unease about life as predisposed by that particular day’s preceding events, I stepped outside into the darkness for a stroll. This night, some week or so before this here moment of its articulation, today, was to be the day. Stereotypically thoughtful, like a walking cliché (how obsessed we are with reality, that we fail to even recognize that clichés are the only truths that we will ever truly own), I held a half-pre-smoked cigar in my left hand, and walked through intermittent darkness abandoned by Churchill streetlights. Still obsessed and frustrated in trying to ‘find’ an epiphany, I realised that epiphanies are difficult to come by, and that potentially, every moment is one in its own right. I decided that this moment, this thoughtful stroll was perhaps most appropriate and also not-appropriate-at-all moment-of-illumination for this exercise. In sum, my epiphany occurred at the moment of my deciding, and came with a warning.
I ‘already’ knew then that all that there was to be thought had already been thought, and all there was to be felt had already been felt, such is life; and all that really remains is rhetorical narrativisation. Life’s mysteries are occluded and confounded only by our childish necessity to narrativise, to tell stories to ourselves about ourselves, as if somehow bareness bars us from ‘being’. The warning was clear. That which I already tasted, smelled, felt, thought, would now be articulated, and in no uncertain terms, but on paper, in writing. That is the nature of this exercise, to make sense, to create links, to connect dots, to conform truths – and that too from a translucent sea of incoherence. Implicit in this recognition and acceptance is that anything that comes forth will necessarily be impure and insincere, as much as anything symbolised ever is. But all that is really required is a charade, a facade of appearances, a reactionary reliving that will pass me for a Health Practitioner, a respectable one at that.
[If the marker may allow me to deviate and fulfil the allocated task], then, it was at that moment in my life, that I realised that perhaps I need not be untruthful, or at least be not as untruthful, and instead write with sincerity (though still performative) about how it is that I feel. That is, I need not contrive and hyperbolize a particular ‘real’ situation to appease the system. The narrative which comes forth from here may be less ‘truthful’ in the factual sense of the word, however, in another all together more meaningful sense of the word, these impending ‘lies’ may in fact be more deserving of the ink on this paper than any corollary factual accounts.
That in itself is a learning experience, in that it is always better to tell lies with which you can live than to tell truths which you cannot prove. Telling a lie is at the least sincere, the act therein implicitly recognizes and accepts falsehood and that alone is immensely valuable. Whereas, telling ‘truths’, (the subjective ‘ideal’ as opposed to factual), in the service of certain imagined, illusory virtues, almost certainly smacks of arrogance and further ignorance of lived-consequences. Lies involve foresight, sensitivity, tactfulness, an understanding beyond virtue and value of one’s effect on this carefully unbalanced world. Whereas, truths, that most chimerical of constructs involves at most a self-congratulatory applause at ‘doing the right thing’, a nod to self, appreciating self-indulgence without consideration and appreciation of the opacity of life. (I write as if ‘life’ is a concept soluble in singularity).
My walk continued in solitude. My thoughts sunk low and spiralled through my body as if gravitating towards some mystery in my gut; a metaphor matched and mimicked visually by the smoke exhaled from my puckered lips under the far reaching shine of the streetlights.
What strikes me now about that moment is its inherent foresight. That I anticipated this moment of articulation to occur while ‘being’ in that particular present. That articulation of bareness of reality is only ever withheld, and occasionally spewed forth in moments like this. I had understood then that the very epiphany I was not having then, would be, and only ever can be had in articulation where it will be reinvented, re-realised, and reimbursed in full. And that is the way that one learns in life; even during the most testing, enduring phases of life, we only ever look forward, for that is the only direction we are offered. We are allowed the present so as to plan our futures, to lament our predictions and potentials. The present exists only for grieving our lack of immediacy. In reflection of that walk, I feel now that truth exists only at the moment of articulation, in instantitiation and through a revisioning of the past. Our actions are only ever understandable in instances and thereby justifiable only in lies through our (hi)stories. I bring this up as I wish to discuss my decision to take up Medicine as a profession.
In no way did I take this decision lightly; I knew the implications and responsibilities, foremost for my life, and also for others’, in which I would necessarily have an impact in this profession. However, as unfashionable for a Medical student to admit as it is, I must add that Medicine is not my passion. I did not have a moment of clarity or a sudden thunderbolt, which pulled me towards the field; I do not consider this to be it. (I am almost, tentatively, hesitantly, certainly
sure, that there is much more to life than this, and I plan to find out where it is and why it has not been talking to me). I personally am of the opinion that this admission, as filled with guilt as it is, will help me ‘be’ a better Health Practitioner. To connect the dots with the earlier mentioned performativity (that is, lying), I argue (with myself of course!) that to be feigning is more sincere and fruitful an endeavour than to ‘being’. However it is not passive feigning, not one rooted in self-deceit, but rather it is one anchored into an ideal. A conscious acceptance forthright of one’s limitations is better than the deceit of ‘being’, as that is not a true option, it’s a delusion - a delusion which leads to apathy and self-aggrandisation. Thus, for me, I realised ‘then’ (that which I already knew) that to be a good, responsible, societally acceptable Medical Practitioner, I would have to live up to, and construct myself as an ideal. The effort will be ever frustrating, and failing, but at the same time, it will be sincere and disillusioned. To maintain a measure of distance is perhaps the most important trait of a prospective Medical Practitioner - one acutely aware of his determinants and relations to the past. One who is able to see the underlying structures lining his actions, as relative to, and independent of, his past. un
Thus, even as exemplified by this exercise, we realise that to articulate now is to realise in this instant that the past binds us in uncertain ways. It is relevant only insofar as we may choose to refer to it for the sake of narrative. A real sense of responsibility thus dawns upon me in this recognition. This responsibility is at once fleeting, freeing and somewhat disturbing. A sense of personal responsibility means that it is not sufficient to refer to ones history as causative of one’s decisions. This is more so important in terms of perceptions; all that we ever offer to the world will be judged in isolation, in instances. This is not simply because people fail to understand context, but more so because the concept of context itself is inherently unstable.
Being watched from the vantage of a crow sitting atop the streetlight under which I loitered, it became evident to me that we exist at all only in discrete moments, tentatively threaded to our past, obsessively consolidating our identities.
Is this true only from the Other’s perspectives? I fear not. We only ever ‘consolidate’ when that gaze of the Other is lifted from above us, when we are allowed to ‘be’. At all other moments we are discrete, fragmented, conformed. Thus to ask for forgiveness/absolution of our actions is to not understand our truly disconnected nature from ourselves. The only logical conclusion thus is that there exists such radical freedom in and of oneself that it is inherently suffocating. Only in ‘performance of self’ is there real structure. We are chronically responsible for our actions, and must hold ourselves accountable for them in spite of our pasts, and accept full responsibility only as we could expect of others. Only in this realisation, this self-othering, can there be ‘true’ fulfilment of social duties, however trivial, fleeting and ultimately value-void they may be. By choosing the path of a medical practitioner, I choose to behave a certain way, to conform and to exist as expected by the Other, and to not do justice to this role is not only insincere to society but also damaging to one’s dignity.
As I drew my walk to a close, I anticipated this moment of closure in my exercise. I had also pre-planned that I would undo my thoughts by recognizing the problems of these articulations. The theme which I have tried to expound herein is that things only become ‘active’ upon certain symbolisation, upon utterance, and this exercise too has proven this, at least to myself. From where I stand now, and looking back 2000 words, I find it astounding, that which I have performed, that which I have uttered. The conviction with which I concluded the second paragraph now seems somewhat unstable. What is that not but development? The ‘truth’ of the statements is at best secondary, but their instantiation, their viscerality is primary. Only through action, through commitment can there be change in self. That applies too to my education here at Gippsland; whatever the doubts now may be, or wherever they may originate, the primary goal is application. Whichever direction that may lead towards will determine, in discrete portions, how I develop (even if un-teleologically) as a medical practitioner, and more importantly as a person. In sum, to learn is to act.
I opened the door to my room, sat on the chair and realised that I had no (k)new knowledge, but had learnt much.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
/crying is really another way to justify your situation/
how improvished this view point really is. yes, that may be one aspect of viewing this matter, but it certainly subjugates the rather more important matter of jouissance behind it. Jouissance, as an achievemnt of phantasmic consistency. Crying then is the chance of transformation of barred subject into a dissolution of the structures of symbols, a sublimation, the chance of its occurence probably which forms the basis of everyday reality.
That is, there exists always already the chance of this dissolution, it supports the confusion inherent in interpreting the symbolic structure, its anxious plasticity.
its this 'break' from 'reality' which acts as that which threatens to achieve jouissance. its potential existence (never realised in full) is that which allows it to act as that which is the objet petit a. Its the 'object'/situation/scenario, which we so desire so that it may grant us phantasmic immunity, by freeing us from the structures of symbols. It'll help us achieve our 'real'.
But it does not. In fact the exercise in itself is merely circular.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Friday, 11 September 2009
I just seriously don't get it. Granted the Beatles were an amusing little pop group, and granted they have a few great songs, but do they really deserve the sort of deification that is afforded to them?
I mean really. I just don't get why! They were okay, i guess, but nothing GodLike in the least.
My op at least.
Friday, 26 June 2009
I am not sure about the sincerity of my motives in his (god is male) defence, that is, whether I am doing it simply because it is now fashionable to be an atheist, but one thing is for sure, my defence is sincere.
My quibbles (what a sweet word) are not with the rejection of the organized religion, as I have been through that phase already. I am to all intents and purposes still a devout atheist, devout in nothing and everything. The issues I have here are with the simplicity of the rejection of God. The notion that God doesn't exist because Science says so, which though is invariably true, strikes me as an inherently improvished line of thought. I feel I'm being an apologetic for my own thoughts as I write this. But I must clarify, that what I mean is simply that after the initial urge that I had to fervently reject God, almost with fundamentalist zeal, after a while that seems to be a rather juvenile a realisation. The 'joy' of intellectual superiority is terribly short lived, while the slow realisation sets in that you indeed are missing something. That something may not be crucial, but it is something*.
That something, a gap which does not need to be filled in with the semantically loaded word 'god' seems however be best filled by it. As rejection of God, as a notion, is worthy of analysis. As generally it seems that the rejection of God, is accompanied with an enlightened acceptance of the converse, acceptance of the sciences. That is, materialism, determinism, belief in cause and effect, repeatability. The sentence which defies the existence of god, is often punctuated with exclaimed rationality. That is what I have trouble with.
Though it is easily arguable that Rationality can exist in a Godless universe, which is undoubtedly true - but I would argue that the weight that the term 'God' carries in our society, and the connotations which result in its rejection, are beyond mere 'theist' opinions. So while rationality exists - certainly - in a God-less universe, I think by the same token we must also examine the slippery nature of the understanding of the term 'rationality'. It is so easy to fall into the trap of thinking of the term as existing outside of our societal aspirations. That somehow the word is extra-textual, and grounded in 'real' reality, and not 'subjective' reality.
That is definitely not to say that rationality does not exist. I for one am certain that rationality exists and plays a gargantuan role in the role of the human intellectual evolution, but by the same token it becomes then so easily to forget the role of the symbolic in the role of that same evoltution. That so much of our lives are not goverened by the rational, but by the symbolic, by the imaginary. That is, the human condition is not a result of cause and effect. Again, it is arguable now that the symbolic and the imaginary are mere physical reactions, which are also accountable to physical laws (thoughts are neural connections), and yes, that would be a valid argument in our limited scientific understanding (as it always necessarily will be) at the present time (much like the world was flat a while back).
However, as tempting as that argument is, even the its most ardent defenders would recognize the futility in its adherence. The human condition exists in spite of the futility and finity of our existence. Our existential realities exist squarely in the face of rationality. A actual acceptance of our insignificance is not only impossible, but also irrational. For significance and insignificance themselves are words devised by our societies, and filled with meanings. So though our lives may still be deterministic, and rationally goverened, our disembodied existence can never be. For it is the existence that exists outside the realm of language. Outside the realm of significance and weight. It is of unbearable lightness, as Kundera would have it. It has no semantic attachments grounded in the values of society. The apperceptive engagement of our senses with rationality is what millenia worth of paper have been wasted on. It is not so easy to explain it away. And if you do, as I have done, sooner or later you will learn to divorce it from rationality.
As I write, I can just sense the criticisms flowing through, but I also understand how easy it is to defend a crudely atheistic position behind the veil of scientific realism.
To come back to my original line of thought. A rejection of God is easy.but I'm weary of the accompanying rejections. God, the notion, in itself can be semantically reappropriated by the post-atheist individual. The concept need not be held hostage to the lowest troughs of its connotations, but should also be understood for the highest crests of its potential. An endeavour without aim or reason, but that very lack is what makes it precisely so relevant to individual existence. A futile endeavour is perhaps the most important endeavour.
* i'm NOT claiming that theists are privy exclusively to this knowledge of this 'something 'btw. Definitely this 'knowledge' if you can call it that, exists almost always after the rejection of the equally simplistic blind belief in 'God'.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Sunday, 31 May 2009
But I hasten to add, it isn't the case with all girls...
Monday, 25 May 2009
My forefathers, my grandparents, going back centuries, have suffered at the hands of these oppressors. Who believe they have some religious obligation to enslave and dehumanise us Dalits. Let us not be under any illusion, these attacks were NOT about a disagreement in doctrine, these attacks were a direct results of Jatts taking exception to the teaching of Dalit saint Ravidass to attack the Chamars. THIS WAS A CASTE BASED ATTACK.
Whoever says things have changed in the caste system is ignorant at best. Things haven't changed, they've merely shifted underground. And in events like this we can bear witness to the emergence, the resurfacing of this centuries old hatred which finds its way through the cracks of capitalism. Money is the only thing that is holding 'us', the imagined indian community, together. Are the self-celebratory upper castes forgetting that when they imagine the caste system to be obsolete, they're doing nothing but absolving themselves from the blame? Can people not truly look at themselves and realise the hypocracy here? How many ppl are going to come forth - even in the blogosphere - and truly condemn this act of hatred. And on the contrary, how many ppl are going to sit around and believe that this truly was simply a freak occurence, and that things aren't really like this. For I believe the latter position is simply an encouragement to the terrorists, these Jatt terrorists. To not speak out against crimes of humanity, means you are also implicated; and deny it as you may, most people really do not care. When the oppressors turn a blind eye to events under the guise of non-discrimination (we don't care because we're not castists), it is clear to see that what they're really doing is supporting their power struggle. It is in their best interest to let the extremists to do the hard work for them, when they themselves can sit at home and act outraged for 2 minutes.
This post is not meant to incite anyone to get off their butts and do something about anything. For I know that's impossible. I know, the Dalits will continue to feel opressed, and the Jatt's, continously feeling disenfranchised will continually oppress. That is the way it has always been, the status quo, and that in my cynical mind, is the way it will remain.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
I'm writing for the first time in 2009. Auspicious.
Currently I'm sitting at my laptop on India, doing pretty much exactly the same things that I'd be doing in NZ, my home country. And that disturbs me. Its not so much the homogeneity of existence which troubles me; its more so the recognition of the constant that is me. I can say to some extent now that I have had at least some share of my travelling done. It was grand. However at the same time, I can't help but feel how dull it also was. Let me explain...for I know a few people who'll read this and simply laugh it off as plain old pessimism - let me assure you, that is not the case.
It's not that I did not enjoy myself, or that I didn't do all the stupid things which qualify one later on as experienced. It's more so the consistent nagging of reality even whilst travelling which drips like tap drops onto your forehead unintermittentaly that I refer to. The tap drops, like gentle torture, keep you in check of the simple fact that 'you exist'. Perhaps this is all because of the rather futile endeavour of seeking authenticity - primitive roots - in another community that one feels disappointed. But even grander than that I feel is another reason. As a tourist, scopophilia becomes so suffocatingly dense in your eyes you begin to feel your very benign existence. And one could argue that this is precisely the very thing one travels to get away from.
But I've found that this is the very joy of travelling. One should, before embarking, get their expectations straight. I have learnt now that I will always travel with myself, no matter how many other people are around me to drown out white noises. Man this is so wanky. In the end, in simple terms, what I'm trying to say is: I love travelling, I aim to do a whole lot more further on this year . . . its just more fun, and life changing, if you get your expectations straight.
Friday, 8 August 2008
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Not quite sure yet what to write about. Something pseudo-intellectual as usual perhaps? That's a thought, but my brain's not working quite at full functionality right now.
Things are going quite well right now. Too well really. And I suppose that's why I have nothing to write about. I feel quite optimistic about the future, and it seems that good writing feeds on nothing but misery. Thus what I'm writing now is utter garbage. I can feel my fingers exuding muck on the keyboard as I type.
I still haven't got around to editing all my photos from my europe trip. I really need to get on to that. Some photos are actually okay, unlike most of my endeavours. But then, I think if you end up taking hundreds of pictures, the chances are at least 1 percent should be good. And indeed they are.
I would like to say I miss being in England and all, but I would be lying. It's not so much that I miss it, it's more that I enjoy restrospection of it. It gets better the more in the past it goes, as it becomes a more and more fantasmic locale which I once inhabited. Similarly the europe expidition becomes ever-increasingly exoticised in my imagination as the days roll by in the mundanity of home-town. Funnily enough, I used to call Leeds home while I was there. How flexible that term is? Easy to own and disown at one's will. But then, what isn't?
I'm distinctly uninspired today to write about anything. But I'm enjoying this obscenity right now. This self-indulgent strip tease to the rest of the world using virtuality as my mask. It's fun. It's fun. It's obscene. That's why it's fun.
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Here I am...posting after a long time on this page.
However, I'm worried about what this post says about me. The fact of the matter is, for me, blogging is entirely (?) performative. That is, it's about virtual existences which in fact neither mirror nor replace existence in 'reality' - whatever that is.
The level of self-involvment inherent in these posts is unbearable. That is in fact why I've, to a large extent, stopped posting. The dissonance that one experiences when publishing material entirely dishonestly, with utter sincerity, about existence is too powerful to ignore.
Facebook? Blogging? What the fuck? Why does life need to be embellished so? Life is not glamarous, be it virtual or non-virtual. However, our net lives are embedded helplesses within a web of hyperreality of the celebrity. We are all so insecure about our actual helplessness when faced with everyday life, that we feel we must appear otherwise if we are to ever be happy. Blogging offers faux empowerement. My post is testament to this fact.
That's pathology. Pathology. The pathology of existing within a modern world. We're all sick.
Sunday, 9 March 2008
Thursday, 7 February 2008
This post is from the UK. Yes, I have finally arrived. Well, actually I arrived some time ago, but I decided I should post now, since I actually have studies. I am in fact meant to be writing my essay right now, but this seemed infinitely more alluring.
So yeah...about England....it's cold. And the studpidest thing, it snows here! Though it was beautiful and all to see the snow fall, you kinda get over it on the account of freezing to death.
But apart from that...it's very nice. Everything is so culturally and heritagy and snobby....just the way us pretentious folk like it!