The day was a passing Epiphany, a poem being unrolled. I am enjoying the easy-go-lucky -time of Summer Holidays.
Morning was a mystic poem—a sonata of celestial colors. Monks rowed across the sky in sparkling splendor. I thank God Jesus for all the blessings given. The son rose as a poet reciting a verse.
I have started reading the Gospel of Mark and I came across the incident where a woman who had an issue of blood touched the garments of Jesus and was healed. Jesus on realizing some energy had gone out of him asked who had touched him. The woman replied it is she. Then Jesus blessed her.
My writing has led to the discovery of the self and I want to harmonize my fictional self with the real self.
I recall the words of Christ—if you honor me: the Father in heaven will honor you.
Lord Jehovah Jesus: Yes what I yes on earth in Heaven.
I rejoice as the Prodigal Son who has returned to the Father and whom the Father Forgave and accepted without any conditions.
Lord Jehovah Jesus: windfall my purse with a gain of 20000 Rupees today. My wallet has become dry. Water it with a good some of money.
My thoughts are drifting to two art movements in History: Romanticism and Imagism.
Romanticism according to William Wordsworth is the spontaneous overflow of feeling. Sight, Smell, taste and touch become tropoligized into aesthetic artifacts. Romanticism is a poetic sensibility, the art of transforming into a ritual of poetic beauty. Has romanticism become decadent? Romanticism is an art to appreciate nature. Here is a romantic epiphany. Dawn Started Moving with the lovers communing; colors nuzzling fawns, surging tourbillion glowing passion; eternity flies as Sadhus (birds) in white, unveiling time on mystic flight; brook of beauty running through gurgling moksha (salvation) all the way through; swaying pebbles glistening karmic odes, samsara (cycle of rebirth) meanders pilgrimage blues; beyond mundane life of aching pain and deadly strife, Heraclitus is moving from flux to feeling.
Another art movement that fascinated me is Imagism founded by Eliot. He defined imagism as an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time. Words in imagism become poetic ornaments. Some examples of Imagism are: The eye of the night shone in mystic glory. Poems gently float across the sky. I played the guitar on her body. Psyche, you beautiful ornament, you are an epiphany in rendition. Rain in Kerala is the heart of monsoon. I poured ecstasy into her body. Memory is a photograph in the album of the mind. Waves in the sky rolled like a hyperbole. I submerged in her lake of passion. The unconscious is an odyssey of the mind. Beauty blooms in a color. Echo is music of the earth. Art is the music of making love.
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.
Let your sweet petals
Merge in mine—
Let’s taste the nectar
Let a passionate
Of the sky—
A child is
A rhythm of
Morning cruised around smoothly. I took two classes of Geography, one the Geography of India and the other Geography of the World. I felt happy as the 9th and 10th graders were active and attentive.
It’s evening now and I am looking at the colored sky, the setting of the sun, all melodious epiphany. Yes, we can learn the art of the novel by looking at nature.
I pondered on certain Biblical thoughts mainly the concept of sin. All humans are sinful because of the Sin of Adam and Eve. But there’s a difference. A child who dies won’t be punished for the sin of Adam and Eve and will partake heaven. The second sin is the sin from knowledge, a deliberate, scheming sin such as adultery, murder, covetousness and the whole lot. A mature human can be judged in Heaven based on the sin committed by willful knowledge.
I also thought about death. Though I was an atheist, the fear of death made me a theist. The dreams I had of monsters are very frightening. I have a fear-phobia-complex. I sometimes think that any moment that I might die. I also think that I might have an accident. I am also afraid of committing suicide.
What is the Manna for writing? The sounds, sights and smells of nature are favorite tools for a writer. Writing is like: in Wordsworth’s words: I wandered lonely as a cloud. The colors of the sky are singing a synaesthesia. Nature is the embodiment of the soul and becomes a text for writing. The manna of the clouds poured a celestial music. The brook played the Song of Songs. The waves frolicked in laughter. Wind kissed my cheeks making me glow with joy. Thunder grumbled in rage.
Writing is a painting of words. Writing bequeaths art in the form of figures of speech. Syria is a wailing banshee. The sword of Damocles hangs precariously over Hong Kong. A white beard covered the earth. Fortune is a Goddess of luck. The ribs of freedom started protesting. Seasons are a joy of music. I have a money-empty pocket. Rock-bulldozing rhythm makes the brain go berserk. Cure the tempest of my mind with an apothecary. Palestine let nectars of freedom fly as dove making a homeland to live. Dramatize life on the stage of the theater. Let not the poison of angst become the dread of your soul. Let dreams be saddled by fortune’s wand. Eye not lust: Eye Love. Patience is a wretch of oppression. The heart is a nation o love. Slam a fist on corruption. My neurons are a punch bag.
Once upon a time there were fairies who lived inside the rainbow. They were a happy go lucky lot and lacked nothing. The prince Mosque descended on to the rainbow and did dastardly things. He shut out the colors and light of the rainbow and waged a war with them. Then came the prince of Good Time, the Sun. He felt pity for the fairies and besieged Prince Mosque. He dethroned Prince Mosque and gave back the rainbow to the fairies.
She is a favorite grandmother of the tiny hamlet. The youth of the village are especially fond of her. She is liberal, permissive and celebrates a free spirit and heart. Youth flock to her pastures to learn the first games of sex. She has serviced both fathers and sons. She is a nymphomaniac never getting tired, always wanting more. She is doing great service to the nation as a skillful instructor.
Today was lackadaisical day. I was on the couch most of the day. I did some Bible Reading and was reading Joseph’s story to rise from ignominy to fame and recognition. After Joseph’s brothers sold him to the Egyptians he became an official in Potiphar’s household. Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce him but he did not relent. Potiphar’s wife said to her husband that Joseph tried to molest her and then he was put in prison. When the pharaoh had dreams that no one could interpret: Joseph was called to interpret the dreams. The dreams of the Pharaoh were like this: the Pharaoh saw seven stout bovine creatures and then seven famished ones. The stout ones ate up the lean ones. Similarly the Pharaoh saw 12 grains of stout wheat and 12 grains of famished ones. The famished ones gobbled up the fat ones. Joseph interpreted the dreams as thus: Master there will be seven years of plenty followed by seven years of scarcity. The pharaoh honored Joseph and appointed him as the one next to the pharaoh. Joseph is a wonderful story of penury, disrepute to success and victory. Who would not want to be a successful Joseph?
Jolly is woman an ordinary housewife who attained fame and notoriety as a serial killer. She is a black widow who came to the limelight as a serial killer. It was when her children died and were taken to hospital, doctors felt something fishy and did an autopsy. The results showed poisoning by cyanide. Then the earlier graves of her husband, in-laws were dug and the results showed symptoms of cyanide. The motive for murder is lust, adultery and desire to appropriate wealth. Strange are the ways of the human mind.