Art is a consciousness, an altered state of experiencing reality. Schopenhauer has said: ‘all art aspires to the condition of music’. Art in language is a simulacrum of metaphors and metonymies. Art is a symbolic picture, a radiant ostentation, a consciousness of possession. I am a lover of classical music, rock, country, jazz and gospel. Music is pure passion of poetry, an eclectic synchronicity of time, a halo of the mind, a rapture of the soul. It’s through art one becomes the mystic of being. I examine my own consciousness through the state of art. Yes, I have used weed. Weedishness as an altered state of consciousness is a passionate state of mind. I think the highest form of art is sex. Sex is the poetry of music, an art of transcendence. I love being a lesbian voyeur. They wound their bodies like poetry. She became she and they melodied as mystic flowers. They became poems of saturation. I adore saintly lesbians. I have created a new philosophy of art called art-cono-clasm from art and iconoclasm. Nietzsche’s philosophy of art is one of pulchritude. For Nietzsche art occurs when the Dionysian and the Apollonian elements merge. The Dionysian aesthetic elements are rhythm, beat, ecstasy and altered states of consciousness. The Apollonian elements are melody and harmony. In sex art occurs; caresses, kisses, hugs, sucking are melodies of harmony. Thrust, cunnilingus and fellatio are Dionysian. Sex is a tantric ritual. Libidinal energies have to merge into the philosophy of becoming. Sex is Beethoven’s sonata. She in Bali is my new found lover. She is a Balineez Hindu. I am fond of writing verses for her. I want to bed with her in sweet ecstasy of the poetry of becoming. Sex is meditation of the highest heaven. It’s a pleasant feeling to have the loins saturated. Sex is music, sex is poetry, and sex is panting. Sex is the fusion of all art forms. I remember fondly how I kissed her at the airport. The memory of the kiss lingers as a flower. It was an old granny who initiated me to sex when I was fifteen. I was so ashamed of sex then. I remember sex with her with fear and trembling. Dope heightens the feeling of sexuality. Then there was my significant other. I have performed the rites of sexuality with her as the flow of seasons. I am wondering whether all writers are womanizers. For art to flourish one must be a passionate womanizer. Ecstasy, you passionate flower of being, you soul of becoming, you gallivant the soul to the consciousness of a poem; I have surrendered to the passions of your wooing. I think of Anu! She is my passionate lover. The way she suckled me like a tender lamb was an odyssey of joy. Anu, you are beatitude of the soul. My journeys of sex are an incomplete book. I remember Sheeba my college lover. It was so beautiful to think how her palm caressed mine. I felt her tender breasts like the music of poetry. I feel sad that I couldn’t get to marry her. This is what I need in a woman, a loving heart, a beautiful mind and a passionate bed. Sex is poetic nirvana, a beatitude of the soul. I think of dear Valery now. She came as a UK exchange teacher program. She was a painter and poet. She badly wanted to have sex with me. At that time my conservative Protestantism would not make me budge. When I was in Hong Kong staying at the YMCA, while I was strolling, I passed through a brothel. The Madam there was standing outside the gate and said in a cajoling tone: ‘son my women are tasty; come in and have a drink’. My Protestantism made me run away from there. Next morning while I was ambling, I noticed her outside the brothel, waving incense sticks and muttering incantations. I was so surprised. Do whores pray to God? Seeing me she shouted loud insults and shooed me off with a broom. I am so surprised by her behavior. I remember nostalgically of the many missed sexual encounters that I have had. Then there was Shanti who was my colleague when I worked in Jakarta. She invited me home for dinner. She took me straight to her bedroom and started fondling me. I like a stupid fool did not pick up the cues. There go another wasted sexual opportunity. Recently I met a woman from Bali on an internet dating site. She is so charming. Yes I long to rush to Bali and make poetry to her. I am so fond of loving many women. Sex is an oeuvre, a passionate music, a crystal of poetry, mytho-poetic art of becoming. Passion is a metaphor for sex. I am fond of the many women who have come into my life. Sex is a metaphor of poetry laced with lyric of love. In India we have Kama the God of music. We have Gandharvans celestial angelic lovers who woo maidens to make love with them. I think the highest form of art is sex. Adultery is passionate poetry. One who has mastered the rites of sex becomes a true philosopher. Oh, music of sex, take me to realms of celestiality, narcissisfy my body to a lava of becoming. I have tasted many fountains and they are as sweet as honey. Sex is erotic, sensual, passionate, musical and vibratory with the rhythms of the body. How I long to go to Bali and make love to her. I want to sprinkle my dew in her verdant grass. I want to kiss her for hours. I want to hold her and embrace her. My body glows with warmth when I think of her. She is a passionate soul. She is my poetry and I write lyrical fonts on her. How sweet must be her hive? I want to immerse my tongue in it and I want to hear her moan in the poetry of ecstasy. Honey I want to come to Bali and meet you. I hope I can win a lottery so that I can come and meet you.
Music is the highest form of existence the soul and heart of heaven. It’s a mystery to ponder as to how did rhythm and melody originate? Music is poetry for the body and lyric for the soul. I am fond of classical music, rock music, gospel, and country and jazz. Classical music opens the celestial food of the heavens. It’s a manna for the soul. The melody of the heavens is harmonious like the twinkle of the stars. Passion sinks deep into the soul and nurtures a lyric for the heart. Classical music is a passionate meditation for the soul. The heart chimes with the weather of love. Music is like making love to a woman. Time echoes a melody of the heart. Bach, Beethoven and Mozart are my favorites. The divine streak of God is found in classical music. Soul becomes mirth of joy. Passion becomes saturated into an oasis of love. God becomes gifted to the soul. Love and peace radiate as monuments of joy. Classical music is a symphony of becoming. Listening to rock music is altogether another experience. Rock music is Nietzsche’s Dionysian rhythm and beat. Hotel California you take me to the abyss of hell. You induce me to experience altered states of consciousness and sex. The body becomes a libidinal beat of a thrust. Rock music has borrowed heavily on metaphors of hell. Consciousness becomes a numb vehicle. The sliding of guitars, the clashing of drums, the reckless oeuvre of the organ and the tinsel cacophony of sound, all awaken a consciousness, a rhapsody to the meaning of life. Cocaine by Eric Clapton is another brilliant piece of art. But it’s all about Cocaine the horse. Smoke on the Water by deep purple makes weeds grow out of brains. Whatever you want by Status Quo plummets the body to a wine of ecstasy. Another favorite of mine is Lynard Skynard. Their mix of country rock and blues levitates the soul to a New-found-land of ecstasy. Sweet Home Alabama, yes, I am longing to come home. Free Bird by Lynard Skynard is a beautiful rendition of art. The song speaks of freedom. It’s an acoustic rendition. Rock music, you are a passionate soul and a vibrant body. Listening to rock music doped makes a music for the soul. Listening to Jazz is altogether another experience. Time slows down and becomes a metaphor of pulchritude. The breeze emanating from the saxophone is pure metaphoric joy. The gentle slide of the guitar is pure joy an art. The body becomes a music of art. Soul transcends into a heavenly realm. Jazz is poetry’s music. How I love it when the Piano in Jazz plays fancy cords; the gentle rhythm of the symbols clanging is music for the body. Jazz slows down the body into a poetry of ecstasy. Listening to country music is nirvana for the soul. Country Roads by John Denver is a melody so moving so rich in the art of moving the art to make love to it. I am transported to the world of art. Let your love flow by Bellamy Brothers is a pathos of rich sentiment. My soul becomes enriched with the lyrics of beauty. The soul incarnates as a flower in country music. Beauty chimes in bells of melodies. Country music touches the heart and soul. Music moves the soul to a pulchritude. The rich sentiment of poetry is pierces the soul into an art while listening to country music. Listening to Gospel is a poetic epiphany. I love Allan Jackson’s country Gospel especially his songs: Are you washed in the blood, I will fly away, Amazing Grace, and the Old Rugged Cross. His voice is rich in the cadence of art. Gospel songs speak straight to the soul. There’s an art of vibrant beauty. Passion builds the heart of richness. The soul becomes a heaven of beauty a lyric of passionate edification. Music the art of the heavens, the lyric of the soul, the harmony of God, the passion of art, the richness of poetry, the time of passion. Music moves the body to dance. Music makes the heart to sing. Music makes the mind to flutter like a butterfly. Time in music becomes a pulchritude of beauty. Music is the soul of love, the passion of love. How did melody and rhythm originate? It’s a mystery to contemplate. Jazz is the music of solitude. Rock music is the heaven of joy. Country music uplifts the soul. Gospel music speaks the love of God. Music, you are catharsis for the soul. You are beatific in the ethos of passion. Music is the soul of love, the edifice of beauty, the transcendence to a beauty of existence. God is the presence of art in music. We can pour our tears of sorrow and our tears of joy in music. Music is the poetry of ecstasy. Music is the flower of radiant beauty. All art should aspire to the condition of music. Music awakens the passions that lie deep in the soul. Music makes love to the body. Music makes the savage, a beautiful being for God. Deep is my passion for music. The strum of the guitar, the sliding of the cello in harmony, the clang of drums, the bellow of the saxophone all render in me countless joys of experience. I become edified lava. Music you rhythmic passion, you bliss of the soul, you harmony of metaphors, you epiphanies of love, you murmur the heart to an idyllic beat. Music, I sink into your passion, I meditate on your effulgence. My soul becomes cathartic, a poetry of becoming a song. Music hurls me to heaven and removes the bitterness of hell in me. I leave my ego behind and become one with the soul. Passions raise flags and epitomize emotions to the heaven’s highest realm. In music the soul is not bruised anymore.
Painting eulogizes a human epic. My interest in painting lies in naturalism, impressionism, surrealism, art-deco and pop-art. Painting is a metaphor of human symbolism. It’s an aesthetic music of metaphors in colors. From naturalism I would like to take Davinci’s Mona Liza and David by Michelangelo. Mona Liza’s smile is an enchanted heaven, mystic, silent, flowing with the lyric of poetry. The charm of the smile is art hidden in mystic canopy of musical pastures. Contemplating the smile arouses the beauty of thought—its enigma a mystery to fathom. Mona Liza’s smile in postmodern humor is a condom of thought. I am caught up in the rapture of thought. Is Mona Liza’s smile a cunt of thought? Was Davinci painting a cunt on the lips of Mona Liza? Naturalism in art is a dead flower. Art is caught up in the Prometheusainism of deviancy. David—Michelangelo’s sculpture is a nude portrayal of a young man. Was Michelangelo gay? David is a metaphor of nude poetry. Naturalism is the art in mimesis. Impressionism scatters paint as metaphors on the canvas. Impressive are Van Gogh’s and Gauguin’s paintings. The scattering of colors on to the canvas live in the mind as fond memories. Impressionism is the music of painting. I wonder why Van Gogh cut his hear and offer it to a whore. Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo are passionate poems. I am fascinated by Gauguin’s: where do we come from and where do we go. Colors are brilliantly smashed on to the canvas. Impressionism is horny poetry. It’s a beatitude of music. Colors are arrayed in the rich poetry of music. Transcendence is God metaphorically posited on the canvas. Surrealism is the rich posture of dream with reality. A poignant portrayal is Dali’s Persistence of Memory being that of melting clocks hanging on trees and on an embryo. The Persistence of Memory is psychoanalytic art. What is the meaning of melting clocks? Melting clocks represent time running in streams of consciousness. The embryo is symbolic of an oedipal fantasy. Are trees frozen phallic sculptures. Dali was an oedipal child and phallic man. Surrealism juxtaposes dream and reality in absurdist naturalism. Another Surrealist painter which fascinated me is Paul Delvaux. He is famous for the painting: The Call of the Night. The painting is a haunting dream of music. Paul Delvaux is famous for portraying nudes. In the Call of the Night barren land is portrayed with frozen skulls. A nude stands over it with lush vegetation growing on her head. She is a young nymph. Is she a virgin being initiated into the rites of sexuality? There is a woman who is older standing in front of a cave holding a light. Her head is veiled. What is she symbolic of? A young woman with bountiful vegetation stands outside facing her. Paul Delvaux’s art, especially the Call of the Night is reminiscent of a lesbian fetish. Do skulls portray dead sperm or the beginnings of menopause? Another Surreal painter which I like is De Chirico. The architecture of space is metaphorically positioned in brilliant, exaggerated nuances of color. Space attains a metaphysical, deified transcendence of luminous conjecture. Another form of art which I am fond of is Picasso’s Cubism. Picasso’s cubist art is poetry in music. Famously liked is the Guernica. It is why I have named this novella Guernica. In the Guernica art attains the epic distortion of a metaphoric pathos. The Guernica is a painting that represented the bombing of the Basque town during World War II. Guernica is a graffiti of art frozen to a relic of a poem. Guernica is abstract music. Another famous painting of Picasso is the Whores of Avignon. In the painting nudes with grotesque faces, sitting and standing in awkward poses are depicted. This art of Picasso can be called as Oedipalization. The cunt and breasts of women are bull of feeling for the machismo. Yes, Picasso had many women in his life and he treated them as door mats. The brush of Picasso was a phallus or penetration into the cunt of the canvas. Picasso was fascinated by Bulls. Bulls for him were a phallic machismo. Bulls for Picasso are phalluses copulating in the ritual of poetry. Picasso’s art depicts violent symbolism, degraded femnity and a distorted architecture. The father figure for Picasso was a castrated phallus. Feminism wounded his psyche. Picasso was a matador of art, a bastard who cubisized human anatomy. Another trend of modernist art was pop art. A famous relic is Marcel Duchamp’s Inverted Urinal. Pop Art fetishized mass art into gloss manipulation of obscene consumerism. Everyday objects, cultural icons became deified objects of aesthetic worship. Pop Are decimated the boundary between high art and low art. Pop Art existentialized mass culture into a pseudo culture of fetish symbolism. I would also like to comment on expressionism in art. Famous is Edward Munch’s Scream. The Scream shows the trauma, the existential angst of a human being. The scream becomes a metaphor of angst. The colors used are dull and pathetic. Scream is a metaphor for a bewildered postmodern society, a society which is an un-being, a society thrown out of the roots of being, and a society where relationships break down. The Scream tells us that we as human beings tend to be chaotic, vulnerable and intimate. Defeat and divisiveness are the Don Quixote metaphors for the triumph of individuality. Humans are prone to passion and mad with reason. Values, institutions and society can’t handle the traumas of existential angst. In the mad search for existence, some humans turn to violence and fanaticism. I would also like to comment of modernist sculpture, Rodin’s sculpture: The Thinker. The thinker is so stiff, a man of frozen mind, a devotee of Nietzsche. Is the mind made with passion for reason? We are thoughts from which cannot escape. Reason has made us mad and passion has made us delirious with ecstasy. When will the chaotic rift between passion and reason end? It will end only when we become better human beings.
When I think of the sea, my thoughts echo to the novelist Virginia Wolf and her streams of consciousness novel the waves. As a child I was fond of building sand castles. The sea was a fascinating epic of curiosity. When I grew older, the sea became reminiscent of prose in a poetic metaphor. My novel is a written flowing sea. Waves became contemplative and meditative reflections. Grains of sand on the coast lay like the color of Gold. The spume and froth of the sea is a poetry with an attitude of being in a positive frame of mind. Waves you evoke the mind to the heart of contemplation. Your mystic fragrances of salt, your bluish sedation, your passionate sweeping to the coast and then back and forth are all tangos of art. What passion lives in your creation? You echo the sound of music. Your salt of bluishness is the waltz of jazz of a saxophone. I wonder what it was for the Israelites when they walked through the parted Red Sea. Sea talks to me in gentle rhythms of art. The sea is a tsunami of passion. The sea is a haiku of poetry. Waves sometimes they roar in the passion of poetry. The sea is a womb of the woman, housing the earth. What a beatific sight it is, to watch the sun shining as an orange ball on the horizon of the sea. The sea, yes I want to make love to a woman. Folks of Kerala offer libation to the sea in remembrance of their ancestors. The sea is a woman making love to a man. The gentle rhythm of sea breeze, the falling sunset of colors, the gliding of poetry by the birds, the indentations of the bay, the love of being in tune with the sea is a harmony that one can possess. Now I have wet my pants and I put the money into the sun to dry. A horde of whores come by. Their eyes twinkle with greed and ferocity. I watch their ugly glare and shoo them off politely. I have visited Cape Commorin. There’s a rock in the middle of the sea. One has to travel by boat to reach the destination. It is a rock where Vivekanand an Indian mystic-saint used to meditate. That is a place where the three waters of the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean become a confluence. I visited the rock one evening. Waves frolicked on to the rock like poetic jazz. The sun scattered poetry on to the waters of many hues. It was a sacred, mystic and an epiphanic experience. The sea now, a poetry of soul incarnation, a jazz of streams of consciousness, a soul of contemplation. When I think of the sea, it becomes a mystic of poetic beauty. I think of Jesus who walked on the waters and calmed the tempest. The sea is an epic of love. Tuna is poetry for the mind. I remember fondly, the Indonesian grilled fish that I had while in my stint in Indonesia. The aroma was so delicious, the taste so eloquent. I have a woman that loves me in the island of Bali. How I long to travel there and make poetry of love with her. The sea, now talks to me in meditative whispers. When I was in Portblair visiting my beloved her brother-in-law took me on journey through the many islands situated there. The salty breeze wafting through air made every one queasy and many puked. Thanks to my watery sign Pisces, I didn’t suffer from sea sickness. A French woman on the boat was wooing me. Like a fool, I rejected her gestures. I could have easily made love to her. The sea builds an edifice of aesthetic consciousness. The sea now a lyrical ballad, a poetic hymn, an idyllic pasture. I am caught up in the rapture of the sea. The sea, a metaphor of the womb. Each visit to the sea is like the beginning of a new novel. Ernest Hemingway was seaman novelist. Each time I write, I imagine I am traveling to a new sea. Virginia Wolf when I think of you and your waves, I am in the sea of writerly passion. I have loved your waves. If I was living in your times, I would have made love to you. James Joyce has also written about the sea. The sea is a voyage of time. Tasting a cunt is like tasting sea water. I want to wade into the sea of passion. The sea is a Homer who pelts out epics. Man conquered the sea and colonized nations. Now the sea is being decolonized in democracies. The storms raging in the mind are also a metaphoric sea. Sometimes I wish I was born as a whale. The sea is an abstract painting, an impressionistic landscape. It’s pleasant sight to watch children playing on the sea shore, building sand castles. I cast all my wishes and dreams into the sea and there I get a big fish of luck. Jesus asked his disciples to fetch a coin from the fish mouth and that was how he paid taxes. Thus we have the maxim: give unto Caesar what is his and give unto me what is mine. From the fish mouth is an idiom of a lucky happening. I hope it happens to all fortunate souls. How I wish that I could live near the sea side and spend the rest of my days with a loving passionate woman. Woman what I seek in you? I seek the sea in you. The sea is your kind heart, your beautiful mind, a soul cook and a passionate bed. There you are, you are the sea, and you are the woman of my imagination. I voyaged into the sea as an emotional epic. The sea, you are the rapturation of being. The sea, you are a celestial epic.
Philosophies which have moved me
I start right from Socrates. Socrates said: know thy self. That’s a deep philosophical question. I ask Socrates what can be known of the self. In the postmodern world, we as humans are a disintegrated and chaotic self. Yes there is no man on earth wiser than Socrates. Despite Athens being a democracy, Socrates was condemned to death by drinking hemlock. Socrates is democracy’s martyr. He had the stoic courage to take his death with light-hearted mirth. I say to Socrates: the self knows it knows not. Next I contemplate on Plato. I am moved by his theory of forms. I would like to recall Plato’s allegory of the cave. There is a dark cave situated by men. There is wall and from the wall emanates a bright spark of light. The allegory is used to reveal the theory of forms. For Plato there’s an ideal world beyond the existing world. Plato’s theory posits a metaphysical transcendence. Plato’s theory foreshadows the beginnings of Christianity. Plato’s ideal world of forms exists in art, in philosophy, in poetry and in music. In all these we are transformed into another realm of being. Platonism is ideated metaphysics of aesthetics. Next, I would like to take up dialectics. Dialectics as a discourse began in ancient Greece where a dense series questions and answers will finally lead to truth. We know that today there is no ideal truth but truth is language is a series of metaphors and metonymies. Dialectics has become Dialogical after Bakthin. A dialogical novel is prose wrapped up in poetry. During the time of the Philosopher Hegel, dialectics underwent a new turn. For him dialectics was a thesis, then an antithesis and finally a synthesis. How can we explain dialectics as an aesthetic? Writing the novel begins as thesis, addition of tropes becomes an antithesis and in the final stage the novel becomes an art, a synthesis. How can dialectics be explained in the political context? After World War II, the nation of Israel was created and Palestinians evicted from their own home, an antithesis and struggle for a homeland a synthesis. The World needs peace not pieces. Again during the time of Marx, dialectics took a U-turn and Marx synthesized dialectics with materialism. Material forces which work in society create its institutions. Materialism in its vulgarity has dehumanized the soul. But Marxism is a failed God. Entertainment today does not illuminate the intellect nor edifies the soul. We have become passive spectators of crass entertainment. Next I would like to move on to the great heavy weight of literature: Jean Paul Sartre. For Sartre, being becomes proselytized into an art of becoming. The Being for itself is an internalization of poetic subjectivity. The being projects to an entity of becoming. Being is a mytho-poetic subjectivity. Sartre deserves special mention for his portrayal of angst. Angst is real and experiential and the moral responsibility of angst lies with the self. Angst is not defeated manhood but the celebration of individuality. The celebration of angst makes Quixotic individuality unique. Next I would like to celebrate Albert Camus’ nihilism. I am so fond of his book: The Myth of the Sisyphus. Sisyphus is an art work on the philosophy of nihilism. Sisyphus is condemned by the Gods to roll a boulder all the way uphill only to find that it rolls down again. Camus is purporting the meaninglessness of life. Again existentialism has a panacea: authenticate your life. Optimize the circumstances offered to you. Don’t suicide but offer meaning to life. I move on from Camus to the existential philosopher Heidegger. Heidegger’s Dasein or being can be refined to an ontology of being in processual experientiality. Being or Dasein exists through affirmation, negation, possession and celebration. Next I would like to move on to Derrida the guru of postmodernism. Language for him exists in a binary divide. Terms privilege some and marginalize others. I have coined a new term called Binary fusion where terms attain a deification of neutrality. For example, the term colored encompasses whiteness, blackness and coloredness. Another term for binary fusion will be Hu/wo/man. Interpretation of texts phallification and vaginazation. Clitoral-tricks are fusing texts into an inter-textuality. Next I would like to move on to the modern father of modern linguistics Saussure. For him language is conglomeration of signifiers and signifieds. A signifier belongs to the sensate, tangible visual realm and a signified is an abstract idea. For example if Rose is passion, rose is the signifier and passion the signified. In art especially writing the signifiers and signifieds merge. For example I take a simile: eyes twinkle like stars. In this trope: the signifier and the signified merge into an aesthetic transcendence. Art Derridadaizes the signifier and the signified into a poetry of symbolism. Next I move on to Freud with a new interpretation. A postmodern Freud defies the ID, defies the Ego and transcends the super ego. This is the philosophy of art-cono-clasm derived from art and iconoclasm. Next I would like to portray the psychoanalyst Lacan’s thoughts. For Lacan the unconscious is structured like language. The mirror stage is where we become separated and enter the realm of language. It’s a stage where a being experiences desire and lack. For Lacan there is no stability of the self. The self has to do a tight-rope-walking act between the ID, Ego and Super Ego. The self in postmodern society exists as a chaos, pining for stability. The loss of values, the angst of being, all portray the emergence of an existential crisis. In olden days people had religion and God. After Nietzsche, God is dead. The hopelessness of life is to be encountered with stoic courage and passionate irony. Defeatism is the celebration of angst. The ideal human existence is a state of un-being. I would love to introduce the readers to my own philosophy of post-post modernism called Convenientialism. Convenientialism is the celebration of absurdism. In Convenientialism anything is everything and anything goes with everything. Some of the terms used in convenientializm are Binary fusion, phenomenological ontology, rapturation of being, and demogeocracy, the philosophy of Utilorasy and Bourgeolariat. In Binary fusion terms do not marginalize of privilege anyone; terms are neutral. For example the term human can be binary fused into hu/wo/man. Phenomenological ontology addresses the question of being. Here I introduce a new term and that being Unbeing. In a postmodern society—we have deify the Id, gratify the Ego and subvert the super ego. Rapturation of being is an experience of mytho-poetic subjectivity. Rapture has both celebration and mourning of human experience. A DemoGeoCracy is a world unified, a world that has no walls, no passports, world that is concerned for the caring of the environment. The UN has to play a big role in unifying nations. Next the Philosophy of convenientializm encompasses the economics of Utilorasy and Bourgeolariat. Utlilorasy comes from utility. Bourgeolariat comes from Bourgeoisie and the proletariat. There is only one class of people—the Bourgeolariat. Money should be freed from competent ownership and should attain a democracy of free purchasing power. Eudemonism is possible through the philosophy of convenientializm. Through convenientializm the whole society will be in entelechy.
What is the Philosophy of love? Love in Christian theology has three connotations. Agape is the divine love of God. Philos is the love of one’s own family and friends. Eros is erotic love shared as a passionate bed. To love is to be in the process of art. Love is the poetry of music. Love is the gift of the heart and music for the soul. Love is the divine gift of God. I have experienced Eros through the many women that I have loved and shared their bed. Eros is the elixir of passion. Eros is the nectar of the Gods. Eros is surreal, musical and poetic. When I think of Agape, I think of the unconditional love of Christ. Every drop of blood that he shed on the cross is a lyric to save human existence from sin and bondage. Agape is grace that overflows with the gift of forgiveness. We are freed from the guilt of sin. Agape is the music of heavens. Agape is the echo of the celestial world. Agape is a gift of joy. God incarnated through his son as Christ. When I think of Agape, I think of the love of Christ. Eros is a passionate bed, a sweet poetry of music. I waded on to her lake and she became a flower of ecstasy. Passions live rich in the body. Christianity is so rich in literature and so poetic. I am always experiencing the Agape of Christ. Reason is masculine and passion is feminine. Will passion and reason merge? Can one indulge in sensual pleasures. The Corybantic orgies of ancient Greece have fascinated me. When one thinks of the family one thinks of Philos. I love my wife and children very much. I am so fond of them. And I also love God very much. Christ has also taught us to love our neighbors and our enemies. If the world was saturated with love there would be no need for war and violence. Mahatma Gandhi was an apostle of non-violence. Through non-violence he was able to secure India’s freedom. Love can change even the coldest heart. To be in romantic love is to be in a passionate encounter. Eros, you sea of passion, you poetic music, you gift of the Gods, you typhoon of the body, you lyric of the soul, I succumb to you. Making love is the highest form of art. Passion is a lyric of the soul. Sex is nirvanaing the body. I crave for the love of a passionate woman. Adultery with Anita was pure passion. The joy of experience can’t be described in words. Adultery for me has been a vivid experience. Shame and guilt are poetic metaphors. In love we emerge from a being to a becoming.
When I think of the seasons …I think of metaphors, I think of abstract paintings, I think of music. How beautiful it is to have the four seasons, summer, spring, autumn and winter. Spring, Autumn and Winter are my favorite seasons. In spring and Autumn flowers bloom. Spring is a metaphor of poetry. The dance of flowers in the gentle breeze of spring is rhythmic joy. Petals leap in joy. Spring is a metaphoric wellspring of a fountain. The colors of nature are robes adorned by a mystic. Spring is an eclectic fusion of art in impressionism. The melody of spring lies rich in the fruits that grow. Autumn is a time when leaves lie as pale poems on the ground. It’s an art to watch autumn scattered leaves. I am an addict of autumn. I have named my lovers as autumn. Autumn is a rhythmic calypso. The dance of Autumn is nature’s calypso. Seasons are personified poems of nature in love. Winter is a desert of landscape. Snow covers the ground as a woman’s breasts. The ground remains barren. Winter is a motif for death. When I think of winter, I visualize skulls and skeletons. Summer, what a nice season? During summer I sleep outdoors. Summer makes me hot. I keep pouring water all the time. I live in the humid part of Kerala. It’s lovely to cruise along the backwaters of Kerala in summer. Another season that I love is Kerala’s monsoon. I enjoy children making paper boats and floating them in the rain water. I watch a rain-drenched bird as a mystic. Travelling on the backwaters is so much fun. The lush paddy fields are soaked in rain and they evoke the metaphor of a poetry of the earth. I watch a stork drenched in rain scattering its feathers. It’s cathartic to become wet in the rain. All of the monsoon evoked poignant epiphanies. Monsoon Kerala is God’s Own Country.
Notes on some favorite novelists
Kafka is an all time favorite of mine. Kafka is famous for the irony of symbolism. The tropes used in Kafka’s novels are so unique. Kafka’s metamorphosis is an all time favorite read. Kafka was forerunner of existentialism. I recall the protagonist Gregor Samza metamorphizing into a gigantic insect. He becomes the subject of ridicule and loathing for his family. The metamorphosis reflects Kafka’s on inner angst. Kafka was the most troubled writer of the century. He was Jew exiled. The Trial and the Castle are his other prominent works. In the trail a man is charged with a case but he is entirely innocent. Is the trial a symbolic motif a rigid bureaucracy? In the end of the trial we come to know that the authorities slit the throat of the protagonist. Human angst is subject of and a recurring motif in Kafka’s novels. Kafka’s novels are an impressionism of the mind and a surrealism of the body. I am also wonder-struck by the writer known as Gertrude Stein. Her writing celebrates streams of consciousness. Her famous quote is ‘a rose is a rose is a rose’. All of her language is the writings of tropes. Literature has to transcend genres and become more avant-gardist. Literature of today resembles an abstract music, an abstract painting. Plot and storyline are ancient dinosaurs. Another writer who has fascinated me is Maurice Blanchot. I have read his: Space of Literature. He examines the consciousness of a writer. The writer is a self leaving the self. All writing is confessional and autobiographical. One is an artist when one is writing. The pen that writes is the ego in personification. Words are the orgy of the pen. Writing is a fetish of ornamental aesthetics. A writer is no one but many selves. Genres of writing include realism, surrealism and the modern novel which includes a writing in streams of consciousness. What is the philosophy of fiction? Avant gardism has to make fiction an abstract work. The story is a dead relic. James Joyce in the Ulysses wrote in streams of consciousness, an epic covering a man’s day of life of twelve hours. Realism of the novel is a dead stone. Borges was skilled in the craft of magic realism and Henry Miller to the art of surrealism. Plotting a novel is as old as Hieroglyphics. The novel is a work of art an abstract painting. My writing bears traces of jazz and cubism. My writing is metaphoric and inter-textual. Next writer that I would like to take up in my dialogue is Nathalie Sarraute. She is famous for her avant-gardist writing. She invented tropisms, a device to record mental stimuli that passed on in the mind. Joyce recorded 12 hrs of a person’s life as an epic. I have chronicled a novel bearing seconds in a person’s life. A novel is a labyrinth of thought. A novel is a textual harp. Avant-gardism has to create newer and newer tendencies of writing. Fiction is philosophical art. A novelist has to live his or her life as a novel. This novel belongs to the genre of philosophical fiction, a genre of my own invention. Philosophical fiction where themes are dialogically discussed where philosophy is dissected with the tool of art. Writing is an art of the selves in multiplicity. I have invented a new figure of speech called the Museaphor. A Museaphor has a primary metaphor and a related secondary metaphor. Let me explain Museaphors with some examples. Dusk lies saturated as a cunt. The cunt is a musical stream. Word is a phallic Logos. Writing is the Logos of penetration. Palestine is a volcano. She is a hot volcano. Making love to her was like writing. Writing is passion found in the pen. She lay with me like a lyric poem. Sunset is a lyric poem. Music is the art of making love. Poetry is the art of life. Life is roses in a blessing and thorns as a curse. I am surrounded by an ocean of thoughts. God’s love is deep as the ocean. Art: you are a stoic ornament. Trump’s diplomacy is a stoic ornament. I fondle a cunt like stroking a guitar. Acoustic guitar is a music that soothes the senses. Picasso’s paintings are phallic metaphors. The symbolism of the phallus is related to the writing of the word. My mind exploded like a tsunami. The financial markets are recovering from a tsunami. Her scent was that of a flower. He coated a flowery rainbow in his poetry. Poetry is jazz of music. Jazz lives in the soul of the human. Why am I a living novel? The author is the novel. Passion is a tempest of being. Tempests are seen in fanatic Islam. A novel is being written in the book of life. I am fictionalizing myself into the art of Philosophical fiction. My hyper-ego is hypnagogic. Fairies and witches enchanted me when I was young. The irony of life made me stop thinking of fantasy land. What will happen when I die? I am so happy that I can leave a writing that’s immortal. We are vulnerable, intimate and passionate human beings. Humans are incurable sybarites. Humans alternate between Epicureanism and Stoicism. Is there middle path to life as mentioned by Buddha? America imports philosophers and exports Bibles and missiles. Jesus said that you must be child-like to enter the kingdom of Heaven. Passion is a river running deep. Solitude is the irony of existence. Humor is the triumph of life. The meaning of life can be found in a poem. Darling Anita, embrace me my love….let me melt you with kisses of dew. Let me smell the rich fragrance of your body. Let me fondle your breasts like a child. Let me suckle your nipples as sweet poetry. Let me make love to you like a wet morning. Plot of the novel is the pulp of fiction. A character in a novel should have considerable philosophical depth. The interiority of consciousness is the ontology of aesthetic consciousness. Roland Barthes, I am so fond of you, your post-structural assemblage of the sign. May your soul rest in peace. Picasso I am so fond of your cubist art. You have rendered painting into a musical metaphor. My affinity for writing stems from you. Artists and musicians, you have offered me more thoughts on aesthetics than writers. I deconstruct my Indian nativity. I have a white mind, a black soul and a brown body. I am a native of every country. Hellenic Greece you have made me mad with catharsis. Existentialism you have made a nihilist out of me. Deconstruction, and dear Derrida, I celebrate the privilege of the sign you offer me. Dear Shelly and Keats, you have kept the flames of romanticism living in me. My dear departed Father, the late Prof. V A Mathen Bose, you have Hellenized me in philosophies of literature and culture. Every day of my life is romantic poetry. My sentiments are colored in the robes of surrealism. Christ, you are my hero, I admire you so much. I have a faith that is Christian, an existentialism that is nihilistic and postmodern that lies in deconstruction. Interpret meaning embrace art. Noesis entelechy is the essence of life. Passion is a river, a brook murmuring, a sea of depth, a noble soul. I am not running away from time. I am running with time. Birds float in the sky—an idyllic poetry. I am a beatnik of the Orient. I am fond of Beatnik culture. Yes, I want to experiment with drugs, sex and altered states of consciousness. Jethro Tull, your music of the locomotive breath is phallic poetry. I am living in a Voodoo land of consciousness. Time is a whisper now. Kazansaki, how passionately you have written Zorba the Greek. The salmagundi of Catholicism and Hellenism blend rich as a trope or eclectic, cathartic fusion. Life you are the living soul of music. Man’s quest for freedom is the ultimate. There, the statue of liberty winks at me. I wink back in passion. Humanity is one, yet so politically separated. When will the need to show passports and visa end? When will the world become a sanatorium of liberal theology? A protestant theology has to develop in Islam. When will fanaticism, hate and Jihadicide end? We all want a peaceful world, a world united by the yoke of human camaraderie. Peace is the rock of Jesus. When will Allah become kind and benevolent? When will all the people of the world be imbued with the aesthetic of consciousness? Peace I speak to you in the breath of poetry. Yes ‘we shall overcome some day’. When will countries shift discourses to democratic dialogues? When will poverty end? The billions spent on weapons can be used to feed the poor. Yes, the world has to become a better place to live.