The crystal ball was out early, hanging as an immaculate witch in the sky…I gazed at her like a poetic ornament…I was tantalized by her reflection on the mango tree…I felt my phallus being sodomized by a witch…I became a poet and started writing poetry…There she lies gazing at me with poetic splendor…She made me a wizard of imagination…I said a hi to her by pinching my nipples…There, her reflection is falling on the window sill of my house…I am listening to Bach and eating electric sandwiches…My soul is over amorized…Witch from a coven, yield your poetic soul to me…Yes, I have fallen in love with you….
The Depreciated Legacy of Cervantes
In the beginning of the depreciated legacy of Cervantes, the author makes the assumption that the whole History of Europe extending up to America has plunged into a crises with the development of science and technology.
As a novelist Kundera states that the founder of Modern Europe is Cervantes the author of Don Quixote.
The European novelists focus on various themes. With Cervantes it was adventure. With Balzac it was man’s rootedness in History. With Flaubert it was the incognita of the day. With Tolstoy it was intrusions into the irrationality of human behavior.
The theme of the European Novel lay in the passion to know that is the concrete character of life.
The novel began to have an own phases of life which was renegade with Nietzsche’s theme: Death of God. With Cervantes, truth became baptized as a dead fossil and there emerged a plethora of truths; the character became an imaginary self. The knowledge of good and evil attains a relativistic character, one of ambiguity. Kundera quotes Kafka’s novel, The Trial where an innocent man K becomes the victim of an unjust court.
Don Quixote is a novel where time exits as a juxtaposition between magic and reality. The perspective of time changes when History enters into the realm of being. With the coming of Balzac, the institutions of the society like money, crime, police and law and order enter as epic proportions in the novel.
The modern novel is a paradox where characters are flavored with disaster, yet there’s the triumph of character.
Even though Modern Europe characterizes the rise of rationality—the identity of the self breaks apart. Europe is entangled in the horror of war. Destiny, purposelessness and angst catches on to the character’s life. Values break down. There is as great deal of intolerance and fanaticism.
The novel becomes a paradoxical enterprise. The author comments on the death of the Novel by the Dadaists and the surrealists. He paints a bleak picture of the novel in communist totalitarian societies. The novel during the Communist regime had to face censorship and bans.
Milan Kundera classifies the novel into four categorical themes—the appeal of play, the appeal of dream, the appeal of thought and the appeal of time.
Now what is the appeal of play? Does it mean to say that the novel is a fanciful enterprise? Let’s look at the appeal of play from the perspective of postmodernism. The postmodern novel is an invasion of character. Texts are a collection of metaphors. There is a tendency to import extreme irony and parody. There is also an inherent tendency to lampoon novels of the past and to write in the style of the pastiche.
Now let’s look at the appeal of thought. The author wants to mention that the novel attains a texture of a philosophical entity. The interiority of time becomes an elevated plane of thought. An example of the appeal of thought lies in the streams of consciousness of Joyce.
What is the appeal of dream? The appeal of dream is a juxtaposition of dream and reality. Bach recites magic realism and mouths electric sandwiches. Dream enables the manifestation of the unconscious.
What is the appeal of time? Time is paradoxically situated in interiority. Time becomes a vast enigma of irrationality, an oasis of intimacy, narcissism of the soul, an eclectic mutiny of the mind.
Here the author comments on the quest of the novel. The novel points out to the elusiveness of truth.
Dialogue on the Art of the Novel
Here Kundera dialogues that his novel is not a dictum of psychological aesthetics. I would like to dispute with him on this point. Aesthetics is the futurism of the novel—the avant garde novel of writing. The novel should be a resemblance of Picasso’s Cubist work, an explication of Camus philosophical work: The Myth of the Sisyphus, a piece of baroque music.
Looking at the novel from a psychological framework we have to confront the futility of existential destiny. Disaster marks the triumph of individuality. There will be a tendency of the novel to exorcise the demons of disaster and subvert the character’s identity into a pathos of sympathetic irony.
In the passage Kundera questions the ability of the novel to grasp the self. For Sartre the self is an entity of nothingness. Postmodernism desires to subvert the self. Gratify the ID, deify the Ego and subvert the Super Ego.
During the age of Cervantes the self was deconstructed from the piety of chivalry. In Kafka we see the disintegration of the self. The self becomes a victim of tyrannical bureaucratic edifices. In Joyce the self swims in sea of streams of consciousness.
The author constructs dialogues about the self and History. The self in the novel is a manner of revelation. The self is a confessional symptom. The self is an art of lyrical intimacy.
A novelist cannot escape the universal nature of History. History explained in the novel is one of bringing out the voices of dissent and the aroma of depression. History undergoes the subjectivity of castrated characterization.
The writer classifies the novel as one of being a poly-historical luminosity. What does the term poly-historical mean? It includes the merger of several topics into the novel like art, aphorism, tropes, a pathological characterization of the self.
Dialogue on the art of composition
Here he writes the term—Kafkan after Kafka. He uses an example to illustrate the term. An engineer from a Communist Country goes to London and returns and finds the press has slandered him by saying that he has badly spoken of the country. He approaches the editor who says he got the story from the ministry of the interior and when he goes to the ministry of the interior, they apologize by saying that it was a mistake. The conflict between the personal and the public is described by the author as the Kafkan.
The last section of the book is a compilation a dictionary of terms, he has used for his novels.
Aphorism is very clear meaning a concise statement.
Beauty and Knowledge
What is the term beautiful in the novel? For Cervantes it was adventure. For Kafka it was existential angst, protest against totalitarian bureaucracies. For Joyce it was the searching of art in mundane experiences. What is knowledge? Kundera does not provide a satisfactory explanation of it.
He describes betrayal as one of breaking ranks. The notion of betrayal poses a problem in the novel. Let me illustrate by giving an example. Judas betrayed Christ for thirty pieces of silver. Why did the need for pointing out Christ emerge since he was a popular figure? The problem of betrayal in the novel is a problematic one.
Border is signified with emotional terms: like hate, love and angst. Border in a novel has no definable limit.
Comic for the novelist is not what makes us laugh but a revelation of the unknown.
Destiny is the conflict of the self. Destiny is absurd and we have to creatively authenticate a destiny.
Excitation for the author is erotic.
Forgetting is a term used to bringing to memory a situation in ironic terms.
Dream lies in exploiting the ID to create bizarre enigmatic phantasmagorias.
Irony for the author is an edification of character. It makes the character distraught. As a novelistic technique irony is sublime in literature.
Kitsch for the author is a sentimental flaw. Kitsch is a term where the sentiment, vulgar and offensive is melodiously gratified in narcissism.
As the literati, I wondered passionately about the clouds…white and blue! The white is the sperm left by countless angels copulating …the blue is the piss left over by the angels…a thunder burst is the angels farting…I wonder how many times angels copulate in a day …they must be equivalent of the earth’s population…Unlike humans, angels have pink farts…there’s an art to angel-farting…The sperm left by the angels is a novel art…The piss of blue is an idyllic lullaby….
Money and Fame in an Acrostic.
Saw a yellow winged fairy floating in the air, dancing in psychedelic delight, showing off a magnificent opera of flight…dazzling me with a catharsis of sound echoing in colors, tuning into my mirth, a joyful song of love, a brilliant fusion of music, a soul of jazz, an epic poem, a beauty of passion, a nirvana so tranquil.
Saw flames of fire like tongues of music …they were swaying like many letters of the alphabet…I cast my eyes like a seer on them …I am drowned in their rich lyrical intimacy…they evoke in me a passionate ecstasy…is God devout speaking through the flames…the flames are a prophet of light …a diviner’s objet d’ art….
Dawn opened her colored veils—
The sun is echoing a dream. The sky is a poetic Metaphor; clouds are melodious lakes—there, a crater is opening—
Lava is pouring crimson—Bards are gliding
Gently as Aesthetic sculptures—
I am a poet at heart; I am a bard of lyric’s
Dusk’s a floating Opera …orange hues
are soaked petals and linger as a
painter scattering a hazy abstract…
Time’s music of mediation…I am fond of Nature …It’s a metaphor of solitude…
My lover for her awakens like a dove…
Would have loved an evening with her…
Love echoes the evening as a poem …
Darling dear beloved …you are love’s passionate echo….let me embrace
you with the sweet nectar of love….
Let me kiss your lips with a lover’s passion….I love you so much, so much as the night’s lovely star …You have become so fond to me…..Be my beloved for the rest of my life.
They sky, a delicious poem of colors …
Art’s a spread carpet…chirp chirp, tweet, tweet goes the bards chorusing…morn’s fonts glisten the sky as aesthetic abstracts…
Feelings now are a fruit of joy…she woke me up with sweet words on Skype …morn caresses the soul as beatitude of music …
A poet tunes to the music of morn….writing its lullaby as poetic verses…
The sky’s lit oranges …birds float in the sky
as a romantic poem…clouds are a jazz of abstract sculpture …the aroma of dusk
lingers as colorful light…sweet breeze kisses
my cheeks like Buddha in mediation…the sky is breaking into streams, valleys
and hills…I am floating in a dream ….
My eyes melt with joy ….I am sedated in art…Sunset, an ode to a joyful music…
lyrics of the sky live in the textures of love …..
White ball radiant with mysteries of mystic space…a memory of love emanates from her bosom…she scatters light amongst shadows pale shadows glistening…
she embraces the dark of the sky
as light’s séance of pulchritude …there’s music on her belly …veins of eclectic jazz,
I begin my dark ritual… witches dance in my head like Ghosts from a sunken grave…
a petal on wings strays across the lonely Sky…she echoes dreams from a distant past…ancestors awake from graves and
pour blessings of mirth…clouds glisten with the nectar of light …light falls on trees and fall in pathos of solitude ….I am fading into a dream….a sweet lullaby puts me to sleep.
Moon’s out …She’s is a lip…Lying scattered
Amongst pink clouds…The sun is fading
A soft idyllic angel…Night appears like
Lover waiting to Bed the nest of ecstasy …
The moon, now echoing a shadow to my thoughts…Still life, beauty is a poem scattered on the sky.
Art painted the sky/In impressionistic colors I/Have fallen in love/
She made love to me/in a dream; dear beloved why/did you forsake me/
Clouds of poems woke/A dream up; soul chimes a song/A catharsis felt/
Morn woke up adorned/A coat of colors; birds sang like/Bards, a poem’s beauty/
Dawn bloomed like a rose/Making the mind to Catharsis/the soul is delighted/
The clouds like stained glass/A portrait of nature, ambience/Echo poetic music/
My soul burst a cloud/Torrents of rain poured as an/Earth streaming happiness/
Evening sky—Stained glass—Like a pale dream—Poetry waltzes On wings as Ballet dancers—Sky opened to me Like a body of a woman—My thoughts are Veiled with the
Colors of the sky—I dream of Bali—
I dream of her love—Want to be nourished—Clouds part as a guitar—
There now, a fierce –Dragon is spitting fire—the sky a song of music to me now.
You black poem—you enchanting mystery—saw you with beak open—
Have you tidings for me—you death’s enigma—you fed Elijah in the desert—
My thoughts on you—focused as a poem—
You bring solitude to my hazy broken heart—you are my sunshine in
My darkest winter—you bring out the
Devil of passion in me—Let me pour out
Heart’s angst –Take me to my grave with hearty mirth.
Pussy-wave is an idiomatic metaphor for pacifism, nonviolence and dialogism. Nations should shed spread their fangs of fanaticism and ideologies and should engage in creative dialogism. World should strip war and embrace peace. Religions divide people, politics separate people but the world is one, a great pussy-wave.
Rap music is rhythmic poetry…the beat is Dionysian …music is words in the sex of being …the heart and soul of Rap is black. Rap music heals the colonized and the subjugated wounds of the white oppressors. It’s an expression of angst of the heart. The wounds from the heart flow were melodious poetry. Rap and Jazz are Derrida-Dada-Ised into an art of the novel that is pop-baroque and cubist. Derrida-Dada is an avant-garde style of writings. Tropes are cathartic symphonies. Melodies rapture in words. Time transcends to a trope of cathartic pulchritude. Rhythm and beat, harmony and melody become fictional modes of writing in streams of consciousness.
Morn woke me with a delicious array of colors. The musical sounds of bards tweet, tweet, chirp, chirp, evoked a Beethoven of cathartic harmony. Morning is a metaphor of happiness. There goes the poets’ prancing in the sky. The sun rose up as a flaming ball of fire. The sun is a mystic seer, a beautiful ornament, a metaphor of luminescence…Poetry incarnates in the soul of the body. Love becomes a song of the mind.
It poured as the pounding of the hooves of a horse. Pink panties streaked across the sky. The bums of Zeus roared angrily. The earth, wet now, a drenched pussy. A phallus has penetrated the earth and made her wet metaphor of becoming. I am watching the rain like a silent seer. Rain’s rhythms of music are cellos of a mystic. Rain now, pouring and pouring and illuminating my heart.
In the Old Testament we come across Pharaoh who had a dream of seven robust bovines after which seven famished bovines came and ate them up. In the second dream, seven stalks of plump grain were seen after which seven stalks malnourished grain came and ate up the plump grain. As an idiom Pharaoh’s dream means the inability to interpret a dream.
Example: Pharaoh’s dream occurs to most people.
Joseph is found in the Old Testament and he refers as idiom to being a successful dream interpreter, a person with moral scruples and person who comes across fortune and position after a time of hardship.
Example: As far as dreams are concerned Freud was a Joseph.
There are at least few people in the world who are Josephs.
If a Joseph happens to me , I am lucky.
Dash Dash Dash Person
A dash dash dash person comes from the Malayalam language and it means a vulgar and despicable person.
Example: He is a dash dash dash person.
Rebecca’s story is found in the Old Testament. She was the wife of Jacob and she overheard the conversation of Jacob telling Esau the eldest son to fetch some good game so that he can to satisfaction and bless him. Rebecca loved Isaac the younger son more. And she asked him to fetch a young goat and cooked it and covered Jacob’s hands with goat’s hair as his father was blind. Jacob ate pleasingly and blessed Isaac. As an idiom Rebecca means a conspiracy.
Example: The 1$ Bill has symbols which point out to a Rebecca.
Cults like the Illuminati, Masons and Bilderberger are Rebeccas of the society.
I am a Rebecca lover.
We all know that a Black Hole is a collapsed remnant of a Star. It’s so dense that even light gets sucked into it. As an idiom it means a depressing situation from which there is no escape.
Example: I don’t want a black hole to happen to me.
The Jews had a Black Hole of a time under the Nazi regime.
Well all know the story of Lot found in the Old Testament. Lot was Abraham’s nephew. There’s an incident where Lot’s daughters make him drunk and sleep with him in order to get progeny. As an Idiom Lot’s Daughter means incest.
Example: Lot’s Daughter is a taboo in contemporary society.
Lot’s Daughter rarely happens in society.
Pond is an idiom in Malayalam language and it means messing things up.
Example: Don’t make a pond out of it.
Some people are always making ponds.
Work too is an idiom in Malayalam language and it means a situation where things don’t work properly.
Example: My computer is giving me work.
The car even after being repaired is giving work.
Quarks are tiny, tiny particles which form the building blocks of matter. As an idiom Quarks mean: a trifle.
Example: Don’t unsettle your mind with Quarks.
I treated my denial of job in Cambodia as a Quark.
Light consists of waves and particles called wavicles. A Wavicle as an idiom means a surprising, fortunate happening.
Example: When will a Wavicle happen to me?
I will be thrilled if a Wavicle happens to me.
Hot Turkey as an idiom means experiencing altered states of consciousness while using drugs.
Example: Hot Turkey is an interesting phenomenon to experience.
After the Hot Turkey wears off, one comes back to reality.
We all know that Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that’s triggers adrenaline. As an idiom it means a force which triggers something.
My body is a brothel of desire. My libido is passionate angel on wings. My mind is a butterfly, a psyche dancing gaily on wings. My feelings are strong rocks of desire. I get saturated when I make love. Love is a passionate aroma, a delicious food. Eroticism is streams of consciousness of a lover. How I long for a kiss and a caress. My wife is totally devoid of love. She has no feelings for me. Yes, I have passionate lover in Bali. How much I long to marry her. I need to visit Bali to see her. I want to utter the song of love on her lips. I want to melt my tongue on her lips and ecstasy her as poetry. Sweet is the poetry of love. Love brings out the poet in me. We are passionate, lyrical and intimate as humans. Oh passion when will you yield to me? When will the harness of abstinence break? When will the chains of my body become an erotic poem? I echo a dream. I am so fond of her, the Balinese woman. When will the rigorous monotony of teaching in a school for a paltry salary end. When can I devote all my days for writing? I long to experience altered states of consciousness with sex, drugs and booze. Consciousness is a flower that blooms. Passion is poetic art. Making love is the consciousness of philosophy in the ritual of making art. I am a body in trouble and pain. I feel so unloved. My wife goes to sleep as a corpse. For her, the fellatio is something dirty. When I be able to satisfy the needs of my body?
Consciousness is an epic river of flowing passion. All philosophers start from the assumption of consciousness but what is consciousness? Is it an art of a poem? Is it the archetype of the soul? Is it a being formed by the collision of atoms? The art of consciousness lies in the exercise of the mind. How can we make consciousness to live in a plethora of art? Writing begins in the art of passion. Writing is a refuge of the soul. Writing is an expression of the libido of the body. Writing frees the body from the shackles of conditioning. What is soul? Is it a poem? From where do we get our conscience? Writing is experiential literature, a form of poetic prose, a diction of tropes, a mosaic of the soul, a deconstruction of forms and genres, a mirror stage of eloquence, a gamble of the mind with words, a syncretic beatitude, a stoic ornament, a decorative hyperbole, a consciousness of beauty. Writing is cubist art, a pastiche of the baroque, a romanticism of irony, a postmodernism of structural tropes. The writer lives his life in art. Writing is the consolation for unsatisfied wishes. Writing is fornication of the pen and adultery of words. Through writing, a writer becomes a rainbow. Sweet are the melody of words, ecstasy is the rhythm of letters. In writing feelings pour out into a beatitude. Writing melodies the art of reflections. Writing is a phallus of art and a cunt of interpretation. My pen becomes a Don Quixote. Writing is a melody of words. The passionate soul loves and lives in the existentialism of words. When can we break free from Camus Myth of the Sisyphus? We can do so by authenticating creativity. We must avoid suicide by all means. We must become a becoming of being. We must be able to transcend race, nationality and culture. My writing is a labial vagina. I have freed the language from Logo-centric discourse. I have made my writing a dialogical vagina. My pen is circumcised into libidinal passion. I am blind to passion and sensitive to reason. That makes my soul a beautiful being. Irony is a literary device that expresses the beauty of being shackled in a cage and yet being able to express ironic freedom. Irony is a metallic bird with wings of frozen glass, ambling in the mind as chaotic anarchy turning the bizarre into a beautiful solitude of cognition. Irony is narcissism of a poisonous sentiment. How do we unveil a writer’s epiphany? An understanding of an epiphany lies in three shades of meaning. At the first level, the meaning is semantic and literal. At the second level there is the consciousness of sentiment and at the third level there is catharsis which I call rapturation of being. Rapturation of being is the highest level of consciousness that being can attain. Through rapturation of being one becomes a soul of love, one becomes a divine object. One experiences a mytho-poetic subjectivity. Art is the essence of life, the gift of passion, the beatitude of poetry. Through art one can transcend the genre of the self. Art is dawn soaked into the beatitude of colors. Art is a conjectural mystery? Art is an idol that we can worship. We can satisfy the meaning of life by the appreciation of beauty. The bitch of sensation is celestialized an angst is resolved into a poetic catharsis. Emotions you have to be gratified in the sensuality of intimacy and passion. Eros is orgasm. Passion makes the soul to live in a brook. Angst is a metaphoric divinity. The plague of angst deprives the soul and narco-piates the body into a frozen relic. Angst is the betrayal of paradise and the feeling of being cast down into hell. Angst has engulfed me like a plague; it metamorphizes my body into Kafkaesque insect. The joyful realism of Hemingway is a karma of the novel. Experiential consciousness has angst to bear …the being becomes poisoned into an Epicurean misfit. Romantic irony, you parody consciousness. When will I able to experience the love of the bed. My wife is a poisonous rose. Sex is a stale metaphor for her. Sometimes, I feel like strangling her along with my bitch mother. I am a writer carrying a hatred for my mother. I work in her school and she does not pay me any salary. She gives me a paltry sum of three dollars every day. I have to meet all my expenses with that. The cunt of a wife threatens me that she will take me to the asylum if I drink. She has done that thrice. The bitch does not even know to make love. How I long to have a quiet drink, relax and writer. The bitch never hugs, caresses or kisses me. I am forced to seek other women for love. I am tender, vulnerable and intimate. My wife trashes my writing as shit. My writing if a shit-hole is opulent art. Arranged marriages stink of a fuck. Arranged marriages are a shit-hole. I like stupid schmuck laid my bloody head and tied the knot. My father was sunk deep in debt and we did not even have a honey moon. Emptying my sperm into her cunt was stale death. She does not do the cunnilingus nor allows me to do the fellatio. All my fucking 47 years of married life, my fucking wife has not been able to have a single orgasm. My fucking wife, a Jesus freak, think she is a saint of God. All fucking nights she prays in tongues and cries in tears. My marriage has been a miserable failure. My marriage makes me tear dust. It makes me curse the sun and moon and God if there’s one. I have so much hatred for my mother and my wife. I curse my father for arranging this marriage.
Narratives of Anu
Anu is my sweet adulterous lover. We met on a dating site. She belongs to Cochin and is from a conservative family. On one Sunday she arranged a rendezvous in her house when her husband was out. I had to wait in a park near her house for a long time. Finally she phoned me. And I knocked, trembling. She opened the door. She wore a red see-through gown through which I could see her pink panties and her pink bra. I felt so much aroused. She told me to have a bath and I closed the bathroom and showered: when I came out: she was lying naked on the bed. Her skin shined like wheat. I went close to her and smelled her: her body smelled like grapes. I kissed her everywhere. Her tongue on mine was a delicacy. I felt for her soft breasts, suckled her nipples with poetic relish. Then I reached for her pubis and I inserted my tongue in her vagina and started sucking her like a playing the flute. I gave her many orgasms. I loved to hear her meaning in ecstasy. By the time I was a rock and I penetrated her deeply. I thrust in her like a mad locomotive. I emptied all my poetry in her. We made love many times. Darling Anu, I love you very much. I thank you so much for the gift of poetry you have given me.
I was in Indonesia in 2005, living in Jakarta and Surabaya, working as a teacher. Indonesia is a mix of the East and the West. I relish the clove cigarettes, the grilled fish, the sambal and bebek (duck). If you walk on the road in the night, you can see many prostitutes hanging out. I always felt tempted. But my Christian Protestantism kept me away. I also had a beautiful maid in my apartment. I wanted to fuck her badly. Yet I abstained. There were many of my colleagues, teachers, married and unmarried ones. I could have easily fucked one of them. Yet I did not. I do not know why? I badly needed a fuck at that time. Evenings and nights, I would spend in Varungs (eat-out-shops-on-the-road), drunk, listening to the rhythms of Jazz. Grilled fish is a delicacy in Indonesia. Indonesian fish is available nowhere in the world. I had beautiful time in Indonesia. Indian Jazz and Rock are popular brands of music. Indonesia evolved the writer in me. There was a colleague of mine: Shanti who sold me a computer. She invited me to lunch in her home. When I came to her home, her husband left. Straight away she took me to the bedroom. She started fondling my hands. I like a fucker did not pick the cues. I could have easily fucked her. But I did not. I had dinner and Ieft the place. A strange and psychic incident happened to me. I was asked by the Principal of the school to go and visit the director of communications for the UN in Jakarta for the school day celebrations. I went to his office and had to wait for a while to see him. Soon, I was ushered into his office by his secretary. On his table I witnessed the strangest thing. It was an African, Shamanic, Voodoo doll. The doll had the strangest, mystic and occult experience on her face. The doll’s face was sly mockery. The doll continues to haunt me in my dreams. Yes, truth is stranger than fiction. Once I was in an internet café which had apartments above. A sexy woman came close to me and brushed my body and then looked at me with a smile and went up. I like a fool did not realize that she wanted to have poetry with me. There goes a failed attempt. At that time I had a significant other, a Filipino woman much older than me. I used to fantasize her as a mother-figure. I sent her the airfare to visit me in Jakarta. I was fully boozed when I met her at the airport. We took a cab. All the way while the cab was moving I kissed her. She was whimpering and moaning with passion. Later on we checked into a hotel. We showered together. I drank a bottle of Vodka. Making love to her was like passionate music. We lay on each other like serpents inter-twined. Her pussy was small and tight. I did the cunnilingus on her. She giggled and moaned in delight. I sodomized her behind with my tongue while stroking her cunt. How she loved it. I came in her delicious cunt many times. Oh sweet was the odyssey of passion and it lasted for two long days. I left her back at the airport as a contented person. I would also like to recall another strange thing which happened to me. The school where I was teaching was hosting a party. Drinks were served in plenty. I became completely boozed up. Then in front of the crowd I started sobbing like a child. I completely broke down. The principal of the school came close to me and hugged me. I was stunned and I have no words to express how I felt. I felt that my father was returning to my life. I still don’t know why I broke down in public. I am so grateful to him and consider him in awe; I consider him to be like a father figure. Soon holidays came and I booked a ticket for home. My flight was scheduled for early morning. In the night I became totally drunk. Thanks to my significant other, she gave me a ring very early in the morning and I was not able to miss my flight. Sweet are the experiences of Indonesia for me. I remember them nostalgically. Life has taught me many experiences in Indonesia. My soul, mind and body became a liberated being.
My Malaysian episodes are related my significant other. While travelling to Malaysia, I took a midnight flight. I was able to meet my significant other and Mr. Lee in the airport. The drive to the Hotel was a long one. During the drive I encountered a dead cow with its skull smashed to smithereens. Later we came to the hotel. Mr. Lee was in a state of confusion as to whether he should pull me to his room or hers. She with an urgent tug of my arm pulled me into her room. She is such a clean thing. She washes her pussy with tooth lotion. Straight away we undressed and became flowers of kisses. I bloomed her sacred petals to many ecstasies of poetry. She was so conscious of getting pregnant and washed her cunt thoroughly after intercourse. We visited the twin towers and it was an awesome site. The towers lay like gigantic phalluses. The twin towers are rich in Masonic symbolism. Felt my adrenaline rush, when I climbed on the speed-lift which took me right to the top. Watching vehicles and people moving on the road was like watching ants crawl. Felt awed by the rich architecture of space. Later on went back to the hotel again made love. Her cunt was tight and my penis insertion was gorgeous. My single say with her was a passionate experience. I became a soul of a poem. For dinner we went to Korean restaurant. Beef was served on aromatic leaves wrapped cozily.
Dusk is awakening like streams of consciousness. A poem of orange has lit the sky. Light seeps into the room with mystic passion. Angels are floating in the sky. Light is an opera lit on the stage of luminescence. I am caught up in a song of poetry. Love pervades my soul. Evening is an aesthetic sculpture. Evening is a music of colors. I watch the sun hide behind a veil of clouds.
I watch psyche ballet on wings of brown; she floats gently as an idyllic poem; there’s a depth of the soul, a beauty of literature in her. I saw her when I was thinking of my trip to Bali to meet my beloved. Perhaps she will get me a windfall. When I am in joy, I am not in irony. I get a passion of the small things in life. I am no sex-beast; I am an intimate human, sensitive, vulnerable and lyrical. There she is now perched on the wall like a soul in sleep. Psyche brings out the beauty in me. I am in lyrical harmony, in inner solitude. Nature is the most precious gift that God offers. Her life though short-lived, she offers the human an ode of joy. The spirit is moved to incarnations of ethereal beauty. She is gorgeous melancholy. Yes, watching her all my worldly desires plunge into the sea. I feel so emotionally gratified. She lifts my soul from the abyss of angst. The ego melts as ink. Art is processual ontology where the being transforms from being to Un-being. Art is a philosophy of life.
Communism, Nazism, Fascism and now Jihadism are all grand narratives that have shackled, and have caused much pain and suffering, anguish and death to humans. What caused these grand writers to originate? The Stalinist purges in Russia are a reminder of human cruelty to be a gulag of poison. Marx anticipated the coming of an egalitarian society. But contemporary societies are veering to capitalism. Workers are not poor people in rich capitalist countries. What caused Hitler with his grand narrative of the supremacy of the Aryan race and the persecution of the Jews? Hatred is a phallic complex in psychoanalytic language. Hatred for the other is psychosis of culture. Yes, Hitler’s phallic hatred for his father is a root problem. Mussolini is another figure of hatred and vendetta. Are the cruel terms imposed by the treaty of Versailles adding a fuel to fire and people accept dictatorships. Another ugly fang in this contemporary world is Jihadism. Jihadis are poisoning the Middle East. They also indulge in violence in Western democracies. Jihadis have a violent father figure who promises treasures in heaven for their atrocious deeds on earth. When will the world become democracies of peace and dialogues? When will the greed to accumulate and make arms end? When will a just, peaceful and egalitarian society be established? These are not utopian ideals but a tangible reality.
When someone asks me what my profession is, I am ashamed to say that I am a writer. I am content to say that I am teacher by profession. Should I writer be commercially accomplished. I am not fond of who-done-its, thrillers, crime and science fiction. Writing for me is searching the heart and manipulating the mind into an art of existence. Tropes fascinate me so much. Tropes are engineered by the genius of creativity. Yes, metaphors and metonymies make a novel an aesthetic artifact. Writing philosophical fiction is a passion for me. Philosophers are estheticians.
I am an exaggerated novel. Contemplation of beauty is to be God. Sin was cleansed by the blood on the cross. Gratify the ID, deify the Ego and subvert the Super Ego and that’s a postmodern philosophy of Epicurean life. One has to subvert the super ego to a creative anarchy. A poem is a ritual of God. Sexual minorities—the state needs to anesthetize you in a ritual of existence. Philosophy is madness of passion and harmony of reason. When will my individuality triumph? Soul, you are a brook of joy. Lust is a yielding temptation. Sin, you have been forgiven the moment you are done. My mind is a cloud of frozen intellect. Sade, you are music murdering a person. Libido is an eclectic butterfly of tropes. Time is an electric sausage copulating with the metaphors of lust. My soul is freedom’s passion.
Hindutva in India
With the landslide winning of the BJP in India Hindutva is rearing its ugly tentacles. BJP wants to saffronize India into a Hindu country. The cow for them is a Holy God. The BJP is persecuting minorities. Christians and Muslims suffer the brunt. BJP is following an oppressive politics. Is Hinduism a religion of tolerance? The answer to it is a big no in Modern India. Christians and Muslims are regarded as second grade citizens. I can’t be a Hindu as I don’t worship idols. How can God be anthropo-zoomorphic? Our ridiculous Prime Minister claims that plastic surgery was practiced in ancient India. How can I sprinkle incense before an idol? Hinduism in modern India is a degraded commodity. Its poisonous teeth extinguish Muslims and Christians. The Prime Minister of India is a Hindu fundamentalist. Be a man and read the Bible. Hinduism has 33 million idol Gods. The RSS the militant wing of the BJP is on a warpath against Christians and Muslims. Even if my head is beheaded, I won’t worship an idol God.
Let me introduce myself—myself, I hail from Kerala, God’s Own Country, a land of mythic temples, tranquil backwaters, aromatic gardens of tea and spices. Legend has it that when I was born, I pissed on to the cassock of the priest. My tryst with iconoclasm began than. I am interested in transforming the novel into a work of art which I call in my own words as a new avant-gardist genre: Philosophical Fiction. The fiction resembles the Cubist Paintings of Picasso, incorporates the rhythms of Jazz and is a hotchpotch of the Baroque fused into the narrative of the Pastiche. There is no storytelling and no plot structure.
Bard on wings, floating gaily in the air, you are mystic of poetry. There now, you perch on a leaf. Your wings are yellow and swell with cathartic beauty. Existentialism swallows you in words. You have become an art of being. You float in poetic verses. You are an incarnation of the soul, a beatitude of love. There now you waltz in the air, like a classical symphony. You are the art of passion, a musical whisper, a song of love. I am charmed, enthralled by your mystic beauty. Time slows down into a poem. You evoke an inner beauty of love.
What am I? I am a philosophical being, an ontological entity in processual ontology. What is consciousness? Le subjectivity reign supreme. Karma and reincarnation: blah blah blah. Love is poetic passion. Her lips were the wine of poetry. She passioned like the flame of the forest. Nihilism I admire you. Being lives is affirmation, negation, celebration, possession and orgasm. I licked her lips and transformed her into a flower of being. She became a Goddess of love for me.
Pulp fiction, you are a dirty metaphor. Living is passion, a metaphoric beauty. I love the time found in a flower. Blues and Etta Baker, you are soul of rhythm. Your melody pierces the veins like a rainbow. Time the shadow of an eclipse. Veins of orange light seep into my bedroom. Time becomes a poetic metaphor. Beauty and love flow through my soul. God I have sinned much. You have to forgive me. I need to go to Bali and meet my loved one and I long to make sweet poetry to her. Consciousness is a hyperbolic metaphor.
Sweet are the temptations of lust, adultery and fornication. A passionate body is the soul of poetry. Yes, I have gone through the abyss like the suffering of Job. God parted the Red Sea for me to escape. I owe my father a lot for him introducing me to art, philosophy and culture. I have benefited by the huge collection of books.
What is the writing of a novel? A novel is a work of art. The pen leaves the self. My soul is a fictional poem. Words are a beatitude of metaphors. Time becomes an eclectic fusion in streams of consciousness.
The petals of the flame of the forest lie like a red carpet on the ground. It reminds me of an impressionistic canvas. Time is a tranquil poem of sight. I enjoy a visual phantasmagoria. My feelings awaken like poetry. My mind is in the poetry of catharsis. Love awakens my soul. My soul is a beatitude of becoming.
Dawn started moving with the lovers communing. Colors nuzzling fawns, surging tourbillion, glowing passion. Eternity flies as Sadhus in white. Brook of beauty running through, gurgling Moksha all the way through. Swaying pebbles glistening karmic odes, Samsara meanders pilgrimage blues. Beyond mundane life Heraclitus is moving from flux to feeling.
What have I done to myself? I have to be kind to my soul. Why should I deny my feelings? I am an exiled epic. Derrida said: to write is to have the passion of origin. Speech is the garden and writing the desert. All my life I have spent in the Orient. Writing is Jazz, writing is the soul of the baroque, writing is streams of consciousness, and writing is art beatified.
I am writing in new figure of speech called Muse(a)phor. A mus(a)phor has two related metaphors. Passion is an agile cat. The black cat is a book of superstition. Metaphors are painting the sky. The sky is a halo of God. Religion is a Jihad of poison. Her words were poisonous. Her libidinal poetry rejuvenated my body. Poetry is the soul of existence. Life is a passionate stream of poetry. Poetry is a metaphor of art. Music is time of becoming. Becoming is an ontological metaphor. Colonialism is an ugly fang. Her fang-words bit into my mind. Haiku is the food of art. Art is the body deified. Clove cigarettes are a delicious smoke. Her pubis is a delicacy. My words are ornamental prose and decorative poetry. Ornamentation is the soul of art. Shitting is a pleasurable metaphor. Her cunt is a nymphomaniac-metaphor. Weeds are growing out of my brains. My brain is a choked metaphor. Word sculpts the novel into a poetry of prose. Rodin’s sculpture is an art of poetic prose. Lust is a chain of my body. Chain is a fetish of narcissism. Night’s twinkling eye is a frozen dream. My twinkling dreams will become a reality. Dance is the rhythm of music. The art of writing is a music of the novel. I made her into a moaning melody. The melody of a dream haunted me. I am a voyeur of lesbian poetry. Poetry is a witch holding the moon. A crystal ball is a metaphor of gazing fortune. Fortune is Mammon smiling at me. Oh Music make love to me. Music transports me to the heaven of love. Epicureanism is the way of life. Epicurus, you are the poetry of ecstasy. Freud is a dream. A dream is passion come true. The fruit of ecstasy is love. Ecstasy is dove for the body. Time is an echo of music. Music is poetry of the soul. Love is the seed which Jesus sowed. The seed of the word is a Biblical allegory.
I want to recall two strange dreams that I had. In one dream, I see a wild elephant in front of me, very agitated. I soothed it and took to a pack of tame elephants. Soon it settled down. Does the dream indicate libidinal conflict? Yes it does. In another dream I see a sea of eyes and a ship of blind people standing on the deck with their hands outstretched? What is the symbolic meaning of this dream? Is there a calling on me to preach the Gospel of Christ? I don’t know.
Jan 13th 2018
The day has been one of contemplation about how to write a new novel of art encompassing philosophical fiction. I long for some weed to awaken my consciousness. Weed has become so scarce thanks to the vigilantism of cops. Dope sellers don’t trust me and so they don’t give me weed. My lover in Bali, a Hindu, who practices yoga and meditation sent me some photographs. She is so sensual, so passionate, so bubbling with romance. Yes, I long to travel to Bali and make love to her. I long to smoke the clove coated cigarettes of Indonesia. I long to eat the tasty grilled fish. Oh Lord make it a happening. Yes, I am tired of work: would love to settle down probably in a hill station of India and spend the rest of my life in writing. Would love to win the First Prize of 6 Crores of Christmas Bumper offered by the Kerala State. I am tired of my nagging wife. I would love to spend the evenings having a quiet drink and chatting with my loved one. Yes, I feel marrying again. May be I will marry the woman from Bali.
Jan 11th 2018
The day has been a slow crawl. The only significant thing I saw was a Raven with its beak open. I hope it will bring me good tidings. I have a bloody Indian wife who is emotionally and physically not satisfying me. I long for better times. I need a woman who has a loving heart, a beautiful mind and who can be passionate bed. I think that’s a dream. I have the poverty of luck in dating sites. I wonder why profile does not click. Asian and South East Asian women tolerate blacks. They are colonially prejudiced. I wonder why? My lottery luck has been a bitter fruit. I need money to go to Bali to meet my beloved.
Jan 10th 2018
It’s been a while since I wrote a journal. The reason is that I was working on a novelette. After completion, I feel so satisfied. I feel like a poem in love. I have invented a new genre of fiction called Philosophical Fiction. The fiction draws inspiration from the Cubist art of Picasso, from Streams of consciousness in Literature and from Jazz in music. The novel I have titled as Picasso’s famous Guernica. I want to explore the fiction of avant-gardism. Plot means very little to me. The form of storytelling has to change with the contemporary times. Art is the soul of literature and mind is the aesthetic of fiction. My fiction resembles an abstract painting. Though I have not won any lottery I am feeling so happy. I am being loved by woman from Bali. She constantly Skypes me. Yes, I nourish the dream of going to Bali and making poetry with her. When will my wishes get satisfied? With my meager resources, I have been able to publish E-books, thanks to Bookrix my faithful publisher. As an author, I have not been commercially successful. But I am happy and contented that I am writer.
Dec 24th 2017
The school annual day Christmas celebrations got over. The program went on very well. Won 2000 Rupees for the lottery draw, spent 1000 Rupees and 1000 Rupees, I donated to the Church. Poems fly in my mind with wings of prose. Was reading the Bible, the chapter: Exodus. Read the story of Moses, the wonderful way in which he was hidden in reed basket and later taken up and adopted by the Pharaoh’s daughter. It’s a coincidence that his own mother was asked to nurse the child. God chose Moses to liberate the Israelites from the Egyptians. God used Moses to create miracles but the Pharaoh’s heart was stubborn and would not yield. Spoke the welcome speech for the school annual day. I would like to post the speech here in this journal.
Distinguished Guests, dear Parents, Staff and Students, I have immense pleasure in welcoming you to this auspicious occasion where the school is celebrating the annual day along with the festivities of the Christmas Season. First of all I would like to enunciate what Christmas begins to me and I begin with an acrostic of Christmas.
C Stands for Christ and it’s from Christ that blessings, grace and mercy flow. Christ came for us to save us from our sins and that’s what makes Christmas a special occasion. May Christ, grant you, peace, love and blessings for the year 2018.
H Stands for happiness. Even during times of difficulties we must be able to lend a cheerful smile. We must be filled with happiness for our families and our loved ones. Happiness also means lending a helping hand to the needy.
R stands for Resistance. When we are faced with life’s temptations and when evil forces try to subdue us we must flee from it. R also stands for repentance. We must learn to repent to God our inequities. Even Christ was tempted by the Devil after his 40 days of fast in the wilderness. So this Christmas let’s learn to resist and repent.
I stands for the Ego and the Self but what Christ says is to lower your ego and humble yourself. One must be servants to others and not masters. We can’t understand God with the I in it. We have to feel the love of his presence.
S Stands for solidarity and solidarity means acting in unison for the welfare of all. Solidarity begins at home and we as fellow family members we should retain the self with solidarity. Solidarity also means engaging in pursuits which benefit the society.
T stands for time there are three types of time clock time, inner time and eternal time. Clock time is all familiar and needs no explanation. Inner time is the time spent with our inner subjectivity. We can spend our inner time in solitude and meditation. We can have fellowship and communion with God. Eternal time is heavenly and it’s the time so that will make us immortal with the presence of God.
M stands for mutualism. Mutualism is an action that will benefit both parties. Our relationship with our fellow beings should be based on the spirit of mutualism and good camaraderie.
A stands for acceptance and should always be in a positive frame of mind and accept our circumstances and transform our lives with our limited opportunities.
S signifies sincerity. We should be sincere in our actions. Our Karma should be such that we seek no reward for our actions.
I hope the love, presence, fellowship, grace and mercy of God Christ be with us all this Christmas and the year 2018.
Next I take the task of welcoming Dr. George Samuel our distinguished chief guest. Dr. George Samuel started his career as a nuclear scientist and later he set his footprints into Christian Evangelism. He is the bestselling author of the famous book: Courage in times of discouragement. The book is autobiographical based on the sufferings that he has encountered in his life. Faith in God and the grace of Christ has enabled him to face all obstacles bravely. Dr. George Samuel is the Director of Value Education Centre and the president of the Navajeevayodyam Bible College. We welcome you heartily to this auspicious occasion.
Next I would like to welcome the Vicar of St. Thomas Church Rev. Dr Abraham Zacharia. Rev. Dr. Abraham Zacharia is a person of scholarly enlightenment. He is going to say reminiscences about our founder the Late Prof. Mathen Bose. Achan we welcome you to this occasion.
Next I would like to welcome the members of the Panchayat. We are so glad to have you in our midst and you are going to make this occasion a memorable one.
Dear Parents you are our backbone of the school. Without your support and encouragement the school cannot progress. We as teachers are proud and devoted to teach your Children. Dear Parents, I extent to you a warm welcome.
I also welcome students, teachers and non teaching staff for this beautiful occasion.
I also welcome the people who are in charge of the sound system, the stage and those who are doing videography.
I dream of visiting Siem Reap and going to the temple of Angor Vat. I hope to get a windfall. Where is the writer in me? A writer lives with his heart and soul. I have started reading the writings of Kurt Vonnegut. I plan to write a commentary on it. My books are exhausted. Need money to buy new ones. Did an interview for an International School in Maldives and I got through. I might join the school in January. I am fond of the Biblical verse: ‘What you sow in tears, you will reap in joy’. Morning was delightful poetry as I listened to chirp and twitter of birds. Dawn woke me up in radiant colors. My soul became a poetic catharsis of harmony.
Dec 20th 2017
Exams are over, all the answer scripts corrected and kids happy as I am not a miser when giving marks. The kids are all excited for the coming Christmas and Annual day celebrations. Got a book on Kurt Vonnegut. Wanted to read it but was too lazy. My significant other sent me a video of hers sleeping cozy in bed. My loins started waking up in poetry. She looked so cute. It’s been ages since I have shared the pleasures of the bed with her. Won a lottery prize of 500 Rupees. Had butter Nan and Tandoori Chicken with it. I encountered the sky in its setting in reverie. The sunset was dancing in the clouds of delight. My significant other is a Filipino. She is passionate music. She has encouraged me so much in my writing. I long to be an artist writer. Art is the meaning of my life. Every word that I write is a sheer burst of catharsis. I have to travel, encounter people, places and make love to women and all these experiences will make me a writer. My writer self has to be an evolution of art. Catharsis, what a beautiful word coined by the genius Aristotle. Jazz is a pour of poems in poetic prose. Country music, you arouse words in syncretic , eclectic catharsis. Rock music is a torpedo of words. Bach and Beethoven melody words. Caresses and kisses, I miss so much. I long to be loved like a poem. Music, you are art of the highest heavens. Darling, echo a poem into my body. Nourish me with ecstasy. Time is a divinity etched in a metaphor. The beauty of galaxies is a mirror of metaphors. Darling Mignonette, I have grown so fond of you. I do fondly nourish the way I kissed you at the airport. The kiss still lingers in my mouth as blossomed flowers. The way I melted in your orifices was passion softly flowing as a lake. Darling Mignonette, when will fate allow us to meet again? I long for the music of passion.
Woke late this morning. Don’t know why? My life in this village hamlet proceeds at leisurely pace. The school kids came to the house for the dance practice. I have been given the honor of giving the Welcome Speech for the school day. Saw two yellow butterflies dancing gaily as though they were writing a poetic lyric. It’s my niece’s birthday and I am having Biryani in the night. Thought a lot about Maurice Blanchot the French writer and philosopher. I was fortunate to read his book: the space of literature. The ornament of Literature is put into the stoic space of literary thought. When writing, one must let go off the self and become a freedom self. There is no perfect literature. Literature lies only in degrees of perfection. One has to transcend one’s gender, nationality, race and caste when one is writing. Leave the past, live the present and hope the future. My android conked out and my dear wife was extra generous in buying me a new one. I have taken Maxim Gorky’s short fiction. Wanted to analyze it but did not get the time. Russian writers are passionate ones endowed with the rich soul of writing. Literature if it’s an art has to resemble music as music being the highest forms of all art. I don’t have a paisa in my pocket yet I am the happiest man alive. Bought a lottery ticket with a fancy number 275275. Most days the winning tickets are fancy numbers. The year is soon going to end and a new year will bloom like a flower. What is a writer’s consciousness? A writer begins to see art in all things great and small. A glass for a writer is sculpture, a cistern an aquarium, a bird, a bard on wings. Time speaks to us in our inner consciousness …Time is a horse on wings, a bard, a druid. She has not been contacting me for very long and I wonder why? I hope she is OK, well and fine. I feel so worried about her. I wonder if she has lost interest in me. I keep applying to schools abroad. They ask me to send my resume and I when I do, all I get is a silence. Sometimes I wish, I could retire and spend the rest of my days in solitude and writing. Most of my books are free and I am not interested in monetary benefits. Literature is the food of my life, my daily bread. Sometimes I feel bored with my work as I am teaching English to 6th 7th and 8th graders. Most of the texts though having high flying names like Oxford and Cambridge but are far away from the daily realities of the child. I have taught kids the art of writing essays, the art of making metaphors and I also teach them a new word in the assembly. I love Jazz and I try to incorporate its rhythms into writing. Blog writing has helped me to evolve the writer in me and I am grateful to WordPress and Blogger. What new avant gardism can I put into my writing? What type of writing will evolve after streams of consciousness? Our minds are always in streams of consciousness. We are talking selves. I have to buy a new set of books as my books are all exhausted. I need some money for it. Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo are so passionate so enduring and they echo an artistic symphony. I have read Salvador Dali’s autobiography and I love his ego deification. Art is life, and living a poem, making love is music.
Dec 14th 2017
Was busy correcting exam scripts. Enjoyed the dawn, the melody of colors cascading as a water fall. Smoked a lot of cigarettes. I am thinking of buying some books as I have exhausted all my collection. I am fond of reading books and interpreting them. I am fond of French, postmodern, post-structural thinkers like Derrida, Foucault, Blanchot, Bataille, Lacan and Barthes. Writing for me is like smoking pot and making love. I am trangressional and confessional in my writing. How much I yearn to win a windfall. Read the Bible. I am fascinated by Joseph’s story. Joseph’s brothers were jealous of him and sold him to the Egyptians. He was appointed as the housekeeper in Potiphar’s household. Potiphar’s wife became enamored with him and asked him to bed with her. He refused and she slandered him to her husband telling him that Joseph wanted to rape her. He was put in jail. In jail he was able interpret dreams. Then Pharaoh had a dream and in the dream he saw seven bovine creatures being devoured by seven famished ones and then he saw seven stalks of stout grain being eaten up seven malnourished ones. No one could interpret the dream and then Joseph was called in and he said to Pharaoh that there will be seven years of plenty on Egypt followed by seven years of famine. So Joseph advised the Pharaoh to stock up for the famine. Joseph was crowned with laurels and he was appointed as a minister. From Joseph’s story I garnered that God has a specific plan for each individual and in God’s time, he will elevate a person. During the famine Joseph’s brothers came to visit him and he embraced them warmly. I am wondering how to write postmodern fiction. Postmodern fiction employs meta-fiction, pastiche, irony and magic-realism in its narrative. My fiction belongs to the realm of philosophical narratives.
Dec 11th 2017
It was misty morn…the mist covered the ground like a Druid’s beard. Drank coffee and smoked a lot of cigarettes. Was reading the Book of Genesis: about Jacob’s story. Isaac, Jacob’s Father wanted bless his eldest son Esau and asked him to bring some good game so that he can eat heartily and bless him. Rebecca overheard the conversation and she loved Jacob more and asked him to bring a young goat and made sumptuous meat and she covered Jacob’s hands with goat skin. Esau was hairy and their father Isaac was blind. Jacob blesses Isaac after eating. Jacob is an idiom for deceiver and Rebecca an idiom for conspiracy. Was able to read Kafka: his basic writings. Read his story the Metamorphosis. In the story: Gregor Samsa becomes a gigantic insect and the story reveals the existential angst of a young man. Kafka was a wounded soul: an exiled Jew living in Germany. He had a very strained relationship with his father. I read in Kafka’s biography that he used to frequent brothels and was sincerely ashamed of sex. He had many liaisons with women but in the end did not marry. Kafka’s writing encompasses the philosophy of existentialism. I am thinking of visiting Siem Reap and seeing the Angor Vat. Sometimes I also think of visiting brothels as it will fertilize my mind and my imagination to be a writer. Most of the writers I have read were sexually promiscuous. I hope to get a windfall today as that will fund my trip to Siem Reap.
Dec 5th 2017
Woke up early …had my usual three cups of coffee, did a work out. Was able to read two books: Stephen Hawking’s: Brief History of time: and the Jaguar Smile by Rushdie. Hawking led me to a strange word of Astrophysics of which I am a layman. I am not convinced by his argument that the universe is expanding. I am became amused by his mention of Quarks, the building blocks of matter. Hawking makes a grand effort to unify astrophysics with quantum theory and the general theory of relativity. The behavior of light particles as waves and particles also amused me. Rushdie’s Nicaraguan journey into politics was a trail blazer. The efforts made by the Sandinista Liberation Front to stabilize the politics and economy of Nicaragua are commendable. American meddling in Nicaragua is a thorn in the rose. Saw a petal on yellow wings dancing gaily on ferns. It became to me a poetic metaphor of thought. Got an offer to teach in Maldives but the consulting firm is asking too much money as charges. So I have ruled out the possibility of going to Maldives.
Dec 1st 2017
Woke up early as usual …went to the coffee shop and had three cups of coffee, smoked a lot. I am trying to recollect some of my dreams I have had. Last year I saw a lottery ticket with Santa on it. I am wondering if the dream is a prophetic one. Yes, 2017 Christmas bumper lottery draw is coming and has a huge prize of 6 Crores. Who knows, I might be the lucky person this year. Then I had a dream of an agitated wild elephant coming to me. I comforted it and let it amongst a pack of take elephants. I interpret this dream as my unrestrained libido. Metaphors are feathers lying in the sky. My aim in life is to write philosophical fiction. I have written a novel with the consciousness of seconds. I get joy and peace when I read the Bible. From being an existential atheist I have recouped my faith to Christianity. I always wonder about the meaning in life. Life is passionate living in the art of poetry. Consciousness is a psyche, a ballet of a butterfly. Time is the art of music spent in the living of happy days. One of my passions is to visit Bali. In Bali the cultures of the East and the West fuse. There’s plenty of jazz, poetry and music in Bali. I recall my first visit abroad which was in Hong Kong. I was staying in the YMCA in Kowloon. I started an evening walk and came across an apartment. There stood an old lady who said: ‘come in son, have a drink, I have many beautiful women for you’. At that time I was filled with Christian piety. I ran away from the place. Next morning, again I was walking through the place and I saw the same lady waving incense sticks and performing a ritual. When she saw me sparks flew and she littered me with all kinds of abuses. While in Jakarta I was asked by the principal of the school to go and invite the UN official for the school anniversary. When I went into his office I saw strange voodoo doll all the way from Africa. This doll keeps haunting me every day. There something dark and evil lurking in the face of the doll. While I was in India, working as school teacher, a lady from England arrived on a teacher exchange program. I wrote poetry for her and she paid me 10 pounds. She was eager to bed with me. We took a room in a hotel and she offered my teacher’s whisky. I became drunk but yet I didn’t have the heart to have sex with her. Thinking of the incident now I deeply regret it. When I was Jakarta, I was invited by a lady teacher for dinner. As soon as I came her husband went out. She took me to her bedroom and started talking a lot. I like an idiot did not pick the cue that she was interested in having sex with me. There goes a wonderful opportunity.
Nov 28th 2017
Woke up early as usual …went to my favorite coffee shop and had three cups of steaming aromatic coffee…smoked a lot of cigarettes. Since exams have begun in school, I was free throughout the day. I spent some time reading Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. I became fascinated with its protagonist Isabel Archer. For an 18th century novel, she is a classic feminist. The male characters in the novel did not impress me much. Blog writing has helped me to discover my style of writing and evolve into a distinctive writer. There’s a Kerala Christmas Bumper lottery draw to be held in Jan and it’s a tidy sum of six crores. Getting a windfall will reduce my penury. I have a bank account with no money in it. I teach in a private school and I am paid a mealy sum. My work of fiction is monumentally experimental. Was able to create a Fiction, called Fictopia; it’s an epic lasting several seconds. I was inspired by James Joyce’s Ulysses in which a life of 12hrs is rendered in epic streams of consciousness narrative. I wonder why followers in twitter are dropping. I had 6 followers and now it’s come down to 4. Sometimes I wonder if I could be a writer at all. My heart and soul are filled with the urge to write. I want to write avant garde innovative fiction. At least I have been able to publish my writings in e-book format. I haven’t put any price for my writing. All I want is my writing to be read. I wish I had the money to retire and devote my whole life to writing. A windfall is a blessing in disguise. I have a personality crises with my writer-self and my real-self. Postmodern philosophies have influenced me profoundly. I long to have a good fuck. My Pentecostal, conservative wife has no time. My wife is not the kind of woman I longed for. Bloody hell, it was an arranged Indian fucked up marriage. I was married when I was 25 and I am 47 now. Till now we haven’t had a quiet moment of togetherness. When I was married, my father with sunken in debt. All the debtors were haranguing in the house. What I don’t get in my wife, I seek in other women and I can’t help it. My wife has never done an oral on me. She dislikes it much and thinks its sodomy. I can’t help calling her a bitch. The cunt does not even does not allow me to drink threatening me that she will take me asylum. The bloody bitch has done that many times. I would not have minded a wife that boozes and smokes and is sophisticated like me. My wife is a country bum, an arch conservative, a fiendish monster. Sometimes I think of divorce but I don’t have money to file the proceedings. I hate her, the fucking bitch.
Nov 26th 2017
All I day I was writing. I was able to complete an experimental work of fiction called Fictopia. It is an epic lasting several seconds of a character’s life. Joyce wrote the Ulysses chronicling 12 hrs of a man’s life. My work is a miniature epic set on the lines of the avant garde. I felt so happy and refreshed after completing the work. My mind became a smooth vessel. I don’t generic fiction. My fiction is a philosophy of literature. I love the streams of consciousness narrative. Art has to transcend existing styles and become innovative. I am no doubt inspired by many writers, like Kafka, Joyce, Sartre, Blanchot, Bataille, and many others. It’s through blogging that I discovered my own unique style of writing.
Nov 24th 2107
Sometimes I wonder at my fate … All my academic readings of postmodernism, literature and philosophy are drowned in a sea of waste. My job is to teach 6th 7th and 8th graders basics of the English Language. And I am pretty bored with it. I fed up teaching a class of bucking broncos who end up blabbering and hooting. I sometimes wish that I was in a college, teaching postmodernism and creative writing. All my lotteries are going to a ruin as I am not even able to win a single prize. Read a collection of literary essays. I became fascinated with the feminist philosopher Helene Cixous…she affirmed that women must explore their bodies through writing, break the bonds of phallo-logo-centric writing. Sartre’s essay is raising up the issue that one should not be committed while writing and one must transcend one’s race, gender and nationality. Read Judith Butler and she remarked that gender is bio-cultural construct. Is she paving the way for gayeism? Read an essay on the Babel of interpretations. From it I gleaned that as writers we must interpret interpretations. I also read some essays on post-colonialism. Those essays endorse the view that decolonized writers should challenge the cannons of colonialism. Poets should outpour their libido and their unconscious. Read Calvino’s essay on the right and wrong uses of politics in literature. Literature must challenge political norms and conventions and must transgress the ethos of a political culture. Read Rushdie’s essay on Imaginary Homelands. Rushdie describes the fate of decolonized writers living as expats abroad. How do they express their views about their Mother land? I start my day by reading the Bible and Praying. I am frustrated by my nagging wife. I long for my first love. She broke up with me for a silly reason. While she was in Kerala my hometown, I took a flight to her homeland in Andamans. She wanted me to cancel the ticket. I didn’t. People say that she is no longer alive. She died in an accident. I am so fond of her still and can’t get her out of my mind. I hope that time will heal my wounds. Love, anger, envy, pity, covetousness, lust all these are human emotions and make the existentiality of being humane. We can’t be God nor can we imitate him. We are caught up in earthly flesh, bound up with a consciousness that flitters as a wasp and having soul that is divine as a poem of beauty. I am trying to become intimate with Christ. I am so weak in the flesh and my flesh overpowers me. Sometimes I relapse back into Camus nihilism of angstual nothingness. The responsibility of the self as espoused by Sartre is immense. Why can’t I live a sybarite life, a life deifying the Sartre’s the being-for-it-self? Women and wine let me drench my cup as the Song of Songs of Solomon.
Nov 20th 2017
Woke up early as usual. Read Camus work the stranger. Was puzzled by the indifference of the characters. Personally I can’t stomach Camus’ existential nihilism. I believe that life is not chaotic and absurd. There’s a purpose and meaning to life. I travelled to Aleppy, the Venice of the East. All through the bus journey, I was gazing at the tranquil backwaters. I saw houseboats floating on the lulling waters as angels. Someday I also wish to hire a houseboat and cruise on the backwaters. Saw a flock ducks melodiously swimming in the waters. The purpose of my going to Aleppy was to buy a lottery ticket. Kerala government is hosting a puja bumper draw with a cash prize of 4 Crores. If I win it, I will have quite a lot of moolah in my hands. I want to buy my cherished SUV Renault Captur. I also want to put some money in fixed deposit that will aid my daughter’s fees in medical school. I also own a school and I want to build a swimming pool in it. I would also love to pay better salaries to the teachers. Had a tiff with my wife. My constantly accuses me of taking dope. It’s been years since I have smoked pot. I remember what Christ has said: ‘ask and you shall receive’ and I also remember the famous quotation on faith: ‘faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen’. I hope that Christ will gift me a lottery bonanza.
Nov 19th 2017
I woke up early, listened to Byzantine chants which gave me a feeling of peace. I was able to read three books today: one being Tolstoy’s War and Peace, the other, George Bataille’s Blue of Noon and the last being Julia Kristeva. I was able to write metaphoric commentaries on all those which got published. Adding a feather to one’s cap make go wild with hooting jamboree. Now days my sleep patterns have regularized thanks to prayers to Christ. I have been reading the Bible a lot and I have been able to coin new idioms. I went to Church and attended the function as a devout Christian. I have no regrets in life and I am happy person. I no longer contemplate on Sartre’s and Camus nihilism and the absurdity of life. Life is a gift of pleasant surprises which makes me elated. I also started pondering on a dream which I earlier had. It was a dream of condensation as described by Freud. In the dream I saw an agitated wild elephant. I soothed and it took it to a pack of tame elephants. I interpret the dream as thus: the wild elephant represents my libido and I am putting an arrest to it. I wrote a poem for my significant other and she is quite happy with me. I have a passionate longing to meet my significant other and make love to her like a lyric of poetry. The problem is we are very far off from each other. She is in Philippines and I am in India. I don’t have the money too. I try to live a contented life akin to poetry. I love America a lot especially its philosophy, its gospel, its gospel music, country music and rock of the 70’s and also jazz. I consider myself to be advocate of counter culture and also a proselytized beatnik. When I started reading Leo Tolstoy, I came across his idea of being a Christian anarchist. The idea fascinated me a lot. A Christian anarchist advocates distrust of all institutions of the state and is pacifist. I also consider myself to be a Christian anarchist. I am a hippy, a beatnik, an existentialist and a Christian nihilist. The Bible is a metaphor of life. I thank God Christ for inspiring me to read a contemporary version of the Bible—The Message written by Eugenie Peterson. The Bible has inspired me a lot. I have been able to coin many idioms from it. I thank Christ that I am sustained by his grace. Christ said: don’t worry about anything. Just live for the day. ‘Give us this day our daily bread’. ‘My cup runneth over’. ‘Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life’. The Bible is an aesthetic masterpiece. It contains the ups and downs of many people. I am so happy that Christ is an all embracing, all forgiving God. I am truly inspired.
Nov 10th 2017
Woke up and read the Bible. I was amazed by Jacob’s story. I thought of how Jacob deceived his brother Esau. I thought of the years he had to work to earn his wives from Laban. I am reading the Bible—the message. Was able to accomplish the writing of essays. After coming to Christ, I feel very happy and contented in life. Christ gave me a peace that I never knew. I have stopped dabbling in the occult, consulting astrology and psychics. I have no great ambitions but to live every day well and in peace. I have made peace with my wife and mother. I am not disappointed about going to Cambodia. I would have whored and would have got Aids. Was able to read quite a lot of books like Alvin Toffler’s Third Wave, Kaka’s Castle and Derrida’s Grammatology. I love to make interpretations. I am interested in Philosophical novels. I have forsaken the nihilism of existentialists. Life has a purpose, meaning and value. I wonder Sartre stressed on nothingness and nihilism? Perhaps it is the distress cause due to the world. I have started thinking for myself rather than depending on the thoughts of others. I have started reading Dostoevsky’s Idiot. I want to write an interpretative essay on it. I do my regular workouts to keep my body fit. The travel bug is on me. I am fond of visiting the remote island Bali where the East and the West mingle. I teach a new word to kids every day and they really enjoy it. Coming to say I am a fan of American English. I am reading the Bible called the Message. It is written in modern English in an idiomatic style. Had beef curry and barotta from a hotel. Took two lottery tickets. Saw the new SUV Captur brought out by Renault. I have fallen in love with it and I wish to buy one. I went into the Renault showroom and touched my hands on the SUV and asked God Christ to provide me one. The existential nihilist and atheist Sartre while on his death bed became religious. I wonder why? Yes life is not chemical or mechanical. Life is God given and God has given the choice to accept him or to choose your own way. I thank Christ for all what he has done in my life. Christ has made me a new person. I am happy that I have been baptized. Yes, I am also able to speak in tongues. Sometimes, I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. My body feels like current vibrating through it. God speaks to in my dreams. I now realize that the things of the world are worthless, they are all trash. I live in a small village, yet I am happy and contented. I don’t have much money, only enough to meet my daily expenses. Life is a rich metaphor a tapestry of metonymy. Life is poetry, a catharsis of the sublime self. After leaving astrology and the occult, I feel much better. I praise God, Christ my creator.
He was an anthroposophist. He came down all the way from Switzerland to visit me. I was his dear friend and I used to write letters frequently to him. We checked into a hotel and he hugged me and then started kissing me. It was at that point of time that I realized he was gay. I told him bluntly that my orientation is straight. He was so keen on having anal intercourse with me. He tried to offer me a bait. ‘Anand, do you realize, what I can do for you in your life? I can offer you sponsorship to Switzerland and offer you a cushy job in the Goetheanium’, the headquarters of the anthroposophy. I politely declined his offer. He was not upset and continued to be a good friend while his sojourn with me in Kerala. Did I make mistake. I could have offered my butt. But then I didn’t. I am not gay. Did I hurt his feelings by not cooperating? I don’t know! I think I did the right thing.
I and my two friends were out on a beach in Aleppy, the Venice of the east. We went out in the sea and got wet. The waves frolicked in the sea like mermaids. Suddenly we realized that our money was wet. We put it on the ground to dry in the sun. A woman came near to us…then her eyes greedily devoured the money…She gave an inviting, lecherous smile. We being conservative fools shooed her off. Do whores have the instinct to smell money?
She is my significant other and she is billeted in a grand hotel in Jakarta. She is sleeping on a king size bed. I ruminate on the bed, its quilty softness, its impressionistic colors… I feel sad; I miss her company. I could have made love to her like writing of poetry. I have missed so many chances of being with her.
I dreamed of killing her for a long time. The pleasure of killing brought to me a great deal of sadistic satisfaction. I wondered of the ways in which I could kill her. I brought a knife from the market and polished it. Its end was sharp and gleamed like a crystal in the sun. Then I thought of strangling her. One clasp of her neck and break it into two. How pleased I was! Then I thought of poisoning her. She takes a glass of milk in the night and so I thought of putting some poison into it. In the end I killed her. She was only a mosquito that sat on my hand. Deed accomplished, I feel very gratified.
He was a colleague of mine, a chief administrator in a school office. He was in his thirties. He has a sad story behind him. His wife ditched him and eloped with another man. He is a Jesus freak. He was looking for a partner to fill the void in his life. By chance he happened to encounter a nurse in the UK who started sending positive vibes to him. She was married but her husband had died. She came from a Pentecostal family. Her mother asked a pastor to pray and find out if the marriage was God willing. He prayed and said ‘no’. I wonder what kind of gift that the pastor has. Isn’t he being cruel and acting as stale fish. I am sure that God will not reveal a plan that will sabotage someone’s life. My colleague became heartbroken. Some pastors are real chains that fetter people’s souls and they have the audacity to call.
Why do I w(rite). I don’t know the answer. I have a passionate calling to write. I want to fictionalize my novel into philosophical art. Writing is a chthonic call from the abyss. I look at a newly born flower. Its petals are gently swaying in the wind. Its petals float like poetry. There’s the music of Jazz in it. Writing frees my soul. My mind lives in streams of consciousness, in fictional music. Time is floating on wings. Dawn woke me up with sensual array of colors. They sky lay like a cunt. How I would love to flower Arsini’s cunt? Arsini is my lover from Bali.
I would like to recall a childhood incident of mine. One day my mother was bathing in the toilet. The doors had crevasses. I started peeping on her. Suddenly someone clasped me on my shoulder. I froze and turned back. It was my father. He started roaring with laughter. I became so embarrassed.
My uncle passed away. After his burial we went to his apartment to collect his things. I, my father and brother-in-law were present. I was standing near the kitchen. It started raining and rain seeped in through the open door. An image formed in the puddle of water. To my surprise it was my dead uncle’s image. I called my cousin to verify. This is a psychic experience that I had. I discovered that there is more in life than rationality.
Anu was married woman in her thirties. We met on a dating site. She invited me to her apartment. We kissed like flowers of poetry. On that day to my surprise, I wasn’t able to get an erection. She did fellatio on me and it was a beautiful experience. I did the cunnilingus on her but she was not able to achieve orgasm. This is a strange sexual experience that I had.
I underwent Pentecostal baptism. It was an enaction of a metaphoric drama. To die with Christ, to be buried with Christ and resurrect with him was a unique metaphor for me. I am fascinated by Tolstoy’s philosophy of Christian anarchism. Yes, I also consider myself to be a Christian anarchist.
I remember my first experience of love with my college mate Sheeba. She was the most beautiful girl in college. Our first date was watching a movie. She put her palms in mine and my whole body started tingling. We kissed! Wow! It was flowers for me. Then we tongue kissed. He tongue was a sweet delicacy of music in my mouth. I felt her breasts; the gentle mount of skin. Her nipples were jutting out. I sucked her nipples and she moaned in passion. The thing that I regret so much in my life was that she broke away from me. I don’t know why? It was a damn silly reason. While she was holidaying in Kerala I flew to her island: Port Blair. She asked me to cancel her ticket and come to her. I did not. It was for this silly reason that she broke up with me. When I visited her home, I went to her bathroom. On the rack lay her panties. I took it in my hands with passion. Observing it I saw menstrual smudges. I became overcome with passion. I kissed it and licked it with ardent passion of a poet. I have heard from a friend that she died in an accident. Oh Darling Sheeba may your soul rest in peace. Darling Sheeba, you constantly appear in my dreams. I am so sad that you did not forgive me.
Writing is the freeing of imagination. Imagination is Kafkaesque. Sometimes when I wake up, I feel like a gigantic insect found in Kafka’s metamorphosis. My writing is a sinful garden. What is the consciousness of a writer? A writer lives in streams of consciousness. I am fond of the writer Gertrude Stein. Art is the living impressionism of words. Consciousness of the writer is in Diaspora. Feelings etch into a painting of words. Character grim and grin in a novel. Writing is the sun stained with the art of impressionistic colors. Writing is a stoic ornament, an experiential sculpture. Though we are condemned as the Sisyphus of Camus’ we can make our lives meaningful by exercising right choices. Consciousness is the being of living in Sartre’s being in itself. Yes Sartre is right when he said: we are condemned to be free. How to evade suicide and live a meaningful life? In writing, the self is an existentialized stream moving to an anarchy of art. Time becomes frozen into the delicacy of words. Jazz is an eclectic fusion, a Diaspora exiled into the words of meaning. Writing is the art of love. Solitude is the essence of life. Writing is aesthetic democracy. Writing is the passion of life. Art is the highest religion that a human can attain. Passion liberates the soul.
I would have loved it if my wife is a lesbian. I would have loved to be a lesbian voyeur. How erotic it is when lesbians embrace each other as poetry in passion. How passionate it is love when they melt in drowned kisses. How beautiful it is when they suck their pussies in 69 position. How beautiful it is when they moan in orgasm. Then it would be good if they do a fellatio on me.
Shania: she is a girl. I love her very much. I am too ashamed to say that I love her. Her kisses would be passionate poetry. How I long to embrace her with loving passion. How I long to kiss her in poetic adoration. How I long to melt my tongue in her lake. How I would love to hear her moan in ecstasy. Alas it remains as a dream.
I am poet’s mystic embrace. I am passion succulent. I vibrate in the rhythms of Dionysian prose. Writing is making love to a woman. Writing is a drama of the pen. I know I am not a commercially successful writer. Mystic, passionate, lyrical, confessional, poetic, you are the art of writing. When I write the pen vibrates like a phallus. Fiction of a novel is art in philosophical passion.
To be in solitude of nature is an art of an experiential consciousness. How poetic it is to see bards float in air; it is a consciousness of mysticism. Surreal, secretive, poetic and sensual is their journey through the skies. I love the consciousness of art. It’s a mysticism of poetic consciousness. There I watch a butterfly perch on my shirt. I gently clasp it by its wings and fondle it. I let it fly away. Passion you are an eclectic stream an oeuvre of consciousness. Nature is art’s blues. Nature is the harp of joy. Nature is passion’s beatitude. Gone are the days of realism for the art of the novel. Novel is the art of dialogism. Dreams are recurring metaphors and metonymies. Heidegger said Dasein or being. Being is a process of becoming. Being is processual ontology. One experiences being through affirmation, negation, possession, celebration and orgasm. Being is the consciousness of life. Being is pulchritude of metaphorical depth. Being is a simile of poetry. Being is art’s smile. Religion is the colonialism of the mind. Yes Marx is right when he said that religion is the opium of the masses. Islam should be subverted into a liberal theology. The Quran should be re-written. America should spread the Middle East with Bibles. Socrates became a martyr for democracy. Pulpitude is a new word, a neologism for boredom. It’s a puzzle as to why people are fascinated with who-done-it novels, Fictional factory is commercialized pulp. Art has to transcend genres of fiction. Realism of the novel is a dead flower. Surrealism of the novel is a renegade fossil. Magic realism is escapism of the novel.
I am vulnerable and intimate. I live in the poetry of existence. I examine the meaning of life philosophically. I am a glasnost and perestroika of the mind. My mind is an epic of passion. Beauty awakes my soul in the meaning of being. I am charm’s lyric. Where is the beautiful bed of poetry? Orgasm is the ecstasy of being. Her hair smelled like Jasmine. Her body had the scent of cloves. I tuned her to the lyric poetry of being. Nirvana you are an erotic song. Beauty never ends; it has only a beginning. Time is a narcotic of being. The fusion between reason and passion is art in the making. I love the baptism of Christ. When Christ was baptized, God was pleased and dove from heaven entered his body. What a beautiful narrative of art. Christ was right when he said: let your yes be a yes and no a no. Consciousness is the highest form of music. It is a music where the divine merges with God. The purpose in life lies in existential choices. Meaning, you are profound woman. Jazz softens the soul and cleanses the mind. Do not be harsh to yourself. Fantasize, live in the extremity of the consciousness of imagination. Do not make life a complicated mathematical sum. Follow you own wishes to live a meaningful life. I pray that life brings the choices you wish. Be at peace, hope for the future, wish for the best. Alfred Nobel was an idealist. So are the Nobel Prizes. When in doubt, ask your own conscience. Peace is Mahatma Gandhi. Nietzsche you are soul of the human. You went mad by killing God. Sartre, you are the soul and poet of existentialism. Camus makes life into an absurd lyric. Love is the most beautiful of all sentiments. Eros is passionate poetry. Writing is not an oedipal conflict but an oedipal triumph. The soul of the poet is the heart of truth. When will my individuality triumph? When will I rise above petty concerns and trivial matters? When will I get a freedom for the soul that I long for? When will my lover become a passionate bed? Yes, she is waiting for me in Bali. How I long to go and embrace her and make love to her like the music of poetry. I am so far away from her. Every day I wish to win a lottery. But it never happens. My consciousness is a lyrical soul. Rilke you have stimulated the imagination of poetry in me. Job you live in me as existential angst. Christ, in-spite of my sinful nature, I have loved you much. I have lived in an asylum and it was shit-hole of an experience. I want to make love to woman, and have quiet drink. My wants are very limited. I want to devote the rest of my days to writing. Writing is my lover. I am its fruit. I have sown many seeds of writing. One day they will reach a rich harvest of fruits. Yes, I long to be recognized and read. Writing is the fruit of passion—the soul of divine poetry. The self climbs out from the abyss and reaches a plane of the divine. My own family has scant regard for me. They think of me as a mad clown. All this will change when I become recognized as a writer. I have written the self as many characters. I am Don Quixote of many selves. Don Quixote was mad in the 18th century. Today Don Quixote is the triumph of individuality. The 20th century is the one where values collapse, where the self disintegrates, where institutions break down. The only recourse to humanity is art. Art is a romantic tranquilizer. We have to live in the streams of consciousness of art. When will society become egalitarian? When will art triumph as the existence for the soul? When will peace reign supreme? When will the world become a messianic second coming? When will we learn to love our neighbors? When will we have tolerance, dignity and self respect? Art is not escapism but a reality of consciousness. When will the world be broken by narrow fragments fuse into a oneness of democracy and harmony? When will fanaticism become a dead corpse? Art—I have offered my life to you as an earnest devotee. Passion has lived with women I have loved. Destiny, you are careless piece of paper thrown away. I feel nostalgic of the past, creative of the present, and hopeful of the future. 47 Years of my life –I have tried to be creative with the best of my ability. Time will bring out the writer in me. Poetry for me has been a lyrical stream. I am fond of Pound’s and Eliot’s imagism. Coining new tropes for me is like having an orgasm. Futurism for me is adapting and adopting new ways of thinking. I end this novelette with a passionate sigh!
I have created a new avant gardist genre of fiction called Philosophical fiction. Philosophical fiction is post-post modern fiction. Philosophical fiction departs from the conventional modes of storytelling. There are no stories to tell anymore. There is also no plot line.
By using the mode of Philosophical Fiction, I have created an oeuvre called the Guernica. Philosophical fiction has been heavily influenced by the art movement of Picasso that is Cubism. Philosophical Fiction also incorporates the rhythms of Jazz. Here I leave an excerpt from the novel Guernica:
“ 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 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 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 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 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.”
Philosophical Fiction has heavily borrowed the literary narrative of Streams of Consciousness. Philosophical fiction redefines aesthetics with the narrative incorporating the Baroque and the Blues. Philosophical fiction is the highest form, a novel can attain art. Various philosophical themes are examined through the literary motifs of art. Thus Philosophical fiction is a post-post modern, a poetic symphony of prose in narratives. In philosophical fiction the author and characters merge. Narratives in Philosophical Fiction draw heavily on the symbolism of tropes. Tropes are music in the language of poetry. Various themes of nature have been romanticized into an eclectic language of poetic prose. Philosophical fiction is a post-post modern adaption of the art of nouveau roman. The author in Philosophical fiction also indulges in the rich usage of the technique of the pastiche. Philosophical fiction uses the romantic language of the past with a postmodern fictional touch. Philosophical fiction is the art of impressionism of words, the art of cubist prose and the expressionism of the romantic. Philosophical fiction takes into account various philosophical themes and weaves them in a rich density of literary inter-textuality.