Nothing much has happened in my life. This day to day routine is trying and troublesome. I think of content to write but nothing much emerges.
I had a strange dream and in it I was going through a tunnel. I looked up at the dream dictionary and found the meaning as, going through a tunnel means solving a problem and beginning a new phase of life. I am excited at the prospects that the dream has to offer.
I wonder where life is taking me to. I dream of visiting enchanted islands like Bali, the Philippines where my significant other lives. I dream of smoking clove cigarettes and having Indonesian grilled fish and duck roast and rice with Sambal.
I nourish writing as a poetic dream. I draw writing with my pen and brush against the canvas of the paper. Form is the evolution of the ego into an aesthetic symbolism of an idealism. Content is what the pen plants as a seed and writing is an evolution of a fruit. Style of writing is a fictional utopia. Meaning is the recognition of the allegory in aesthetic semblances. I carve beautiful sculptures with my pen. Writing is the joyful exertion of freedom. The joy of writing is the liberation of the ego, the joyssance of the body. The text is the manna of celebration. Nietzsche the philosopher said: ‘a good writer is a one who is ashamed of the self’. We write in words about what is a bodily negation. Writing bears the angst of the self. Writing is the art of being a stoic epicurean and a philosophical Socrates. To write as Derrida has said: ‘is to have the passion of origin’.
My lips and teeth sank into the tender flesh…the outer covering was hairy and rough—the inner covering was smooth as flesh; its taste was salty and sweet….I drank into the rich concoction….All the way I thought it was just juicy and sweet like hers.
Thousands of pilgrims wait patiently to view the light (a so called divine light) purported to come from over the hills. For the government who got money from the pilgrims it was a fix-up-job. They are adept in burning tires and they are skilled in creating the illusion of creating the light for the hoi polloi.
I watched the illuminated cross all lit up for the church festival. I go back to history were the cross was victimized—stripped, naked and beaten and finally hung. My illumination is the cross which died for my sins.
He had a fancy to make verbs from nouns and thus he goes with the word flower. He cast his wand into its water and came up with the verb—flowerate. Yes, flowerate means a lexicon of ecstasy and catharsis. He loves to flowerate all the time.
Nothing much happened to me. Life went on like a boring breeze. My sleep has become better and I have cut down on cigarettes. I listened to a Facebook video by Joyce Carol Oates on the art of writing. Though very short, it was very interesting. A writer has to think and feel all the unsaid—the inner consciousness of the mind. A writer’s consciousness is very special. A writer is a person who is very sensitive. When overcome with feeling, when in the emotional cauldron of the mind, the first steps of planting the writing begins.
I had a strange dream. In it I was having intercourse with my wife. It’s not something to wonder about as my sex life is rather starved. Yes Freud is right; dreams are wish-fulfillment of desires.
Reddy is an upper caste name for a person from Hyderabad. This Reddy I encountered was a recruitment agent and he was recruiting teachers to Maldives. He sent me an invitation letter to attend the face to face interview. When I asked him if there are charges: he said yes: ‘one month’s salary and 18% taxes’. I felt sad and staggered. Isn’t he a cheat making money by doing nothing? Are all Reddys like him? I don’t know.
You an ode on wings….
You float the dance
Of pulchritude ….
On flowers and
You hymn of
He was a leading intellectual of the country. I watched him taking an interview on TV. He was sitting beside a mass of books. I wondered why? Is it arrogance? Is it the desire to be a celebrity? Does he want to show off that he is brilliant? Books! Books! Books! Yes, sometimes literature is a show off!
You are ….
Of the plough ….
Of art and