Today was a fast grind. Ran about like a hare getting documentations ready for my daughter to join Medical School. Thought a lot about literature while I was traveling. I am fond of Asemic writing but I don’t have a calligraphic pen. In fact my signature is one of Asemic writing. It’s a pictorial hieroglyphic. The weather today was sunny and bright and smiling. Till yesterday it was raining mad. I am so fond of Kerala’s monsoon. To see birds drenched in the rain is a poetic lullaby. I am feeling much happier with myself. I stopped reading astrology columns. They make the wind go wayward and anxious. I live for the day contented with myself. I miss my son who is admitted in an autistic boarding school. God, I miss him so much. I am always thinking of bringing him back. Yes, I m so fond of him. Started reading the Bible—the version called the message. When I think of it as literature I think the fall of man is an allegory. But then spirituality leaves the core of meaning in the heart. I am so happy that I am living in the grace period of Christianity. Grace is all I need and Grace is all I care. Am I created or did I just evolve. Sometimes in dreams I have experienced the sensation of leaving my body. I try to move but I am totally numb. Life has a meaning and it is not Sartre’s nothingness. There is no Camus Sisyphus in life. Christ makes life a precious gift. Words according to Bakthin have to attain a dialogic democracy. Today I watched dragonflies in flight. They were a vulnerable mystic poem. Beauty, delicacy and art mingled together.
My body is corpse of rotten flowers –my soul an angst ridden Sisyphus—Where’s warmth of a woman gone? When can I smell sweet Jasmine on your hair? When can I caress your hair with trembling fingers—your lips are sweet wine—When can I immerse on them—I long to plant loving kisses on you—When can I kiss the vermilion on your forehead, the sign that you have a husband. Adultery is the passion of poetry. When can I fondle your mounts of Venus, suckle your nipples like a child. I am fond of lesbian voyeuristic sex. How playful are they when they fondle their erotic breasts…How adorable are they when they sodomize themselves with their tongues…oh how I love to hear them moan in ecstasy.
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….
The splendor of the sky dazzled as an ornament. The sky, a golden furnace, robes of orange, mystic flames of purple all serenaded me like a catharsis. Angels on wings danced in the pulchritude of delight. Time has become a frozen dream of music. Evening is a tranquil lullaby, a poetic sonata of love. I watch the sun go into its hive. Dark has become a mourning night.
Had a strange dream—in this dream, a black cat was hissing at me; it was only a kitten. Looked at dream interpretations and it said: ‘I am afraid of my own intuition’. I am not fully convinced by the interpretation.
I joined the fraternity of the Illuminati today. Feel happy as a new born flower.
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….
Rain is now pouring like jazz emanating from a saxophone. The heavens now are chanting hymns. I became silent and meditative. The rain, a needle like sound, striking the earth, wetting her orifice like a poet writing lyric verse. I hear thunder! Is heaven gossiping? I am overcome with feeling. Rain is echoing a consciousness of the self in the becoming of poetry. A musical symphony— nature’s rhythm of conjuring tropes. I am feeling soul happy. Rain the drama of nature—an eclectic symposium of nature’s lyric. Wet pour metamorphizes as a novelist churning words with lyric wonder. My consciousness is elevated. I rejoice with nature; I think of God’s loving provision. I am overwhelmed, saturated and happy. I have no regrets in life.