May 21st 2020

Waking up Lazarus
While reading the New Testament I stumbled upon on this idiom. When Lazarus died and Mary and Martha his sisters were weeping, Jesus came to the place only after three days. But when Jesus came, he went to the grave of Lazarus and miraculously brought him back to life. Waking up Lazarus as in Idiom means good and fortunate things happening in one’s life. Yes, I want to experience waking up Lazarus.


Rain an Epiphany

Crystals poured from the sky. Thunder was a deafening roar. The clouds were belly bloated. Pink Clothes streaked across the sky. Metaphors lay as puddles on the ground. The earth smelled sweet as a baby’s hair.

The Hoax
I got a letter from a family situated in UAE wanting a tutor of English for their child. They introduced themselves as people of French nationality. Later on I sent my resume to them. Then I had a call from UAE from a person with an Arabic accent speaking English asking me to sign the offer letter. When I opened my mail, to my chagrin they asked me service charges for my visa and tickets. And then I realized it was a hoax. It’s strange that Arabs are also involved as scammers.

Maurice Blanchot
Maurice Blanchot is a French philosopher and novelist. He equates the philosophy of Death to writing. What is death in writing is not clear? Every word I strike with the pen is a body being lowered into its grave. Every thought added becomes a resurrection. Another interesting thought of his is a flower in literature has meanings other then what the flower signifies. An example would: I did poetry to her and made her a flower of meanings.

Dusk an Epiphany

The sun seen on the horizon was orange-red; the sun resembled an eye; colors started spilling over; orange, red and pink glowed in loving passion. The sky was a peace of prose. Eloquent angels danced in the sky. There in the sky, I saw a mermaid, then I saw a fire belching dragon; then again I saw a gigantic salamander; the sky became a poem of efflorescence.

Assorted Fictions

Childhood Memoir
This happened to me when I was in the 10th standard. There was girl in the nearby girl school to whom I became emotionally attached. Every morning and evening I used to rush from my school to see her go. I did not have the courage to tell her that I love her. After finishing school we parted our ways and I know nothing of what happened to her.

Rain an Epiphany
Thunder growled ferociously like an angry dog. Pink flowers lit up the sky. The sky started chanting hymns. Rain is now pouring a cuisine of delicacy. The sky is serenading the earth in sheer ecstasy. Nature is an art of rhythmic music. Cymbals are clanging; base drum is pounding; tom toms are echoing the music of beauty.

Fictional Narratives

Rain an Epiphany
The canvas is swollen grey. Very soon epiphanies are pouring on the earth. God is pleased with the earth and wets the earth in lyrical etudes. The earth has been a bald head, dry without water. Thanks to heaven’s pleasant gift, the rain of prosperity is gifted to the earth.

King Alexander the Great Poop
King Alexander was a great king of poop. He uses his poop soldiers cast in poop to conquer lands. Each of the poop lands he conquers, he induces them to adopt poop mannerisms and culture. Poop culture and Poop Empire is being recorded in the annals of history. A poop medal is being awarded by the distinguished committee of poop for his poop contributions.

Evening Epiphany
Time is nearing sunset. The colors of the sky are changing to crimson, orange and purple. Colors are mesmerizing fonts of delight. Bards echo joy on celestial wings. Slowly the sun disappears and light is scattered into a fiesta of colors. I watch how the light percolates into the tress and I get feeling of Cathartic happiness. A bird, a sparrow is building its nest on the window sill. I watch in amazement how the tiny joy of love, bring dried leaves, wastepaper and other paraphernalia to build the nest. I am reminded of the saying by Christ: ‘the birds of the air neither sow nor reap and yet the heavenly father takes care of them; then how much more will your heavenly father take care of you’.

Fictional Narratives

Being a writer
Being a Writer is a puzzle! Sometimes I muse whether the writer has to read all the books in the world. How can that be possible? To write is to have an emotional pouring of a catharsis. No writer reads all the books in the world. In today’s world, fiction is littered with inter-textuality, and the authors are self-reflexive and there are multiple authors weaving the carpet of characters. Fiction is borne from the incongruity of reality and fantasy. Sometimes fiction is representation of ideas with the literary tools of aestheticism.

forest

Flame of the Forest
The Flame of the Forest is a tree with orange flowers. It’s a beauty … a treat to watch. It sings the poems of love …I watch its leaves being gently shed. It bequeaths a soul full of love. Passion drenches into rich emotions on its petals.


Parallel between Sisyphus and Atlas

Both, Sisyphus and Atlas come to use from Greek Mythology. Both are punished by Gods. Sisyphus is forced to roll a boulder uphill only to find that it has rolled down and he is forced to repeat this meaningless task again and again. Atlas is punished by Gods to carry the earth on his head. These two characters represent leitmotifs of existential philosophy namely angst and life having no meaning and purpose.


Rupture Being and Rapture Becoming

Both terms are related to existential philosophy. Rupture being refers to unshackling the mind from clichés of self perception. In other words when this is done there is a rapture of being, a state to look at life with joy, creativity and catharsis.

Fictional Narratives

Sperm
Two jokers were discussing about sperm. One joker asked: ‘how much sperm has been spilled on the earth’. The second Joker replied: ‘it is not quantifiable but it bears a resemblance’. The first joker replied: ‘What is the resemblance’? The second joker replied: ‘as big as the pacific ocean’!

Tastesy
Tastesy has been derived from Taste and Ecstasy. It refers to the following. If we think about delicious food: our mouth instantly waters and that is called Tastesy.

Evening an Epiphany
Sunset is sheer crimson passion; colors echo the song of love; birds are dancing in the wind and singing poems; the sky unfurls into many shapes and hues; many shapes of the sky bear resemblances to a bestiary; the sky is melting and mating with the fonts of colors; evening is a poem being written.


Night an Epiphany

Night is dark except a melody of twinkling pearls. My loins are soaked with leitmotif of the night and I urge God Jehovah Jesus to strengthen my loins. Why should night be a wicked witch casting a spell on me? When will the night become a bed of passion? The music of the crickets is a rising crescendo

Two Idioms and an Epiphany

Rain an Epiphany
The clouds are bloated and grey; rain is pouring now, a melancholic hymn; thunder bellows now a bell-canto voice; pink streaks across the sky as a poem of art; rain is a loud muse pouring pitter patter on the roof; it is a pulchritude to hear the rhythm and melody of the rain.


Serpent on a Flagpole

Serpent on a Flagpole is taken from the Old Testament. The Israelites in their sojourn in the wilderness became whiners and grumblers. God became displeased with them and send down serpents to exterminate them. They pleaded with Moses to rescue them. Moses held concordance with God and God asked him to put a serpent carved out of metal on a flagpole and whoever looks at it will be saved. The Serpent on a Flagpole as an Idiom means solving a problem using an apt solution. Will the Corona Virus have a Serpent on a Flagpole? The pancreatic cancer that he had became a serpent on a flagpole.

Balaam’s Ass
Balaam’s Ass is an Old Testament story. Balaam had the power to curse or bless, a gift ordained by God. Balaam was asked by the enemies of Israel to curse them. As he was riding on his donkey, the donkey saw an angel blocking the way and it veered off into a ditch. Balaam began to beat in without any mercy. God spoke through the donkey: ‘I have been faithful to you all these years and yet you persecute me’. Balaam realized his mistake and asked God for forgiveness. Balaam’s Ass as an idiom means being accused of a problem that one did not create or it means making a scapegoat of someone. In my professional career I have for no faults of mine became a Balaam’s Ass. I became a Balaam’s Ass when my lover rejected me.

Fictional Narratives

Cleansing the Temple
This is the only time that Jesus got angry. When he came to the temple, to his consternation he found that the temple was full of marketers and gamblers. He took a whip and with all fury drove them all out and said: ‘my father’s house is a house of prayer but you have made it a den of thieves. Cleansing the temple as an idiom means a body free of vices. In personal life cleansing the temple is not an easy task.


Evening Epiphany

Light broke out into a prose of poems ….scarlet …..orange….pink and purple….there’s an ark there embedded in the clouds, a Noah’s ark….there’s a fire belching monster ….there I see a gargoyle….evening is quiet, tranquil poem…..fairies were nattering in awesome splendor….few were streaking across the sky in magnificent pulchritude ….the flame of the forest with its red flowers shone as a music of color….meaning of beauty lies in the art of nature.

Rain an Epiphany
Zeus roared his motorcycle across the sky…A fetish of pink X-rayed the sky….The clouds were swollen ash ….then it started drizzling….the cold breeze stuck my cheeks as tempting cheese. The falling of rain on the roof resembled the sounds of horses trotting….the rain fizzled out and what remained was a quiet silence ….rain is pathos of nature ….

Fictions

Dawn Sonata
The glory of light, musky hues of red, orange and purple shone in delightful efflorescence. Origami floated in the misty air with the art of eloquence. The sky daffodils into a brilliant hue of a mystic pulchritude. The clouds are weaving clothes and painting violins. There, I see ribs, moths and gigantic butterflies. Morn awakens my consciousness to a plethora of a taste for art. The whole of nature is recreated as gardens of poetry.

Kuala Lumpur Nights
I bring to memory: Kuala Lumpur nights, the time I spent with my significant other. It was a memorable time of shared love and passion. Mr. Lee, her friend received me at the airport. As I was traveling through the speed lane, he was boasting that KL road is free from any sort of disturbance and as we were passing by, we noticed something big lying on the road. When we approached it, it was a dead cow; probably it has been run over. We booked into a budget hotel and Lee was also booked in same hotel. At that time Lee asked whether I should spend my night in his room, and my significant other intervened with a smile and said: ‘no Mr. Lee’ and took hold of my hands and led me to her room. She was quite shy; so too was I. She smiled and said she washes her hotspot with tooth lotion. Eroticism became a romantic poem. Intimacy generated an Eros of a passionate music. Then in the morning we visited the KL Towers. The twin towers, huge in stature resembled the shape of a phallus. Yes the shape of the phallus has changed from worship, art to a symbolism of utility. When we reached its pinnacle: I looked down and I could see that the traffic and people down looked like tiny ants. For lunch we had a sumptuous Malaysian cuisine of roasted fish and rice. Later on we parted with goodbyes and vowed to meet again and share our love.

Quixotic Micro Fictions

Nature an Epiphany
During the summer season it rains in the evening in Kerala and it is called Mango Showers. Mango showers are beneficial for Coffee and Mangoes. Clouds are poetic grey and a chorus of wind was caressing my cheek. I watch the wet leaves with awe and wonder of a child. It rained only as a drizzle. Drizzle sounds melodious as soft whispers. Today the sky was only partially cloudy. Tombs float as clouds. One can see an elephant with a trunk. All of nature is reminiscent with Van Gog’s impressionism. Champaka, a fruit of Kerala grows to blossom only in the Summer Season. Champaka lies as crowns on a tree. I feel a joy to write these words.


Varkala Beach a Memoir

Varkala beach is s virgin, tranquil beach in the heart of Kerala. I had a joy of making a visit there. The beach has a long, intimately curved coastline which extends miles and miles like a long serpent. I went there with my family and Valerie who came from the UK on a teacher exchange session. Valerie was a poet and artist and she became an admirer of my writing. She opened her self to me and became an admirer of my writing. She was willing to share the poetry of the bed with me. But then I politely declined as I was filled with Christian Piety. While were walking on the beach: a man approached us and asked: ‘sir do you want a joint’? Joint is marijuana. I felt tempted as I enjoyed smoking a reefer. Grass works so wonderful with perceptions. It fragments reality and fantasy creating moments of phantasmagoria. We lose the sense of time. Pot also stimulates the amorous instinct. There was one shop on the beach selling books from all nations. One could buy a book or exchange a book and take another. The beach also had a resort for Aurvedic massage. There was a German restaurant called Moma Chompos from where we had delicious roast chicken.

A Port Blair Diary
Port Blair is an island in India. My sweet heart lived there. I went there for a visit. And at that time she was in Kerala. This mistake led to a souring of our relationship. Her brother-in-law was good to me. He took me to various islands situated nearby. Our journey was on a medium sized sea vessel. Waters of the sea were rich in marine green. I enjoyed standing on the deck and feeling the soft wind caressing me. There was a French girl who was very pretty. She was puking all the time. My companion became an all too friendly Muslim. At that time I did not know the difference between Allah and Mohammed. I thought they were the same. He clarified my doubts with patience and kindness and cajoled me to embrace Islamic Faith which I politely declined. One significant place which I visited was the cellular jail. It was built by the British to arrest prisoners who were fighting for freedom. Legend has it that during the night there are screams emanating from the jail. My lover deserted me and my journey back was one of sorrow and regret. The French girl who was on the boat with me solicited my company. I rejected all her advances. Today I regret a beautiful opportunity gone by.