July 28, 2019
Morning Daffodiled into a song. A chorus of hymns floated through the sky. All is delight with me. I thank God Jehovah for giving me blessings. Time moved on at a musical pace.
I want to write about some reminiscences I spent at Varkala beach, a virgin beach in Kerala. The waves are soothing balm and waters are tranquil. Just overlooking the beach is a hill called Sin Looser Hill a very strange name. I had in company with me an English Woman called Susana. Actually she was half Indian and half English and she had a wheatish complexion. Early in the morning we strolled across the hill with gentle monsoon breeze caressing our cheeks. There were lots of foreigners ambling with us. Watching the music of the sea, splaying waves across the coast line was so sumptuous. A man came and queried is as to wanting a pouch. Soon it became clear to us that he was selling marijuana. We took a packet a small pouch and paid him 100 Rupees. We lit a cigarette and happily contemplated nature. Later on we had a rich delicacy at Mama Choms, a restaurant run by a German couple. It was made of Bacon Toast, Eggs and tomatoes. After having eaten breakfast we strolled on the beach. We came to a most amazing bookshop which had books in all the languages of the world. You can exchange your book and pick another from there. Susana picked Harry Potter from there and I picked Derrida’s Writing and Difference. Susana was not philosophically inclined. Susan wore a bikini and she ran in to catch the waves. I too followed her in eager delight. We spent a whole day up to evening on the beach. Our night was passionate poem. We made love like blossoming flowers. The bed became a sensual flower of ecstasy. Varkala has made a man out of me. It has bolted the experience of me to be a writer. I was able to happily live my fictional self.
A Melancholic Epistle
I don’t know why I am writing this epistle. My being is plagued with the sadness of the heart. Stones weep and pillars cry. Emotion is like a knife piercing the artery. My family has become a cold shoulder. Nature itself speaks the solitude of sadness. Winter has settled in the body. Angst after angst, when will the captain of my ship give me a burden that I can bear. Fortune has hit the flesh and has battered and bruised it. I am Job’s shadow personality. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Can I have the doors of a window to help me? Can I have the patience to bear my sorrow? When will I be rid of doubt? When will Grace and Mercy be a part of my heart? When will all prayers be answered? When will my marrow of doubt and indecision be removed? Commonsense is rude jester playing a cruel joke. I am worrying about being helpless. When will life be smooth for me? Faith, redeem me into your oasis. Yes I live with the hope that tomorrow will be a better day. The junk of daylight cripples me. The tatterdemalion of night stands as my obstruction. Eternity with God, don’t be curfew of the darkest night. Philosophies of the world offer me no solace. Sometimes I doubt about my worldview. When can I live without being sad? When will hope live its fondest dream in me? When will character recognize the art in me? When can I understand the esoteric mystery of heaven? Oh God, grant me the solitude to take one day at a time. Teach me your patience and your virtues. Oh God Jehovah Jesus let worry not plague my life in the days to come. Be easy on my heart. Cheer my heart with a new horizon of faith away from the dark clouds of skepticism. Though know my being perfectly, the inner man in me. Make me and mould me according to your will. Drain my angst out of my shrunken body. Freeze my daylight worries. Shrink my fear of being alone in a desolate night. Dear God Jehovah Jesus, let me wake up with a new heart.
July 15, 2019
Morning was a late bard. Woke up and drenched cups of coffee. I feel so happy and contented as God is on my side. Muses danced in art—a ballet—objet d’ art. Clouds hung across the sky as beards.
I am comforted by the Bible Verse: Blessed are the Meek for they shall inherit the earth. I am reading the gospel of ST. Mathew. Again it says in the Gospel: Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. It also says: Blessed are the poor in spirit: for they shall see God. The Sermon on the Mount is my all-time favorite.
I got some letters from scammers—men impersonating as women, wanting me to transfer funds. I have grown tired of scammers.
Sometimes I get offers employment abroad. When I look at their mail address it is Gmail. Then I realize that they are serpents wanting to cheat the innocent with their poisonous fangs.
Sometimes I wonder what is a writerly consciousness. It’s a process which starts with the beginning of writing. Thoughts are the dictionary of the mind. And from there they have to be channeled into the writer’s pen. I still enjoy writing in a book. But mostly I do it on the desk top. It’s fun to imagine mythological figures as being real entities. Yes fairies, leprechauns, gargoyles, mermaids all populated as tales of a mental hallucination. Many a writer still experiments with these forms. The most intense desire of a writer is he or she would love to be read. A writer has to be an eccentric person. He has to portray customs and conventions in a bizarre manner. Sometimes writing is gun waiting to explode. Sometimes writing is a suicide of the pen. Sometimes writing has to resurrect with new forms. Writing is the passion of the pen. Writing is art divine. Writing is a magical formula. Writing is poetry that changes a landscape. Writing is muse that writes in the rhythm of Jazz. Writing is a monument as beautiful as the Tajmahal. Writing sometimes can be a diabolic symbol. Writing is Atlas carrying the earth in agony. Writing is a fruit that has grown from the seed. Writing is a new way expressing love for our creator. Writing is the excavation of the past. Writing is a sculpture resembling Rodin’s Thinker. Writing is an art of the danseuse. Writing is a lit cigarette blowing rings of smoke. Writing is the passion of the heart. Writing is an eclipse of the sun and the moon. Writing is the tides of the ocean. Writing is pleasant music for the ear. Writing is a symphony of music. Writing is a sweet that is good to taste. Writing should transform and motivate the mind. I write by invoking Hallelujah. Yes, Hallelujah is my password for writing. While writing I feel closer to God. I can feel his presence, his grace, his mercy and favor. Sometimes I write with a repentant heart. Sometimes I write out of angst and anxiety. Sometimes an experience is transformed into a fable. Writing is a quixotic pen. Cervantes in all his madness has portrayed man to be a torrent of struggling nature and who surprisingly balances reality with fantasy. Cervantes broke away from religion and fictionalized man’s being into an oasis of fiction. Borges is another all time favorites. From him I have discovered the writing of the whimsical script. He is a bard of pregnant prose. I have discovered a lot from the existential philosophers like Camus and Sartre. Being is epitomized has the heart of existence. Character is the resonance of the soul. Angst is carried in the well of the mind. Man’s character is hypnotized into tragic and stoic and paradoxically linked with triumph. My writing carries the colonial gift of the language and the pen. I am now writing post-coloniality as my own invention. My enemy is always lurking behind me. He is Dyer of the Jalllianwala Massacre. Yes, I have to free myself from the grips of colonial fangs. Freedom of being free, how much I relish it. My writing forms the canon of postcolonial literature. Why did the colonizers teach English? It is because they wanted a bunch of administrators. Indian writing in English is slowly freeing itself from that of a colonial consciousness. On the other hand the irony of it is, if I hadn’t learnt English, It would have been a big loss. I wonder as a writer what it is to be situated in a culture that is oriental and what it is to be a part of occidental culture. I consider myself a hybrid of both these cultures. The orient is my wife and the occident is my husband. I blend them with eclectic fusion. I am an Indian who loves the Gospel, Jazz, Rock and Blues. I am a writer who is fond of western thinkers like Camus, Sartre, Derrida and Foucault. I am a Christian with liberal theology. I am a writer who loves to travel and explore cultures. Sometimes I wonder what it is to be a writer. Writing won’t end till I die. I love to wander to places and I also love to be in touch with sights, smells and experiences. Writing is a poetry of prose a magic that supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Writing is a beauty that will never fade. Writing is the will of staying firm when there are temptations and troubles in life. Writing is the ethereal, cosmic gift of God.
Parable from the Bible
Jesus is famous for the parable he told. In one parable, he says a farmer’s helpers planted seed. Later on when the night came, the enemy came and sowed thistles. When the plant sprouted, the thistles also showed. The helpers asked the master, who planted the thistles and the master replied: the enemy did. Then they asked him should we weed it out. No replied the master. We can weed it out after it has become a crop. There is a twofold meaning this parable. The thistles are the bad times and rough patches in life. And the seed represents God who takes care of your life no matter what it happens to you. Harvest time also denotes a period where those who are close to God will be taken up.
Jung the famous Swizz psychiatrist introduced what is known as the collective unconscious. For Jung, it was repository of psychic symbolism common to all of humanity. Jung has used the symbolism of the Mandala as an example. But Mandala belongs to Pagan religions and could be a satanic talisman. What I would like to say is God—Jehovah—Jesus is the reservoir of the collective unconscious and he has skillfully created Adam in his own likeness. The collective unconscious is the consciousness which we share with God.
The day a slow waltz and I enjoyed the comfort of a holiday by being a couch potato. In the evening I was happy to read the parables of Jesus and I thought that I will write something about it.
Parable of the Seed
In this parable, the farmer sowed seeds on the road and the birds came and ate it up. There’s a spiritual and secular meaning to this parable. Now what it is? In a secular sense it means being very lazy. In a religious sense it is not being able to understand the work of God’s Kingdom. Again the parable says that the farmer sowed the seeds on gravel. It refers to people who accept the word but choose to ignore it. In a secular sense these are people who are plunged with self-pity and blame others as scapegoats. Then again the parable goes as the farmer planting the seed on weeds. The weeds choke up the seeds and they don’t flourish. These are people who rubbish off God’s Word. Such people are prone to profligacy and negate God’s Word. As a secular meaning, it means those type of people are wicked, corrupt and immoral. Then the farmer sows the seed on good ground and there it grows very well. These are people who listen to God’s Word and obey it. As a secular meaning, it refers to those who work hard and are successful.
Again Jesus goes on with another parable. In this parable a master has got farm hands who plant seeds. Later on in the night, the enemy comes and sows thistles. When the farm hands got to know of this, they asked the farmer what should be done. He replied that when the harvest comes, the thistles can be pulled out and the grain be harvested. The spiritual meaning is this: only those who are chosen will be able to enter the kingdom of heaven. In a secular sense it means facing all obstacles bravely.
The sun was a melody of music. Tales floated in the sky with mystic silence. Colors of the sun spread a mystic halo. I thank Jehovah Jesus for all the blessings given. The sky wrote with crayons, a tranquil dream. Life to me became a dream of passion.
I think about myself as a fictional self and a real self. The real self is a teacher teaching English in high school. The fictional self is a writer with the passion to write. Sometimes the fictional self is abounding with dialectical narcissism. Sometimes the fictional self is a passionate monument of memory. Time becomes an inner architecture releasing a manifold into letters of prose. Is writing a whimsical flower, or a stoic spear or an Epicurean indulgence? I don’t know. The consciousness of the writer blooms into a lettering of flowers. What is the consciousness of a writer? A writer is a very flexible person immersed in the garden of prose. Writing is a game of letters and words. The writer’s consciousness is brought out through streams of consciousness. Writing is an art of a cubist painting, a calypso of thought submerged in the sea of letters. As a cubist painting, writing takes on narrative shifts in time, and then it experiments with fiction caught up in the web of prose. Writing makes the heart filled with gratitude. Irony flows like a stream in disguise. Meaning slips into thoughts. The words are in a garden of veils. Writing is the canopy of trees. Plato practiced virtue in writing, so too the zealous Christians. After the end of writing, a shy writer like me, examines the body and smiles with irony. Oh what have I done? The architecture of writing is fanciful and whimsical. Writing can be fantastical too. So are the writers of magic realism. There is a writing of combining dreams with reality. Derrida has said: ‘to write is to have the passion of origin.’ Writing is a bizarre soliloquy of fetish, an overbearing waltz of a contaminated self in exaltation of narcissism. Writing is the discovery of the self. Writing is God like tabernacle made to be worshiped. Writing is poetic music. Writing is made for the deity—God to be glorified. Writing is phantasmagoria. Words are shallow streams. Who’s is the writer’s higher-self? Karl Gustav Jung had a higher self called Philemon. Writing is an art of connecting with your higher self. Consciousness is a broken personality of many fragments. Writing is an art of fondling a guitar. Writing is a therapeutic messiah. For a writer time is folded into a sculpture of the present, past and future. Writing as a cubist painting becomes convoluted prose, meandering Picasso-edges, a stream of Dali’s eye and an egg born through the prism of the pen. Isn’t that magic realism? Writing is also very Quixotic. The writer aims to shake the windmills of the mind. Every full stop is death and every new sentence is a beginning.