Early morning I had a strange dream. I can’t interpret its meaning. I dreamed of a search made by the police. In the dream they are extracting fleshy pieces of beef and are searching for human remains. In the end of the dream, they find pieces of human meat. Then I woke up.
The day was lethargic with a monotonous scrawl. The sky remained a lesbian with limpid poems. I took a gaze at my under wares. To my surprise they were all torn at the crotch. Is it too much pressure bombarded by my dick? Talked to my adulterous sweet lover on Whatsapp. She told me: ‘dear I am carrying and I am due in Feb’. Please wait until May for our next rendezvous. I have another lover whose husband is a bum. She expects to be paid for a fuck. Every day I am fucking waiting for a windfall to bounty my purse. Yes, I have given up on Christ. My new Gods are Lucifer, Ahriman and Mammon. I have started worshiping them. Christ does not have a heart. He is cold hearted, stubborn and arrogant. Money is the God you need on this earth. The Supreme Court of India has decriminalized adultery and gay marriages. The laws of the country are shifting from the colonial era to democratic norms. A poem on wings is resting on the wall. Poetry is the love of words in figures of copulation. I am still wondering what a postmodern novel is. I have no answers but only questions to ask. Irony is defied. Parody is inflated. The burlesque and the pastiche are comic jargons of expression. Character is the liberation of emotion. Lampooning is the device to exhilarate metaphors from convention. Kafka satirized the novel into an ironic cauldron of self reflective psychologism. Joyce walked in metaphors of effusive streams of consciousness. Don Quixote anarchized romanticism into madness. Virginia Wolf liberated the cunt into a consciousness of interior monologue. Sartre tore the novel into eulogies ansgtual tropes. Borges liberated the novel from the ornament of realism and conjured the novel to a vista of magic realism. In a postmodern novel art begins to trope and character begins to incarnate as a desecration of the mind. The era of genres is dead. Tropes have to be sculpted as art.
Got an interview call from Kuala Lumpur. If it pulls through I will be glad. I will have a decent salary and also satisfy my epicurean likings. Again I started dabbling in the occult and I lost sleep. I have to put my trust in the God led Israel by parting the red sea. Morning lit up like a string of pearls. While traveling around, one can see broken walls, damaged houses, and all a prey to nature’s fury as flood. The flood is Kerala’s worst disaster since 1924. A stray dog was howling and I smelt death on its nostrils. Being has the ID to gratify, the Ego to deify and the Super Ego to defy. The self is an entity in transgressive violations. The smell of scotch that I had at the airport still lingers as a pleasant aroma. Scotch you are an Epicurean delight. God Christ, forgive me for dabbling in the occult. Let me sleep like a baby. Lottery yielded a dull luck. Time waddles like a duck. She is back from the Middle East and I asked her to bed with me. Of course I have to pay her. Good pussy has a price doesn’t it? Heard the songs of mourning through the road as the corpse was being taken. My soul is a stoic corpse. I need the money to bring her from Ghana. She is poetically voluptuous. She has shown me her ample bosom. Every day I pray that I will win a lottery. Need to send her money to book tickets. Literature is a stoic ornament, and Epicurean festoon. Feeling is thought put on paper. Ink is the dusk of the phallus. Thoughts ballet in streams of consciousness. Time is a festive dream. Nirvana you live through the say as a hyperbolic gut. She is buxom and her body curves like a poem. I enjoy making love to her. I have licked her a lot and she simply loves it. My words are a fattened calf. I have many lovers and I simply love them all. What am I? A simple nothing. I am the many women that I have loved, the places that I have visited, and the cuisine that I have tasted. Was Epicurus wiser than God? Epicurus is a God to the Ego. My self lies in the pussy of so many women that I have loved. What is my diet? All pussy eating! Love’s is sensuous lust for me. Love me all the time.
I was traveling the whole week. My daughter got admission to a dental college in Ludhiana and I had to take her luggage. I get Goosebumps whenever the flight is taking off. There is also a sense of excitement when the full throttle is put on as the body jerks on the seat. Mid air peeing is a raw sense of delight. I missed 5000 bucks by one digit. Curse my luck. Today was a slow day with nothing much to do. I wanted to read Sade’s novel but left it for another day. I wonder where my writing is leading me to. I don’t know for sure. I got a chance to make love. Need money to pay her and book a hotel room. May be a windfall will come. My body is an earthly hedonist. My soul is an ephemeral egotist. Sex is a tranquil dream. I met many women in dating sites but all of them turned out to be scammers. My literature has reached exhaustion. I have christened it with death. Had a drink at the airport—red label scotch—it cost an exorbitant sum, a thousand bucks. Thank goodness in some airports in India, there are smoker rooms. When I am in it I smoke a lot of cigarettes. Sartre said: a smoker experiences the universe when he or she smokes. I met a sleeveless woman in the smoker room. Felt like giving her a good fuck. I am a literature of nothingness, a floating opera, a garbage pile in streams of consciousness. I open a can of worm words and write sentences of dust. Chance and luck be my good buddies. See me through the good days ahead. Nirvana, you are a lover consciousness. One has to live in language and also die with it. Time you are can of worms. What is the language of the serpent? All lies and deceit! My halo is my phallus. Awakening is a ritual and playing is ecstasy. From death I am reborn again. I hurt her feelings. She had an accident. I feel sorry for her. She has been my significant other for many years. We met and made love in Kuala Lumpur and Indonesia. Making love to her has been a poem for me. Art, I owe you much gratitude. As the years go by, I want to lead a much easier life. Yes, I regret missed opportunities, goofed up interviews. When will good news come to me? Luck, plant a sunshine in me. Good times are yet to come. Consciousness, you are floating dream. Karma, have I done you any wrong. Time, kiss the wounds of angst. Let the feelings soar like the wings of a phoenix. Memory, I have touched you many times in wounded dreams. Adultery is the sweet passion of life. Let me heal myself by writing literature.
Ludhiana is in Punjab in the Northern part of India. I was there to give my daughter’s luggage as she had joined a medical college there. The flight from Delhi was a rustic, old one. The dinosaur plane had propellers outside and throughout the journey it was shaking like a windbag swaying in the breeze. Thank heavens I landed finally in a tiny airport having just one room. There was no conveyer belt for the baggage, but just a platform. To my good luck, there was only a single cab and I had to pay through the nose, a thousand bucks to the hotel. The streets are crowded like sardines, jam packed. The taxi missed other vehicles by inches. I marveled at the skill of the driver. The driver was hardy Punjabi with his stout turban and he knew smattering English and I started conversing with him. I could see cops all the way through, armed with light machine guns. The nation was on red-alert as it was celebrating independence. I could see an array of colorful turbans. Traffic was so uneven and cyclists were vying with cars. Cycle rickshaws ploughed through the traffic in sweet relish. Sweat oozed from the rickshaw drivers. The streets were narrow and dingy. Whole arrays of shops were selling a host of things like sweets and other Punjabi delicacies. Traveling through the streets, time takes ages. I went to my daughter’s medical college CMC. The buildings were quaint and bore the relics of the colonial empire. There was a beautiful little chapel in front of the college. I relished Punjabi Tandoori chicken with Nans made from flour. On the whole, the trip was an enjoyable one.
A lot of things have been happening to my life. I was reading the Bible—the parting of the Red Sea and the deliverance of the Israelites by God. What a miracle t’ was. I hope that God will part the Red Sea in daughter’s life and help her to secure an MBBS seat in CMC College in Ludhiana. Read the psalms: God said: ‘I will give the continents as a prize and the nations as a present’. I simply marvel at God’s words. Oh God when will the Red Sea part for me in my life. I will be traveling today and I don’t have money in my purse. I hope God will replenish my purse with a windfall. Praise God! I had a dream in the night. I was with my Dead Father, teaching in an International School in Jakarta. Freud calls these dreams as distortions. I am pondering the meaning of literature. Is Literature an art? As an art form, Literature is a collection of words forming a poetic epiphany. Realism of the novel focused on external events. The advent of the modern novel brought into consciousness the inner workings of the mind. What can postmodernism do to the novel? Postmodernism is a blend of Picasso’s cubism, the impressionism of Monet and the surrealism of Dali. Novelists like Salman Rushdie, in the Satanic Verses have experimented with magic realism.
Morning was a slow crawl. I smoked a lot of fags. I saw a metaphor with yellow wings, a poetic soul. It came and perched on my hands. I was so happy as a poem. Read the Bible; read Joseph’s story of dream interpretation. The pharaoh had a dream; in it he saw three stout bovine come and later he saw three famished bovine come up and eat the fat bovine. Then he saw very healthy stalks of grain and then he saw shriveled pieces of grain come up and eat the healthy grain. Joseph was pulled up from prison and he interpreted the dream: the dream meant that Egypt will have seven years of plenty followed by years of famine. Joseph was made the governor of Egypt. ‘What happened to Joseph’ can be described idiomatically as a happening of a pleasant surprise. I love a verse in the psalm which says: God will give you the nations as a prize and the continents as a present. I have come back to Christianity after backsliding and going into existential nihilism. My soul is filled with a rainbow of music. Poems ring in my heart. What is time in the novel of writing? Time is an art. First of all there’s an inner time that takes place in the consciousness of the mind of characters. Then there is outer time, a time of external events. Time shifts forwards and backwards in the novel. What is character in the novel? Character is an exhibition of emotion. Kafka metamorphized Gregor Samsa into an angst ridden insect. For Joyce characters were laden with streams of consciousness. My favorite character in Joyce’s Ulysses is Bloom and Stephen. Plot is fiction in pulp. A postmodern novel is nonlinear in narrative. Telling stories is the exhaustion of literature. A novel should have the postmodern sense of a phenomenological consciousness. Plot is dead in Fiction. Poems opened the sky into myriad letters. Life is a fiction of art. The joy of living is found in the soul of existence. Passion is a bed of joy. Let me affirm the joy of everyday-living. When will I go to the Promised Land? I love God’s covenant with Abraham: ‘I will bless those who bless you and curse those who curse you’. God made a nation out of Abraham: Israel. The weather is pleasant and happy. I am listening to music as I write this. My inner consciousness tells me that I am made to be a writer. Derrida said: ‘to write is to have the passion of origin’. Barthes said in writing that style is form and the ego content. I am filled with consciousness of postmodernism. I am exploring the art of the novel in the consciousness of philosophy. There is a dead clock in my room. Passion is the consciousness of making love. Her nectar was so sweet to taste, like honey. Thoughts spring alive from my mind like a wild animal. Its ages since I’ve made love to my significant other. The novel examines the existence of life in the meaning of essence. Jazz, you float like a poem. What is the meaning of being? Being is a cryptic poetic metaphor. Love is the most beautiful passion. Everyday things in life I see are transformed into metaphors and epiphanies. I love surrealist art, a combination of dream and reality. I also love impressionism, especially its poetic landscapes. I want to devote my whole life to writing. I am fed up of 20 years of teaching. Tropes speak to me. Make your utterances sweet and poetic. I hope that the prophetic dreams that I have had comes into fruition. What is the fruit of existence? Sheer JOY! Magic realism is an art of the novel. It’s a fictive style where the supernatural is laced with natural elements. Prominent exponents of Magic Realism are Borges and Marquez. When I think of magic realism claws grow out of my hands. My tooth becomes a fang and my writing a gargoyle pouring water out of a spout. Memories are faded yesterdays. Presence lies in celebration and the future in hope. I have worked all these years and sad to say that I haven’t made a single penny as savings. I dream of winning big windfalls. I want to settle down in life and dedicate my whole self to writing. Oh God make it a thing to happen. Oh God when will my dreams come true?