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?
My daughter was eager to go to Medical School in India. She got a decent NEET score of 409 Marks but that did not make her eligible to Govt. Medical colleges or Christian Medical Colleges. While doing her 12th grade she did her internship in a leprosy hospital. Her mission in life was to be a Mission Oriented doctor. But sad to say due to the Indian system her hopes are dashed. There goes her chance of being a dedicated committed doctor.
I became very elated. Finally I was able to bring my autistic son from the misery of a boarding school. This I did when my wife was out of station. I was wondering whether they were doping him. His eyes were dazed and he was not at all responding. On top of that there were scratch marks on his skin. It was a long journey by bus from Trichur to Thiruvalla. From there I had to take him by scooter. I thank God that it was not raining. My son coming back was a celebration for me. It was like Jacob seeing his lost son Joseph in Egypt after a long time. My wife is having half thoughts to send him back. She thinks that only the school can discipline him. I feel that an autistic son should need love, care and affection and that he can get only if he stays at home. The poor chap can’t even express his feelings. When he gets aroused, he rubs his body on the bed. This is only normal. And my stupid wife thinks that’s an abnormality. When I went to take him in school, deep down I could see the angst in his heart. I have told my wife that there is an autistic day school nearby and I can take him there. I hope she agrees. He needs the love and affection of his parents. I have made a vow to stop dabbling in the occult especially tarot and astrology. I read the Bible and prayed and I was filled with serenity. I laughed with God Jesus. He has a wonderful sense of humor. I am holding my hands on his feet and will not let go till I am blessed. Oh God when will my exile end and when will the red sea part for me. I am thinking of the joy of an exodus.
Had two dreams today one was unpleasant and the other filled me with tears of happiness. In the first dream, I was sleeping in a mall, in a room along with my dead father. It was midnight and suddenly I could hear shouts, wails and screams. I opened the door boldly and to my surprise, I found a young woman with stab wounds. A group of drunken youth was beside her. One of them attacked me; I delivered a karate flying kick. Then I woke up. In the second dream, I was visualizing an IB (International Baccalaureate School). Suddenly I got the place: Cochin. My eyes were filled with tears of happiness. I don’t have the money to start one but some day I will. ‘I shall overcome, I shall overcome, someday, oh oh deep in my heart, I shall overcome someday.’
Woke up at six. Had Mom’s freshly brewed tea. Went to the workshop in the morning; my scooter was leaking oil. Well, they plugged the loop. I bought three lottery tickets with the same number but to sad to ignominy, they ended up in the dustbin in the evening. I didn’t have a scrap of luck. Finally I think luck has come to me. I got a job offer (interview) as a History teacher for Seychelles. If I am lucky, I will be in a new country with plenty of opportunities. Found some interesting facets about the culture of Seychelles. It’s a matriarchic culture with a number of unwed mothers. Interesting, I am smiling to myself (sons and daughters added). I miss my son Joshua who’s sent to a heal autism boarding school. I don’t have the money to go and see him. Found a black cat on the wall. It’s a quite a metaphor for good luck. I am longing to have a drink (rum) but don’t have the money for it. In the evening I gazed at the clouds. I found so many poems in it. The sky was lettered in Asemic writing. Found gigantic butterflies. Found a trunk of an elephant. Found moving paws. Evening was spent in many epiphanies. I am wondering about myself. What is it? Is it a soul of poems? Writing is very therapeutic for me. It helps me bring out myself, my streams of consciousness. Met an old aunt of mine. Had happy reminiscences with her.
There was a black cat atop a water tank and it was licking its body …I pondered about its agility, its flexibility …green eyes pooped shit into my brains…Saw an elephant passing through the road…its smell was like rusted wood. Was pretty awful caused no single number matched my ticket. An interview as an English teacher to Kazakhstan got over. I think it went off well. I am yet to know the outcome. If it pulls through, I will have a well paying job. It will be amazing to explore the culture of Kzakis. Saw a couple of dreams last night all garbled up. I am not able to recall a single one of them. Saw big lumps of elephant poop on the road. They had the smell of crushed berries.