Today is 13th Friday, a bad omen for those who fear the number 13 known as Triskaidekaphobia .13 is a complex number and can be related to Christ and therefore standing for resurrection and rejuvenation. I did some reading into the Bible and read the story of Moses who was chosen by God for the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt. God told him to use a staff and do the miracles before the Pharaoh. The staff of Moses can be connoted into an idiom and it means prosperity and fortune. I wish the staff of Moses to enter my life.
His name is Danny. He came to visit me yesterday. His conception of the world is one of myth. When my autistic son gave him a shake-hand, he said he was a KUTTICHATAN (an evil spirit in his past birth). His words were a contradiction of sorts. He was of the opinion that a cosmic, nature energy is serenading the earth. Slowly our talk drifted on to the Sermon on the Mount. He said Christ did not say it as it was written by the disciples. He told me that Christ was a star. Then our discussion rambled on to belief and faith. I told him that Christ said: ‘I am the way: the truth: and the life and whosoever believes in me shall have everlasting life’. Then our speech drifted on to the origins of language. He said: ‘language is a shadow of leafs’. I told him it is a figure of speech a metaphor. Then our dialogue went on to idol worship. I told him that in Bible there’s a verse that yea shall not worship anything on that walks or crawls on land, anything that flies in the sky and anything that swims in the water. I am a jealous God who will bless those who serve me and curse those who don’t obey my word. Then our narrative went on to serpent. I told him that serpent worship is idolatry and blasphemy. He told me very absurdly that human ears resemble a serpent as they can be stretched. When I told him that we should worship God alone, he said ‘I am Christ; I am the sun; Christ is the sun I am God’.
While traveling on a scooter, I was asked by a stranger for a lift. I dropped him off at the desired destination and he said: ‘thank you very much Pastor’. Him calling me pastor struck my ears with delight even though I was not a pastor. I wonder if I have the spiritual calling to be a pastor.
I live in a joint family. My sister with her daughters and two dogs and my mother stay with me. The dogs are a bloody nuisance. They scrape and bark and create a superfluous pandemonium. We don’t trust each other. When my sister goes out she locks the door and carries the key. My sister and my wife are not on good terms with each other.
Today nothing much happened in my life. I added some new words to my mental machinery and these I would like to use, using tropes. The sawbones is skilled in the medical field of archery. The mountebank operates with a pack of lies. The skinflint donates charity with a measly sum of pennies. The spendthrift lives a life of a sybarite. Lucifer is master canker-blossom. He had a cacoethes for coining neologisms. Hell is tantamount for death.
Not much has happened in my life these days, nothing stimulating or exciting. I had a strange dream about two or three days back. It goes on like this. The police have booked me for murder and they are digging the earth where I have buried the corpse. What is the symbolic meaning? The dream plays on a mass of signals. The cops could mean authority figures. The dead corpse could mean putting an end to my epicurean desires. The unearthing of the body from the grave could mean, there’s a better life ahead.
I was reading the Bible ardently and read through the stories of Abraham and Noah. Abraham was childless for a long period of time and then Sarah his wife asked him to bed with Hagar the maid. Hagar begot Ishmael. When Abraham was 100 years old Sarah conceived Isaac. From Abraham I have coined the adjective—Abrahamesque. Abrahamesque means waiting patiently for God’s wishes to be conceived. I also dipped into Noah’s story. All of the folk laughed away at Noah’s God given wish to build an ark. Noahesque as an adjective could mean being faithful and devoted to God.
It’s been a while since I have written the journal. I have been stuck with a writer’s block and for a long time I did not write anything. My students are having their board examinations and they touched my feet seeking my blessings. I was overwhelmed with feeling and I feel blessed that I am a teacher. The students in India are so respectful a quality lacking all over the globe. It shows an ideal aspect of Indian Culture.
I took a couple of English lessons today for the 8th graders. One was a poem by Auden called Refugee Blues. The students did not know the meaning of a refugee and I had to divulge it in Malayalam. In Malayalam, refugee translated, is almost a sentence as there is no equivalent word for it. The poem is set on the backdrop of the Second World War and it depicts the pathetic condition of Jews seeking refugee status. There are very little tropes used in it. The students were not aware of who Jews where and I asked them who was the most prominent Jew in History. One of them answered it was Christ and I had to tell them that Jews belonged to the Semitic race. The students knew Hitler only by name and I had to give picture of how Hitler persecuted the Jews. I also had to tell them of the holocaust. Sometimes I wonder why Jews had to undergo such traumatic ordeal.
The next lesson I took was a ‘Lesson on the Tortoise’ by D H Lawrence. The lesson begins on a Friday, the end of the week, a day when students and teachers eagerly seek rest. The teacher presents a tortoise to the keen students and they observe how it comes out of its shell. Then there is a brief narrative of a stolen erasers and the teacher asking the students discreetly who the culprit is. The story did not catch the attention of the students and I also thought it was a boring one. But I admire DH Lawrence as a writer.
I am also reading Kierkegaard’s Philosophical fragments and I have just started its introduction. The narrative splits into an aesthetic and ethical one. Kierkegaard is famous for lyrical aphorisms called in Greek as Dipslamata.
I have also started reading the Bible from Genesis. The story of creation is a marvelous one. Adam and Eve committed the original sin by eating the fruit of the tree of Good and Evil and so Christ had to come as a Son of God to redeem mankind. Yes, the flesh is sinful and the spirit is holy. One has to keep the lust of the flesh in control.
Life is a boring scum. I am wandering like a lost dream of words. I am sinking into the abyss of pathos. Mutiny is a million flowers scavenging a dead corpse. Feel tired and worn-out; feel like losing out the self to a rebellious resurrection. I want to peruse the meaning of life. I am feeling like losing my faith in God and I feel sorry as an empty canvas. Life has become a prison of routine. What had come of me? It’s been ages since I have a read a good book. I wonder why? I am the pillar of insomnia and depression. I wonder why I can’t end my life. Solitude, you infect me with fangs. Is writing a Moloch of dead dreams? I am depressed with nothing working favorably for me. Do dreams actualize life or are they merely wish fulfillment. May be in my previous birth I was a nomadic hunter who could sit around grandma’s fire pot and expurgate a story or two. Why does the avant garde decimate a good story or two? I am a mourning Kafka caught up in the riot of fin de siècle madness. My travel is limited to the four boundaries of a village. It is said that writers have to travel. I plant writer’s seeds with my pen. Even the iconic Joyce had a stint n Switzerland. I sink my lips into a cup of coffee as an art of rebellion. I love to wander, travel and write. I want to shatter the glass of memory and I want to relive the past as moments of happiness. Dark skies cloud my mind in epic sorrows. How does the prism of life actualize a quantum of experience? Cheer up there are better times ahead. I have to live in the castle of hope and make my dreams a wishing want of truth. Who does not want better money, space to travel, and enjoy life? Is Jesus the answer for all existence? Aren’t celebrity evangelists out to make a fast buck or two? Is life a hugger mugger of deception? Ideas in a novel are philosophical fictions. Is fiction the art of telling the self through a series of revelation? Is fiction the art of lying of the self? Do morals have place in the fiction of life? Myth is the solidarity of living through a series of fictional extracts. Every day I speak to myself to become a better fiction. I laugh all of myself in philosophical hyperboles. The body is a festoon of desires. Why can’t I be free and liberated? What causes me to doubt my desires? Are desires evil? They aren’t as long as they don’t offend a democracy. Passions are the mantras of poetry. Socrates said: ‘know thy self’ and I say ‘live yourself’. Words are to bear the dictum of truth. A good writer is in the art of making.
Nothing much has happened in my life. This day to day routine is trying and troublesome. I think of content to write but nothing much emerges.
I had a strange dream and in it I was going through a tunnel. I looked up at the dream dictionary and found the meaning as, going through a tunnel means solving a problem and beginning a new phase of life. I am excited at the prospects that the dream has to offer.
I wonder where life is taking me to. I dream of visiting enchanted islands like Bali, the Philippines where my significant other lives. I dream of smoking clove cigarettes and having Indonesian grilled fish and duck roast and rice with Sambal.
I nourish writing as a poetic dream. I draw writing with my pen and brush against the canvas of the paper. Form is the evolution of the ego into an aesthetic symbolism of an idealism. Content is what the pen plants as a seed and writing is an evolution of a fruit. Style of writing is a fictional utopia. Meaning is the recognition of the allegory in aesthetic semblances. I carve beautiful sculptures with my pen. Writing is the joyful exertion of freedom. The joy of writing is the liberation of the ego, the joyssance of the body. The text is the manna of celebration. Nietzsche the philosopher said: ‘a good writer is a one who is ashamed of the self’. We write in words about what is a bodily negation. Writing bears the angst of the self. Writing is the art of being a stoic epicurean and a philosophical Socrates. To write as Derrida has said: ‘is to have the passion of origin’.