August 5th 2019

August 5th 2019

Today was a day of feeling of being doped and dragged down. I had to take the children to play badminton as the PE of our school was sick. It was an interschool contest. When we went register the students, lo to our surprise, we were asked to present their birth certificates. I had a tough time phoning the school and asking the principal there to email it to the host school. The PE of our school did not coach the children at all and to make matters worse the children were not aware of the rules. Though we lost, we lost by a narrow margin. It was a boring day for me. I could not smoke also I am became at ease after dropping the children at their homes.

There is a strange custom here in Kerala. Many Hindus hang idols of their Gods along that of Jesus and Mary and send decorative lights all over the idol. Is Jesus and Mary an idol? Isn’t the idolatry inherent in Catholicism a diabolic hocus-pocus? I would call this as an idiom meaning Confused. I am confused means accepting Hindu and Christian beliefs at the same time. The shop keeper is confused.

What to writer now? I have written all of a day’s happening. Writing is a fluidic meaning of recollecting and mentally positing experiences. It’s good to recall thoughts? Thoughts are symptoms of a pathological narcissism. The muse dies in painful agony with every word. The muse then resurrects with a new thoughts. Sad to say, that the muse is very sporadic. The desire to write is found deep within. It stems from a flow of eclectic thought. Words bounce like bouncer. It’s a wonder as to how words get recalled from stored memory. Writing is the knack for the uncanny. Writing is a staggering effort in streams of consciousness. There is no fixed time for writing. Writing is always in the process of renewal. Writing is like the four seasons: summer, spring, autumn and winter. Writing is an enigmatic artifact. A writer succumbs to the poetry of prose. Writing is a stoic ornament. Writing is battle for the writer and catharsis for the reader. I would love to adorn the gift of writing. Writing is a indwelling of catharsis and angst. Writing is the soul of nature. Writing is the poetry of hope. Writing nourished the soul to a new well of becoming. The reasons to write are many. Writing is a fugitive disguising words in veils of poetry. Writing anchors the body to an epiphany of ecstasy. Writing is tool of the optimist to forecast a bright future. Writing is an awakening of hope. Sometimes writing is a black rose of death. The fiery zeal of the writer is autonomous to celestial designs. Writing is the passion of poetry. Writing is the breath of living in literature. Writing catapults the soul to dizzy raptures with the divine chorus of heavenly rhythms.


August 2nd

Today was a miniature canvass. I was able to sleep well thanks to God Jehovah Jesus. I woke up from sleep listening to the chirps and tweets of birds. I thank God I am that I am alive. These days I am having no dreams and I wonder why? I took a few classes to a group of disinterested children. I am tired and bored with teaching. With children I have no chance to exhibit literary theories. And I suffocate from the fact that my sending of resumes has been altogether unsuccessful. The only art that keeps me alive is blogging. Now it’s evening and the sky is an impressionist canvas. The sky is adorned with a pleasant sunny face. I have been wanting God to cast a miracle in my life but nothing of that sort is happening. I am short of finances and I get enough only to by daily packets of cigarettes. I miss the clove cigarettes of Indonesia. I have a poet’s heart and I am can’t accept the realities in my own life. I wish that life will be fairy tale of becoming. Professionally speaking I am in a rut with no chance to progress. I have no pay check waiting for me. I am 49 now and I realize that I am failure in life. Two days back I had a get-together with my school mates. We had lunch and talked about the good all school days. All of them are in the Middle East and are well settled. I was overcome with self hatred and self pity. I don’t have a penny as bank balance. I depend on my mother and wife for daily needs. The only thing that I love to do is I love to write. Writing is the passion of the heart. Writing is a necessity for nourish the soul to a wealth of meaning. Writing is the art of the repressed. All genres of writing in the present zeitgeist have been exhausted. Physically I feel I am in a prison in this small village of Kerala called Kurianoor. I want to visit places, interact with people, write travelogues and be at peace with myself. I am filled with wander lust and I want to be global vagabond. I feel so exhausted and tired of being a teacher. I have reached the end of the rope. When will real freedom become a reality for me? When can I nirvana to places. Yes, I long to have exotic food. Is reality an ambiguity? Is it a serpent that is out to fang me? Is it scorpion out to sting me? I hope happier days will come into my life. Life has to be realization of desire. Our desires are gems of the world. How can I look at a God who does not answer prayers? I feel disappointed but still I have not lost hope in him. I continue to honor and trust him.

August 1st 2019

August 1st 2019
Today was a slow paced day without nothing much happening in my life. I am a happy go lucky person not worrying much about what will happen tomorrow. I live my life trusting God Jehovah Jesus. He knows all my needs and he will bless me and give me his favor.

I took a few classes and really speaking I am fed up of teaching. I want to spend my future days writing and traveling to places. I am very fond of South East Asia and the Scandinavian Countries. I hope I can a significant sum of money by playing the lottery. I want to indulge all my senses into a muse of feeling. The passions of my soul are deep and they form an artistic tapestry. Poems live in my heart and are melodious to the soul. I always question myself as to why I should write. Writing is a Sun and Moon of beauty. Writing is a culture of art. Writing is the music of poetry. Birds fly on the page and their pen are wings in flight. I am a Christian liberal a one possessed by the Joy of finding Christ and trying so hard to abide in his will. God Jehovah Jesus will weather me through all the storms of life. Writing is the unveiling of the unconscious. Writing is a trope, a painting of words. I have decided to find the meaning of life as a creative writer. I am always asking the question: what of writing? What is writing? Writing is an art of the fugue in expression. Writing is the melody of birds in flight. Writing is a peaceful poem. The meaning of life is unraveled through writing. As a meaning: writing purposive. An artist is a purposist. Writing has a value and that is called Valuableization. My writing is a new writing of existential philosophy. Ontology shifts to a purposeality. We are valuablizaed individuals with God’s karma to live on this planet earth. Writing is also anecdotal or ironic presentation of life in irony. Through writing the meaning of the self in uncovered. Writing is poetic prose. Beauty is uncovered as a poem that moves gently across the sky. Through writing, the meaning of life is understood. Writing is a release of libidinal joys. Writing is the experience of the angst and using the faith of God to transcend it. Writing is a poem of art. Writing serenades as angels in flight. Writing blossoms a garden. Writing is Mozart’s Hallelujah. Writing is a musical garden where poets play their harps. Writing is pure passion of bequeathing sentiments of feeling. Writing is the emotion of the heart. Writing is a memoir of being captive. Writing is the joy of art in expression. Writing finds the self of meaning. Writing is a caring self. Writing is a loving self. Writing transcends the self into an art of meaning.

The Self

The Self
What is the self? Philosophers have pondered about the question but in vain and have ended up in ambiguity. Is it a person or does the person live outside it? Is it a living being that walks and talks and tries to struggle with adversities of life. As religions say, does the value of the self reside in the human heart and it being aligned with God? Is the self an irony tackling with life’s problems? When does the self feel contented? When does it experience remorse? Does the self live with dreams that the Universe can satisfy. Does the self live with the power of positive thinking? The self has tried the power of positive thinking by writing all its wishes and writing it so that the Universe can accomplish it, but all of it is no avail. Existential Philosophers define the as a chaotic entity and having no purpose. But even their philosophies were goal driven. What does the self value in life? What is its intimate desire? What idea can ponder on the intimate meaning of the self? Is the self a ritual of religion? Does the self have a personal relationship with God? Why is the self questioning itself? Why does the meaning of the self end up in ambiguity? What is the ultimate meaning of the self? Can the self be contented in the world of desires and hopes? What happens to the self when prayers are not answered? Yes a tiny voice inside the self reassures the self everything is hunky dory. What is the meaning of exalted existence? Is the self a tiny worm that craves to God for wanting things done? Does the self loud-mouth God when he does not answer prayers. Is the self a mathematical equation who lives life with a tick-tock of a clock? Is the self a living poetry of meaning? Is the self absurd as Camus pointed it to be? Is the self a pain in the ass? Is the self prone to ridicule? Is the self a shameless entity? Is the angst of the self real? What does the self want to experience? What happens to the self when the thrill of life is gone? Is God the sacred presence in the self? Why not leave the self in God’s hands and ask God to forgive and condole our inequities? Is God the answer for the self? Sometimes the self experiences apathy and hatred and yet ironically the self is prone to narcissism. The self is quite a contradiction? Why give importance to self? Is the self given with a mind to think? What does the self do in times of adversity? What is the self dreaming of fortunate weathers? Is the self God given? Or is it a tool for the disposal of the mind? Why does the self experience the irony of existence? Patience and passion are tools of hope. Does the self need to live life untainted with sin? Does the self have to succumb all of its hopes, dreams and desires to God? Can the self live without God? The self is a mystery of questions and riddles unanswered. It is said in the scripture: Love God with all your mind, soul and spirit. But a Christian life is not an easy one. It is true that we all have shortcomings and we are tainted with sin. But the good thing is that sins are forgiven and our names are written in the book of life. We have to invite God into our life and make God a participator of the self. Does life more become precious when God is with the self? I have tried to invite God into the presence of the self. But things which I anticipate have not changed? I feel sorry for having cursed God. But I am an always hopeful self looking for good times to come into my life. Each day of my life I try to surrender more and more to God and try to live a life pleasing to him. Yes life is a gentle song of humor and irony. The self has to discover about God’s purpose for the self. The self has to be intuitive to God’s speech. Does the time spent in prayer have a value? Does truth and morality and faithfulness matter to the self? If so the self is in God’s sight. God can embrace the self in mystic harmony. It says in the Bible by Christ, master who had 90 sheep lost one of them and the master when to search the lost sheep and on finding it he became overjoyed. The Holy Spirit is a loving spirit who overlooks our sin and our faults. I feel that life in Christ is the only true meaning for the self. The sign of the self is a return of God to the self, a fond invitation given out of love for God.

July 28th 2019

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.

July 26th 2019

It was rather a boring day. I, being an English Teacher wonder how to get children interested in Literature. Children are more fascinated by social media and books are dull sauce for them. I was narrating on the Tale of Two Cities but none of them had any interest. I am worried by the fact that my finances are running low. I am having no luck with lotteries. I wonder when the day will come when I can write the whole day without being disturbed. I have reached 49 and I am tired of teaching English to school students. I want to travel to countries and places and I want to write passionately about my experiences Life should be a carnival of joy. Life should be a laxative that bursts out of the soul. Life should be a dream of bringing out happiness. Life should be a mytho-poetic dream. The sweet sensations of the body wake up like flowers. Morning is smelling like cologne. I am drowned in champagne of thought. The body wakes up to the music of joy. My feelings are like a new born babe. I am not drowning in the myth of fear. I am joy with a ship to anchor. I am passion poetry. I have sunk the myth of existence to value and purpose.

Melancholic Epistle

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.