It’s been quite a while since I have written and posted my journal. Today I want to narrate a significant dream that I had. In the dream, I am trying to escape from my father and he sends thugs to catch me and they finally get a rope on me. Is it a problem of my conscious self—the ego, trying to adjust with authorities in the outer world. I don’t know. I really don’t know why my dead father wants to chase me. Is my dead father a God in disguise? Why I can’t I choose the life I want to live. Yes, I have only one life and I want to live it to the fullest. Being with Christ is a paradox—you are free and you are bound. Is Christ the- paradox, the authority figure wanting to subdue my life’s desires? I don’t know.
I dream of travelling to Bali an exotic island in Indonesia and also to the Philippines. I don’t have moolah to accomplish my heart’s desire. I want to travel, make love to the many women in my life and write all about my experiences. I have the culture of an aesthete. Life should be an experience of art. May the soul be a grandeur of experience. May the soul become with cathartic experiences I dream of smoking clove cigarettes and having grilled fish and duck roast of Indonesia. My heart and soul lives with the islands of Indonesia and the Philippines.
Nothing much happened to me. Life went on like a boring breeze. My sleep has become better and I have cut down on cigarettes. I listened to a Facebook video by Joyce Carol Oates on the art of writing. Though very short, it was very interesting. A writer has to think and feel all the unsaid—the inner consciousness of the mind. A writer’s consciousness is very special. A writer is a person who is very sensitive. When overcome with feeling, when in the emotional cauldron of the mind, the first steps of planting the writing begins.
I had a strange dream. In it I was having intercourse with my wife. It’s not something to wonder about as my sex life is rather starved. Yes Freud is right; dreams are wish-fulfillment of desires.
I savored the beauty of the sunrise with a mystic passion. I heard the chirps and tweets of birds singing a fond lullaby.
I took an English Class for the 8th graders, the story being 6 Napoleons by Sherlock Holmes. I am not a big fan of pulp fiction, but I enjoyed the plotting of the story. Conan Doyle is a master of storytelling. In the story we find the busts of Napoleons being broken to rubble. Then we come to understand that it is the work of an escaped convict who had placed a priceless pearl in one of those busts. Sherlock Holmes discovers that the 6th Napoleon is to be burgled and makes a plan to catch the intruder. The robber is caught and Holmes smashes the head of the bust to recover the valuable pearl.
I read the Bible and in it the Story of Moses. Moses was born at a time when the Pharaoh persecuted the Jews and ordered that all the male children be beheaded. When Moses was a baby, his mother put him in a reed basket and placed him in the Nile. When the Pharaoh’s daughter saw the basket, she asked her maid to fetch it. She adopted the baby as her own son. The mother of Moses was called to look after her own son. When Moses was a young man, he saw an Egyptian hitting a Jew and then in a fit of anger, he killed him. When the Pharaoh found it out, Moses had to flee to Midian. There he married a Priest’s Daughter.
Frills of tweets woke me up to a pleasant day. The day passed on without anything much happening in my life.
I am having no luck with windfalls after all the prayers I have made.
I have started reading Kierkegaard’s Philosophical Fragments, but I have reached only its preface.
I have coined some metonymies
A congregation of Pens met at the resort. A Pen was crowned as the monarch of writing. The fruit of democracy is love, peace and joy. The head resigned and the others followed. Many mouths of the organization spoiled it. The herd grazed in Green pastures. The flock swam as a poem in the sky. The muse is writing poetry. A chorus started howling. Oh Pen, yield thy art to me. The cards played a game of Rummy. The cup drank a lot of whisky. His body was covered with wool. Time moved on dials. She wore the ornament of beauty. The honey he carried in his purse is new. The bum roared with ecstasy. The flower palace blossomed with many hues. Feathers plucked the guitar. Devil is a serpent of all lies. I played on her fan and drove her to ecstasy. A dramaturge cheered the sky. Heaven’s persona: you are wonderful in my sight. Her body is a mystical island. His words were a tasty tongue. The soul is the music of emotion. Love is a soaring bird. I have tried to woo a tulip but it did not yield. Life has gone out of the body. The biceps are doing a workout.
Today was a free day as the kids were practicing for the school anniversary. I did a book review on Rushdie’s Midnight Children. Though eminently nominated for the Booker Prize, the writing is shallow and having no depth. The writer up-plays his ego and subjectivises India’s attainment of Independence.
I was reading the story of Jacob in the Old Testament. There are four phases in Jacob’s life, one, the up-phase, then a middle phase and then a down phase followed by celebration and happiness. We find that Jacob stole his brother’s birth right and had to flee home to escape the wrath of his brother. He came to rest in Laban’s home, his uncle’s quarters. He had to work for 14 years to get married to Leah and Rachael. Later on we find that his son Joseph was proclaimed as dead by the treacherous brothers who sold Joseph to the Egyptians. After Joseph interpreting the dream of the Pharaoh, Joseph was elevated to the hierarchy of a minister in Pharaoh’s court. When the famine struck, the brothers came to Egypt to procure food. Then we find Joseph reuniting with his brothers and his father. The end of the story is a happy one. It is provident for us if God blesses us like Jacob.
Nothing much happened in my life today. It was a lethargic day. I spent my time introspecting.
I have not been very successful in my life. But I try to make use of all opportunities that God Jehovah Jesus has given. I have a contented heart with no regrets. Life has not been a smooth sailing ship, but I am elated about all the blessings that God Jehovah Jesus has given.
I sincerely want to perfect the art of writing and I have asked God Jehovah Jesus’ help for it. I am asking the question whether I have weaned from infancy of writing to a professionalism of a skilled writer, an artist primarily.
Writing collects the bits and fragments accumulated in the Ego. My body has not been a perfect one and many a time I have sinned with it. I have always asked God’s forgiveness. I sometimes wonder why God does not answer prayers. I am nobody to question God’s will. God’s timing is a perfect one and I wait eagerly for it.
Oh Pen Yield thy ART to me. Is it right to say that Novel is ART or art the Novel? Who cares? How to transcend writing and make it unique as the avant garde is the writer’s real challenge. A writer has to recreate his or her world in new beginnings.
I woke at 6 early morning; had coffee and spent a lot of time in bed. I am reading Midnight’s Children by Rushdie. The story is written the style of magic realism and was a Booker Winner. The narratives are shifting constantly and the prose is very fragmented.
Day before yesterday while napping in the afternoon …I was woken from sleep by an exotic, rich smell of jasmine. I became surprised as to where the smell is coming from. No one had sprayed perfume in the room. Then I realized it was the Holy Ghost. I gave all praise, honor and glory to him and I thanked him for visiting me. I have never had such an experience in my life. I remember the verse in the Bible: ‘the reed which is broken: I will not break: the lamp which is flickering: I will not extinguish’.
Once again I have stopped reading astrological columns. Reading them give me trouble with sleep. More than that they were a pack of lies. I am happy to quit liars.
I have asked the Holy Spirit for some wishes and I thank him in advance that he will satisfy them according to his right time.
Today I had tete a tete with my uncle. He said awesomely that the self is not an individualist freaking machine but the self is a gift of offering to others, manly to God and the family. This in stark contrast to Sartre’s individualized existential self, or the being for itself.