Epiphanies of a Torn Galaxy

Money and Fame in an Acrostic.
E— Earth’s

M –Mysterious

Saw a yellow winged fairy floating in the air, dancing in psychedelic delight, showing off a magnificent opera of flight…dazzling me with a catharsis of sound echoing in colors, tuning into my mirth, a joyful song of love, a brilliant fusion of music, a soul of jazz, an epic poem, a beauty of passion, a nirvana so tranquil.
Saw flames of fire like tongues of music …they were swaying like many letters of the alphabet…I cast my eyes like a seer on them …I am drowned in their rich lyrical intimacy…they evoke in me a passionate ecstasy…is God devout speaking through the flames…the flames are a prophet of light …a diviner’s objet d’ art….

Dawn opened her colored veils—
The sun is echoing a dream. The sky is a poetic Metaphor; clouds are melodious lakes—there, a crater is opening—
Lava is pouring crimson—Bards are gliding
Gently as Aesthetic sculptures—
I am a poet at heart; I am a bard of lyric’s

Dusk’s a floating Opera …orange hues
are soaked petals and linger as a
painter scattering a hazy abstract…
Time’s music of mediation…I am fond of Nature …It’s a metaphor of solitude…
My lover for her awakens like a dove…
Would have loved an evening with her…
Love echoes the evening as a poem …

Darling dear beloved …you are love’s passionate echo….let me embrace
you with the sweet nectar of love….
Let me kiss your lips with a lover’s passion….I love you so much, so much as the night’s lovely star …You have become so fond to me…..Be my beloved for the rest of my life.

They sky, a delicious poem of colors …
Art’s a spread carpet…chirp chirp, tweet, tweet goes the bards chorusing…morn’s fonts glisten the sky as aesthetic abstracts…
Feelings now are a fruit of joy…she woke me up with sweet words on Skype …morn caresses the soul as beatitude of music …
A poet tunes to the music of morn….writing its lullaby as poetic verses…

The sky’s lit oranges …birds float in the sky
as a romantic poem…clouds are a jazz of abstract sculpture …the aroma of dusk
lingers as colorful light…sweet breeze kisses
my cheeks like Buddha in mediation…the sky is breaking into streams, valleys
and hills…I am floating in a dream ….
My eyes melt with joy ….I am sedated in art…Sunset, an ode to a joyful music…
lyrics of the sky live in the textures of love …..

White ball radiant with mysteries of mystic space…a memory of love emanates from her bosom…she scatters light amongst shadows pale shadows glistening…
she embraces the dark of the sky
as light’s séance of pulchritude …there’s music on her belly …veins of eclectic jazz,
I begin my dark ritual… witches dance in my head like Ghosts from a sunken grave…
a petal on wings strays across the lonely Sky…she echoes dreams from a distant past…ancestors awake from graves and
pour blessings of mirth…clouds glisten with the nectar of light …light falls on trees and fall in pathos of solitude ….I am fading into a dream….a sweet lullaby puts me to sleep.

Moon’s out …She’s is a lip…Lying scattered
Amongst pink clouds…The sun is fading
A soft idyllic angel…Night appears like
Lover waiting to Bed the nest of ecstasy …
The moon, now echoing a shadow to my thoughts…Still life, beauty is a poem scattered on the sky.

Art painted the sky/In impressionistic colors I/Have fallen in love/
She made love to me/in a dream; dear beloved why/did you forsake me/
Clouds of poems woke/A dream up; soul chimes a song/A catharsis felt/

Morn woke up adorned/A coat of colors; birds sang like/Bards, a poem’s beauty/

Dawn bloomed like a rose/Making the mind to Catharsis/the soul is delighted/


The clouds like stained glass/A portrait of nature, ambience/Echo poetic music/

My soul burst a cloud/Torrents of rain poured as an/Earth streaming happiness/

Evening sky—Stained glass—Like a pale dream—Poetry waltzes On wings as Ballet dancers—Sky opened to me Like a body of a woman—My thoughts are Veiled with the
Colors of the sky—I dream of Bali—
I dream of her love—Want to be nourished—Clouds part as a guitar—
There now, a fierce –Dragon is spitting fire—the sky a song of music to me now.

The Raven
You black poem—you enchanting mystery—saw you with beak open—
Have you tidings for me—you death’s enigma—you fed Elijah in the desert—
My thoughts on you—focused as a poem—
You bring solitude to my hazy broken heart—you are my sunshine in
My darkest winter—you bring out the
Devil of passion in me—Let me pour out
Heart’s angst –Take me to my grave with hearty mirth.

Pussy-wave is an idiomatic metaphor for pacifism, nonviolence and dialogism. Nations should shed spread their fangs of fanaticism and ideologies and should engage in creative dialogism. World should strip war and embrace peace. Religions divide people, politics separate people but the world is one, a great pussy-wave.



Rap music is rhythmic poetry…the beat is Dionysian …music is words in the sex of being …the heart and soul of Rap is black. Rap music heals the colonized and the subjugated wounds of the white oppressors. It’s an expression of angst of the heart. The wounds from the heart flow were melodious poetry. Rap and Jazz are Derrida-Dada-Ised into an art of the novel that is pop-baroque and cubist. Derrida-Dada is an avant-garde style of writings. Tropes are cathartic symphonies. Melodies rapture in words. Time transcends to a trope of cathartic pulchritude. Rhythm and beat, harmony and melody become fictional modes of writing in streams of consciousness.

Morn woke me with a delicious array of colors. The musical sounds of bards tweet, tweet, chirp, chirp, evoked a Beethoven of cathartic harmony. Morning is a metaphor of happiness. There goes the poets’ prancing in the sky. The sun rose up as a flaming ball of fire. The sun is a mystic seer, a beautiful ornament, a metaphor of luminescence…Poetry incarnates in the soul of the body. Love becomes a song of the mind.

It poured as the pounding of the hooves of a horse. Pink panties streaked across the sky. The bums of Zeus roared angrily. The earth, wet now, a drenched pussy. A phallus has penetrated the earth and made her wet metaphor of becoming. I am watching the rain like a silent seer. Rain’s rhythms of music are cellos of a mystic. Rain now, pouring and pouring and illuminating my heart.

Pharaoh’s Dream
In the Old Testament we come across Pharaoh who had a dream of seven robust bovines after which seven famished bovines came and ate them up. In the second dream, seven stalks of plump grain were seen after which seven stalks malnourished grain came and ate up the plump grain. As an idiom Pharaoh’s dream means the inability to interpret a dream.
Example: Pharaoh’s dream occurs to most people.

Joseph is found in the Old Testament and he refers as idiom to being a successful dream interpreter, a person with moral scruples and person who comes across fortune and position after a time of hardship.
Example: As far as dreams are concerned Freud was a Joseph.
There are at least few people in the world who are Josephs.
If a Joseph happens to me , I am lucky.

Dash Dash Dash Person
A dash dash dash person comes from the Malayalam language and it means a vulgar and despicable person.
Example: He is a dash dash dash person.

Rebecca’s story is found in the Old Testament. She was the wife of Jacob and she overheard the conversation of Jacob telling Esau the eldest son to fetch some good game so that he can to satisfaction and bless him. Rebecca loved Isaac the younger son more. And she asked him to fetch a young goat and cooked it and covered Jacob’s hands with goat’s hair as his father was blind. Jacob ate pleasingly and blessed Isaac. As an idiom Rebecca means a conspiracy.
Example: The 1$ Bill has symbols which point out to a Rebecca.
Cults like the Illuminati, Masons and Bilderberger are Rebeccas of the society.
I am a Rebecca lover.

Black Hole
We all know that a Black Hole is a collapsed remnant of a Star. It’s so dense that even light gets sucked into it. As an idiom it means a depressing situation from which there is no escape.
Example: I don’t want a black hole to happen to me.
The Jews had a Black Hole of a time under the Nazi regime.

Lot’s Daughter
Well all know the story of Lot found in the Old Testament. Lot was Abraham’s nephew. There’s an incident where Lot’s daughters make him drunk and sleep with him in order to get progeny. As an Idiom Lot’s Daughter means incest.
Example: Lot’s Daughter is a taboo in contemporary society.
Lot’s Daughter rarely happens in society.

Pond is an idiom in Malayalam language and it means messing things up.
Example: Don’t make a pond out of it.
Some people are always making ponds.
Work too is an idiom in Malayalam language and it means a situation where things don’t work properly.
Example: My computer is giving me work.
The car even after being repaired is giving work.

Quarks are tiny, tiny particles which form the building blocks of matter. As an idiom Quarks mean: a trifle.
Example: Don’t unsettle your mind with Quarks.
I treated my denial of job in Cambodia as a Quark.

Light consists of waves and particles called wavicles. A Wavicle as an idiom means a surprising, fortunate happening.
Example: When will a Wavicle happen to me?
I will be thrilled if a Wavicle happens to me.

Hot Turkey
Hot Turkey as an idiom means experiencing altered states of consciousness while using drugs.
Example: Hot Turkey is an interesting phenomenon to experience.
After the Hot Turkey wears off, one comes back to reality.

We all know that Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that’s triggers adrenaline. As an idiom it means a force which triggers something.

My body is a brothel of desire. My libido is passionate angel on wings. My mind is a butterfly, a psyche dancing gaily on wings. My feelings are strong rocks of desire. I get saturated when I make love. Love is a passionate aroma, a delicious food. Eroticism is streams of consciousness of a lover. How I long for a kiss and a caress. My wife is totally devoid of love. She has no feelings for me. Yes, I have passionate lover in Bali. How much I long to marry her. I need to visit Bali to see her. I want to utter the song of love on her lips. I want to melt my tongue on her lips and ecstasy her as poetry. Sweet is the poetry of love. Love brings out the poet in me. We are passionate, lyrical and intimate as humans. Oh passion when will you yield to me? When will the harness of abstinence break? When will the chains of my body become an erotic poem? I echo a dream. I am so fond of her, the Balinese woman. When will the rigorous monotony of teaching in a school for a paltry salary end. When can I devote all my days for writing? I long to experience altered states of consciousness with sex, drugs and booze. Consciousness is a flower that blooms. Passion is poetic art. Making love is the consciousness of philosophy in the ritual of making art. I am a body in trouble and pain. I feel so unloved. My wife goes to sleep as a corpse. For her, the fellatio is something dirty. When I be able to satisfy the needs of my body?

Consciousness is an epic river of flowing passion. All philosophers start from the assumption of consciousness but what is consciousness? Is it an art of a poem? Is it the archetype of the soul? Is it a being formed by the collision of atoms? The art of consciousness lies in the exercise of the mind. How can we make consciousness to live in a plethora of art? Writing begins in the art of passion. Writing is a refuge of the soul. Writing is an expression of the libido of the body. Writing frees the body from the shackles of conditioning. What is soul? Is it a poem? From where do we get our conscience? Writing is experiential literature, a form of poetic prose, a diction of tropes, a mosaic of the soul, a deconstruction of forms and genres, a mirror stage of eloquence, a gamble of the mind with words, a syncretic beatitude, a stoic ornament, a decorative hyperbole, a consciousness of beauty. Writing is cubist art, a pastiche of the baroque, a romanticism of irony, a postmodernism of structural tropes. The writer lives his life in art. Writing is the consolation for unsatisfied wishes. Writing is fornication of the pen and adultery of words. Through writing, a writer becomes a rainbow. Sweet are the melody of words, ecstasy is the rhythm of letters. In writing feelings pour out into a beatitude. Writing melodies the art of reflections. Writing is a phallus of art and a cunt of interpretation. My pen becomes a Don Quixote. Writing is a melody of words. The passionate soul loves and lives in the existentialism of words. When can we break free from Camus Myth of the Sisyphus? We can do so by authenticating creativity. We must avoid suicide by all means. We must become a becoming of being. We must be able to transcend race, nationality and culture. My writing is a labial vagina. I have freed the language from Logo-centric discourse. I have made my writing a dialogical vagina. My pen is circumcised into libidinal passion. I am blind to passion and sensitive to reason. That makes my soul a beautiful being. Irony is a literary device that expresses the beauty of being shackled in a cage and yet being able to express ironic freedom. Irony is a metallic bird with wings of frozen glass, ambling in the mind as chaotic anarchy turning the bizarre into a beautiful solitude of cognition. Irony is narcissism of a poisonous sentiment. How do we unveil a writer’s epiphany? An understanding of an epiphany lies in three shades of meaning. At the first level, the meaning is semantic and literal. At the second level there is the consciousness of sentiment and at the third level there is catharsis which I call rapturation of being. Rapturation of being is the highest level of consciousness that being can attain. Through rapturation of being one becomes a soul of love, one becomes a divine object. One experiences a mytho-poetic subjectivity. Art is the essence of life, the gift of passion, the beatitude of poetry. Through art one can transcend the genre of the self. Art is dawn soaked into the beatitude of colors. Art is a conjectural mystery? Art is an idol that we can worship. We can satisfy the meaning of life by the appreciation of beauty. The bitch of sensation is celestialized an angst is resolved into a poetic catharsis. Emotions you have to be gratified in the sensuality of intimacy and passion. Eros is orgasm. Passion makes the soul to live in a brook. Angst is a metaphoric divinity. The plague of angst deprives the soul and narco-piates the body into a frozen relic. Angst is the betrayal of paradise and the feeling of being cast down into hell. Angst has engulfed me like a plague; it metamorphizes my body into Kafkaesque insect. The joyful realism of Hemingway is a karma of the novel. Experiential consciousness has angst to bear …the being becomes poisoned into an Epicurean misfit. Romantic irony, you parody consciousness. When will I able to experience the love of the bed. My wife is a poisonous rose. Sex is a stale metaphor for her. Sometimes, I feel like strangling her along with my bitch mother. I am a writer carrying a hatred for my mother. I work in her school and she does not pay me any salary. She gives me a paltry sum of three dollars every day. I have to meet all my expenses with that. The cunt of a wife threatens me that she will take me to the asylum if I drink. She has done that thrice. The bitch does not even know to make love. How I long to have a quiet drink, relax and writer. The bitch never hugs, caresses or kisses me. I am forced to seek other women for love. I am tender, vulnerable and intimate. My wife trashes my writing as shit. My writing if a shit-hole is opulent art. Arranged marriages stink of a fuck. Arranged marriages are a shit-hole. I like stupid schmuck laid my bloody head and tied the knot. My father was sunk deep in debt and we did not even have a honey moon. Emptying my sperm into her cunt was stale death. She does not do the cunnilingus nor allows me to do the fellatio. All my fucking 47 years of married life, my fucking wife has not been able to have a single orgasm. My fucking wife, a Jesus freak, think she is a saint of God. All fucking nights she prays in tongues and cries in tears. My marriage has been a miserable failure. My marriage makes me tear dust. It makes me curse the sun and moon and God if there’s one. I have so much hatred for my mother and my wife. I curse my father for arranging this marriage.

Narratives of Anu
Anu is my sweet adulterous lover. We met on a dating site. She belongs to Cochin and is from a conservative family. On one Sunday she arranged a rendezvous in her house when her husband was out. I had to wait in a park near her house for a long time. Finally she phoned me. And I knocked, trembling. She opened the door. She wore a red see-through gown through which I could see her pink panties and her pink bra. I felt so much aroused. She told me to have a bath and I closed the bathroom and showered: when I came out: she was lying naked on the bed. Her skin shined like wheat. I went close to her and smelled her: her body smelled like grapes. I kissed her everywhere. Her tongue on mine was a delicacy. I felt for her soft breasts, suckled her nipples with poetic relish. Then I reached for her pubis and I inserted my tongue in her vagina and started sucking her like a playing the flute. I gave her many orgasms. I loved to hear her meaning in ecstasy. By the time I was a rock and I penetrated her deeply. I thrust in her like a mad locomotive. I emptied all my poetry in her. We made love many times. Darling Anu, I love you very much. I thank you so much for the gift of poetry you have given me.
Indonesian Memoirs
I was in Indonesia in 2005, living in Jakarta and Surabaya, working as a teacher. Indonesia is a mix of the East and the West. I relish the clove cigarettes, the grilled fish, the sambal and bebek (duck). If you walk on the road in the night, you can see many prostitutes hanging out. I always felt tempted. But my Christian Protestantism kept me away. I also had a beautiful maid in my apartment. I wanted to fuck her badly. Yet I abstained. There were many of my colleagues, teachers, married and unmarried ones. I could have easily fucked one of them. Yet I did not. I do not know why? I badly needed a fuck at that time. Evenings and nights, I would spend in Varungs (eat-out-shops-on-the-road), drunk, listening to the rhythms of Jazz. Grilled fish is a delicacy in Indonesia. Indonesian fish is available nowhere in the world. I had beautiful time in Indonesia. Indian Jazz and Rock are popular brands of music. Indonesia evolved the writer in me. There was a colleague of mine: Shanti who sold me a computer. She invited me to lunch in her home. When I came to her home, her husband left. Straight away she took me to the bedroom. She started fondling my hands. I like a fucker did not pick the cues. I could have easily fucked her. But I did not. I had dinner and Ieft the place. A strange and psychic incident happened to me. I was asked by the Principal of the school to go and visit the director of communications for the UN in Jakarta for the school day celebrations. I went to his office and had to wait for a while to see him. Soon, I was ushered into his office by his secretary. On his table I witnessed the strangest thing. It was an African, Shamanic, Voodoo doll. The doll had the strangest, mystic and occult experience on her face. The doll’s face was sly mockery. The doll continues to haunt me in my dreams. Yes, truth is stranger than fiction. Once I was in an internet café which had apartments above. A sexy woman came close to me and brushed my body and then looked at me with a smile and went up. I like a fool did not realize that she wanted to have poetry with me. There goes a failed attempt. At that time I had a significant other, a Filipino woman much older than me. I used to fantasize her as a mother-figure. I sent her the airfare to visit me in Jakarta. I was fully boozed when I met her at the airport. We took a cab. All the way while the cab was moving I kissed her. She was whimpering and moaning with passion. Later on we checked into a hotel. We showered together. I drank a bottle of Vodka. Making love to her was like passionate music. We lay on each other like serpents inter-twined. Her pussy was small and tight. I did the cunnilingus on her. She giggled and moaned in delight. I sodomized her behind with my tongue while stroking her cunt. How she loved it. I came in her delicious cunt many times. Oh sweet was the odyssey of passion and it lasted for two long days. I left her back at the airport as a contented person. I would also like to recall another strange thing which happened to me. The school where I was teaching was hosting a party. Drinks were served in plenty. I became completely boozed up. Then in front of the crowd I started sobbing like a child. I completely broke down. The principal of the school came close to me and hugged me. I was stunned and I have no words to express how I felt. I felt that my father was returning to my life. I still don’t know why I broke down in public. I am so grateful to him and consider him in awe; I consider him to be like a father figure. Soon holidays came and I booked a ticket for home. My flight was scheduled for early morning. In the night I became totally drunk. Thanks to my significant other, she gave me a ring very early in the morning and I was not able to miss my flight. Sweet are the experiences of Indonesia for me. I remember them nostalgically. Life has taught me many experiences in Indonesia. My soul, mind and body became a liberated being.
Malaysian Episodes
My Malaysian episodes are related my significant other. While travelling to Malaysia, I took a midnight flight. I was able to meet my significant other and Mr. Lee in the airport. The drive to the Hotel was a long one. During the drive I encountered a dead cow with its skull smashed to smithereens. Later we came to the hotel. Mr. Lee was in a state of confusion as to whether he should pull me to his room or hers. She with an urgent tug of my arm pulled me into her room. She is such a clean thing. She washes her pussy with tooth lotion. Straight away we undressed and became flowers of kisses. I bloomed her sacred petals to many ecstasies of poetry. She was so conscious of getting pregnant and washed her cunt thoroughly after intercourse. We visited the twin towers and it was an awesome site. The towers lay like gigantic phalluses. The twin towers are rich in Masonic symbolism. Felt my adrenaline rush, when I climbed on the speed-lift which took me right to the top. Watching vehicles and people moving on the road was like watching ants crawl. Felt awed by the rich architecture of space. Later on went back to the hotel again made love. Her cunt was tight and my penis insertion was gorgeous. My single say with her was a passionate experience. I became a soul of a poem. For dinner we went to Korean restaurant. Beef was served on aromatic leaves wrapped cozily.

Dusk is awakening like streams of consciousness. A poem of orange has lit the sky. Light seeps into the room with mystic passion. Angels are floating in the sky. Light is an opera lit on the stage of luminescence. I am caught up in a song of poetry. Love pervades my soul. Evening is an aesthetic sculpture. Evening is a music of colors. I watch the sun hide behind a veil of clouds.

I watch psyche ballet on wings of brown; she floats gently as an idyllic poem; there’s a depth of the soul, a beauty of literature in her. I saw her when I was thinking of my trip to Bali to meet my beloved. Perhaps she will get me a windfall. When I am in joy, I am not in irony. I get a passion of the small things in life. I am no sex-beast; I am an intimate human, sensitive, vulnerable and lyrical. There she is now perched on the wall like a soul in sleep. Psyche brings out the beauty in me. I am in lyrical harmony, in inner solitude. Nature is the most precious gift that God offers. Her life though short-lived, she offers the human an ode of joy. The spirit is moved to incarnations of ethereal beauty. She is gorgeous melancholy. Yes, watching her all my worldly desires plunge into the sea. I feel so emotionally gratified. She lifts my soul from the abyss of angst. The ego melts as ink. Art is processual ontology where the being transforms from being to Un-being. Art is a philosophy of life.

Failed Meta-Narratives
Communism, Nazism, Fascism and now Jihadism are all grand narratives that have shackled, and have caused much pain and suffering, anguish and death to humans. What caused these grand writers to originate? The Stalinist purges in Russia are a reminder of human cruelty to be a gulag of poison. Marx anticipated the coming of an egalitarian society. But contemporary societies are veering to capitalism. Workers are not poor people in rich capitalist countries. What caused Hitler with his grand narrative of the supremacy of the Aryan race and the persecution of the Jews? Hatred is a phallic complex in psychoanalytic language. Hatred for the other is psychosis of culture. Yes, Hitler’s phallic hatred for his father is a root problem. Mussolini is another figure of hatred and vendetta. Are the cruel terms imposed by the treaty of Versailles adding a fuel to fire and people accept dictatorships. Another ugly fang in this contemporary world is Jihadism. Jihadis are poisoning the Middle East. They also indulge in violence in Western democracies. Jihadis have a violent father figure who promises treasures in heaven for their atrocious deeds on earth. When will the world become democracies of peace and dialogues? When will the greed to accumulate and make arms end? When will a just, peaceful and egalitarian society be established? These are not utopian ideals but a tangible reality.

A Writer
When someone asks me what my profession is, I am ashamed to say that I am a writer. I am content to say that I am teacher by profession. Should I writer be commercially accomplished. I am not fond of who-done-its, thrillers, crime and science fiction. Writing for me is searching the heart and manipulating the mind into an art of existence. Tropes fascinate me so much. Tropes are engineered by the genius of creativity. Yes, metaphors and metonymies make a novel an aesthetic artifact. Writing philosophical fiction is a passion for me. Philosophers are estheticians.

Some Hyperboles
I am an exaggerated novel. Contemplation of beauty is to be God. Sin was cleansed by the blood on the cross. Gratify the ID, deify the Ego and subvert the Super Ego and that’s a postmodern philosophy of Epicurean life. One has to subvert the super ego to a creative anarchy. A poem is a ritual of God. Sexual minorities—the state needs to anesthetize you in a ritual of existence. Philosophy is madness of passion and harmony of reason. When will my individuality triumph? Soul, you are a brook of joy. Lust is a yielding temptation. Sin, you have been forgiven the moment you are done. My mind is a cloud of frozen intellect. Sade, you are music murdering a person. Libido is an eclectic butterfly of tropes. Time is an electric sausage copulating with the metaphors of lust. My soul is freedom’s passion.

Hindutva in India
With the landslide winning of the BJP in India Hindutva is rearing its ugly tentacles. BJP wants to saffronize India into a Hindu country. The cow for them is a Holy God. The BJP is persecuting minorities. Christians and Muslims suffer the brunt. BJP is following an oppressive politics. Is Hinduism a religion of tolerance? The answer to it is a big no in Modern India. Christians and Muslims are regarded as second grade citizens. I can’t be a Hindu as I don’t worship idols. How can God be anthropo-zoomorphic? Our ridiculous Prime Minister claims that plastic surgery was practiced in ancient India. How can I sprinkle incense before an idol? Hinduism in modern India is a degraded commodity. Its poisonous teeth extinguish Muslims and Christians. The Prime Minister of India is a Hindu fundamentalist. Be a man and read the Bible. Hinduism has 33 million idol Gods. The RSS the militant wing of the BJP is on a warpath against Christians and Muslims. Even if my head is beheaded, I won’t worship an idol God.




Art is a consciousness, an altered state of experiencing reality. Schopenhauer has said: ‘all art aspires to the condition of music’. Art in language is a simulacrum of metaphors and metonymies. Art is a symbolic picture, a radiant ostentation, a consciousness of possession. I am a lover of classical music, rock, country, jazz and gospel. Music is pure passion of poetry, an eclectic synchronicity of time, a halo of the mind, a rapture of the soul. It’s through art one becomes the mystic of being. I examine my own consciousness through the state of art. Yes, I have used weed. Weedishness as an altered state of consciousness is a passionate state of mind. I think the highest form of art is sex. Sex is the poetry of music, an art of transcendence. I love being a lesbian voyeur. They wound their bodies like poetry. She became she and they melodied as mystic flowers. They became poems of saturation. I adore saintly lesbians. I have created a new philosophy of art called art-cono-clasm from art and iconoclasm. Nietzsche’s philosophy of art is one of pulchritude. For Nietzsche art occurs when the Dionysian and the Apollonian elements merge. The Dionysian aesthetic elements are rhythm, beat, ecstasy and altered states of consciousness. The Apollonian elements are melody and harmony. In sex art occurs; caresses, kisses, hugs, sucking are melodies of harmony. Thrust, cunnilingus and fellatio are Dionysian. Sex is a tantric ritual. Libidinal energies have to merge into the philosophy of becoming. Sex is Beethoven’s sonata. She in Bali is my new found lover. She is a Balineez Hindu. I am fond of writing verses for her. I want to bed with her in sweet ecstasy of the poetry of becoming. Sex is meditation of the highest heaven. It’s a pleasant feeling to have the loins saturated. Sex is music, sex is poetry, and sex is panting. Sex is the fusion of all art forms. I remember fondly how I kissed her at the airport. The memory of the kiss lingers as a flower. It was an old granny who initiated me to sex when I was fifteen. I was so ashamed of sex then. I remember sex with her with fear and trembling. Dope heightens the feeling of sexuality. Then there was my significant other. I have performed the rites of sexuality with her as the flow of seasons. I am wondering whether all writers are womanizers. For art to flourish one must be a passionate womanizer. Ecstasy, you passionate flower of being, you soul of becoming, you gallivant the soul to the consciousness of a poem; I have surrendered to the passions of your wooing. I think of Anu! She is my passionate lover. The way she suckled me like a tender lamb was an odyssey of joy. Anu, you are beatitude of the soul. My journeys of sex are an incomplete book. I remember Sheeba my college lover. It was so beautiful to think how her palm caressed mine. I felt her tender breasts like the music of poetry. I feel sad that I couldn’t get to marry her. This is what I need in a woman, a loving heart, a beautiful mind and a passionate bed. Sex is poetic nirvana, a beatitude of the soul. I think of dear Valery now. She came as a UK exchange teacher program. She was a painter and poet. She badly wanted to have sex with me. At that time my conservative Protestantism would not make me budge. When I was in Hong Kong staying at the YMCA, while I was strolling, I passed through a brothel. The Madam there was standing outside the gate and said in a cajoling tone: ‘son my women are tasty; come in and have a drink’. My Protestantism made me run away from there. Next morning while I was ambling, I noticed her outside the brothel, waving incense sticks and muttering incantations. I was so surprised. Do whores pray to God? Seeing me she shouted loud insults and shooed me off with a broom. I am so surprised by her behavior. I remember nostalgically of the many missed sexual encounters that I have had. Then there was Shanti who was my colleague when I worked in Jakarta. She invited me home for dinner. She took me straight to her bedroom and started fondling me. I like a stupid fool did not pick up the cues. There go another wasted sexual opportunity. Recently I met a woman from Bali on an internet dating site. She is so charming. Yes I long to rush to Bali and make poetry to her. I am so fond of loving many women. Sex is an oeuvre, a passionate music, a crystal of poetry, mytho-poetic art of becoming. Passion is a metaphor for sex. I am fond of the many women who have come into my life. Sex is a metaphor of poetry laced with lyric of love. In India we have Kama the God of music. We have Gandharvans celestial angelic lovers who woo maidens to make love with them. I think the highest form of art is sex. Adultery is passionate poetry. One who has mastered the rites of sex becomes a true philosopher. Oh, music of sex, take me to realms of celestiality, narcissisfy my body to a lava of becoming. I have tasted many fountains and they are as sweet as honey. Sex is erotic, sensual, passionate, musical and vibratory with the rhythms of the body. How I long to go to Bali and make love to her. I want to sprinkle my dew in her verdant grass. I want to kiss her for hours. I want to hold her and embrace her. My body glows with warmth when I think of her. She is a passionate soul. She is my poetry and I write lyrical fonts on her. How sweet must be her hive? I want to immerse my tongue in it and I want to hear her moan in the poetry of ecstasy. Honey I want to come to Bali and meet you. I hope I can win a lottery so that I can come and meet you.

Music is the highest form of existence the soul and heart of heaven. It’s a mystery to ponder as to how did rhythm and melody originate? Music is poetry for the body and lyric for the soul. I am fond of classical music, rock music, gospel, and country and jazz. Classical music opens the celestial food of the heavens. It’s a manna for the soul. The melody of the heavens is harmonious like the twinkle of the stars. Passion sinks deep into the soul and nurtures a lyric for the heart. Classical music is a passionate meditation for the soul. The heart chimes with the weather of love. Music is like making love to a woman. Time echoes a melody of the heart. Bach, Beethoven and Mozart are my favorites. The divine streak of God is found in classical music. Soul becomes mirth of joy. Passion becomes saturated into an oasis of love. God becomes gifted to the soul. Love and peace radiate as monuments of joy. Classical music is a symphony of becoming. Listening to rock music is altogether another experience. Rock music is Nietzsche’s Dionysian rhythm and beat. Hotel California you take me to the abyss of hell. You induce me to experience altered states of consciousness and sex. The body becomes a libidinal beat of a thrust. Rock music has borrowed heavily on metaphors of hell. Consciousness becomes a numb vehicle. The sliding of guitars, the clashing of drums, the reckless oeuvre of the organ and the tinsel cacophony of sound, all awaken a consciousness, a rhapsody to the meaning of life. Cocaine by Eric Clapton is another brilliant piece of art. But it’s all about Cocaine the horse. Smoke on the Water by deep purple makes weeds grow out of brains. Whatever you want by Status Quo plummets the body to a wine of ecstasy. Another favorite of mine is Lynard Skynard. Their mix of country rock and blues levitates the soul to a New-found-land of ecstasy. Sweet Home Alabama, yes, I am longing to come home. Free Bird by Lynard Skynard is a beautiful rendition of art. The song speaks of freedom. It’s an acoustic rendition. Rock music, you are a passionate soul and a vibrant body. Listening to rock music doped makes a music for the soul. Listening to Jazz is altogether another experience. Time slows down and becomes a metaphor of pulchritude. The breeze emanating from the saxophone is pure metaphoric joy. The gentle slide of the guitar is pure joy an art. The body becomes a music of art. Soul transcends into a heavenly realm. Jazz is poetry’s music. How I love it when the Piano in Jazz plays fancy cords; the gentle rhythm of the symbols clanging is music for the body. Jazz slows down the body into a poetry of ecstasy. Listening to country music is nirvana for the soul. Country Roads by John Denver is a melody so moving so rich in the art of moving the art to make love to it. I am transported to the world of art. Let your love flow by Bellamy Brothers is a pathos of rich sentiment. My soul becomes enriched with the lyrics of beauty. The soul incarnates as a flower in country music. Beauty chimes in bells of melodies. Country music touches the heart and soul. Music moves the soul to a pulchritude. The rich sentiment of poetry is pierces the soul into an art while listening to country music. Listening to Gospel is a poetic epiphany. I love Allan Jackson’s country Gospel especially his songs: Are you washed in the blood, I will fly away, Amazing Grace, and the Old Rugged Cross. His voice is rich in the cadence of art. Gospel songs speak straight to the soul. There’s an art of vibrant beauty. Passion builds the heart of richness. The soul becomes a heaven of beauty a lyric of passionate edification. Music the art of the heavens, the lyric of the soul, the harmony of God, the passion of art, the richness of poetry, the time of passion. Music moves the body to dance. Music makes the heart to sing. Music makes the mind to flutter like a butterfly. Time in music becomes a pulchritude of beauty. Music is the soul of love, the passion of love. How did melody and rhythm originate? It’s a mystery to contemplate. Jazz is the music of solitude. Rock music is the heaven of joy. Country music uplifts the soul. Gospel music speaks the love of God. Music, you are catharsis for the soul. You are beatific in the ethos of passion. Music is the soul of love, the edifice of beauty, the transcendence to a beauty of existence. God is the presence of art in music. We can pour our tears of sorrow and our tears of joy in music. Music is the poetry of ecstasy. Music is the flower of radiant beauty. All art should aspire to the condition of music. Music awakens the passions that lie deep in the soul. Music makes love to the body. Music makes the savage, a beautiful being for God. Deep is my passion for music. The strum of the guitar, the sliding of the cello in harmony, the clang of drums, the bellow of the saxophone all render in me countless joys of experience. I become edified lava. Music you rhythmic passion, you bliss of the soul, you harmony of metaphors, you epiphanies of love, you murmur the heart to an idyllic beat. Music, I sink into your passion, I meditate on your effulgence. My soul becomes cathartic, a poetry of becoming a song. Music hurls me to heaven and removes the bitterness of hell in me. I leave my ego behind and become one with the soul. Passions raise flags and epitomize emotions to the heaven’s highest realm. In music the soul is not bruised anymore.


Painting eulogizes a human epic. My interest in painting lies in naturalism, impressionism, surrealism, art-deco and pop-art. Painting is a metaphor of human symbolism. It’s an aesthetic music of metaphors in colors. From naturalism I would like to take Davinci’s Mona Liza and David by Michelangelo. Mona Liza’s smile is an enchanted heaven, mystic, silent, flowing with the lyric of poetry. The charm of the smile is art hidden in mystic canopy of musical pastures. Contemplating the smile arouses the beauty of thought—its enigma a mystery to fathom. Mona Liza’s smile in postmodern humor is a condom of thought. I am caught up in the rapture of thought. Is Mona Liza’s smile a cunt of thought? Was Davinci painting a cunt on the lips of Mona Liza? Naturalism in art is a dead flower. Art is caught up in the Prometheusainism of deviancy. David—Michelangelo’s sculpture is a nude portrayal of a young man. Was Michelangelo gay? David is a metaphor of nude poetry. Naturalism is the art in mimesis. Impressionism scatters paint as metaphors on the canvas. Impressive are Van Gogh’s and Gauguin’s paintings. The scattering of colors on to the canvas live in the mind as fond memories. Impressionism is the music of painting. I wonder why Van Gogh cut his hear and offer it to a whore. Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo are passionate poems. I am fascinated by Gauguin’s: where do we come from and where do we go. Colors are brilliantly smashed on to the canvas. Impressionism is horny poetry. It’s a beatitude of music. Colors are arrayed in the rich poetry of music. Transcendence is God metaphorically posited on the canvas. Surrealism is the rich posture of dream with reality. A poignant portrayal is Dali’s Persistence of Memory being that of melting clocks hanging on trees and on an embryo. The Persistence of Memory is psychoanalytic art. What is the meaning of melting clocks? Melting clocks represent time running in streams of consciousness. The embryo is symbolic of an oedipal fantasy. Are trees frozen phallic sculptures. Dali was an oedipal child and phallic man. Surrealism juxtaposes dream and reality in absurdist naturalism. Another Surrealist painter which fascinated me is Paul Delvaux. He is famous for the painting: The Call of the Night. The painting is a haunting dream of music. Paul Delvaux is famous for portraying nudes. In the Call of the Night barren land is portrayed with frozen skulls. A nude stands over it with lush vegetation growing on her head. She is a young nymph. Is she a virgin being initiated into the rites of sexuality? There is a woman who is older standing in front of a cave holding a light. Her head is veiled. What is she symbolic of? A young woman with bountiful vegetation stands outside facing her. Paul Delvaux’s art, especially the Call of the Night is reminiscent of a lesbian fetish. Do skulls portray dead sperm or the beginnings of menopause? Another Surreal painter which I like is De Chirico. The architecture of space is metaphorically positioned in brilliant, exaggerated nuances of color. Space attains a metaphysical, deified transcendence of luminous conjecture. Another form of art which I am fond of is Picasso’s Cubism. Picasso’s cubist art is poetry in music. Famously liked is the Guernica. It is why I have named this novella Guernica. In the Guernica art attains the epic distortion of a metaphoric pathos. The Guernica is a painting that represented the bombing of the Basque town during World War II. Guernica is a graffiti of art frozen to a relic of a poem. Guernica is abstract music. Another famous painting of Picasso is the Whores of Avignon. In the painting nudes with grotesque faces, sitting and standing in awkward poses are depicted. This art of Picasso can be called as Oedipalization. The cunt and breasts of women are bull of feeling for the machismo. Yes, Picasso had many women in his life and he treated them as door mats. The brush of Picasso was a phallus or penetration into the cunt of the canvas. Picasso was fascinated by Bulls. Bulls for him were a phallic machismo. Bulls for Picasso are phalluses copulating in the ritual of poetry. Picasso’s art depicts violent symbolism, degraded femnity and a distorted architecture. The father figure for Picasso was a castrated phallus. Feminism wounded his psyche. Picasso was a matador of art, a bastard who cubisized human anatomy. Another trend of modernist art was pop art. A famous relic is Marcel Duchamp’s Inverted Urinal. Pop Art fetishized mass art into gloss manipulation of obscene consumerism. Everyday objects, cultural icons became deified objects of aesthetic worship. Pop Are decimated the boundary between high art and low art. Pop Art existentialized mass culture into a pseudo culture of fetish symbolism. I would also like to comment on expressionism in art. Famous is Edward Munch’s Scream. The Scream shows the trauma, the existential angst of a human being. The scream becomes a metaphor of angst. The colors used are dull and pathetic. Scream is a metaphor for a bewildered postmodern society, a society which is an un-being, a society thrown out of the roots of being, and a society where relationships break down. The Scream tells us that we as human beings tend to be chaotic, vulnerable and intimate. Defeat and divisiveness are the Don Quixote metaphors for the triumph of individuality. Humans are prone to passion and mad with reason. Values, institutions and society can’t handle the traumas of existential angst. In the mad search for existence, some humans turn to violence and fanaticism. I would also like to comment of modernist sculpture, Rodin’s sculpture: The Thinker. The thinker is so stiff, a man of frozen mind, a devotee of Nietzsche. Is the mind made with passion for reason? We are thoughts from which cannot escape. Reason has made us mad and passion has made us delirious with ecstasy. When will the chaotic rift between passion and reason end? It will end only when we become better human beings.

When I think of the sea, my thoughts echo to the novelist Virginia Wolf and her streams of consciousness novel the waves. As a child I was fond of building sand castles. The sea was a fascinating epic of curiosity. When I grew older, the sea became reminiscent of prose in a poetic metaphor. My novel is a written flowing sea. Waves became contemplative and meditative reflections. Grains of sand on the coast lay like the color of Gold. The spume and froth of the sea is a poetry with an attitude of being in a positive frame of mind. Waves you evoke the mind to the heart of contemplation. Your mystic fragrances of salt, your bluish sedation, your passionate sweeping to the coast and then back and forth are all tangos of art. What passion lives in your creation? You echo the sound of music. Your salt of bluishness is the waltz of jazz of a saxophone. I wonder what it was for the Israelites when they walked through the parted Red Sea. Sea talks to me in gentle rhythms of art. The sea is a tsunami of passion. The sea is a haiku of poetry. Waves sometimes they roar in the passion of poetry. The sea is a womb of the woman, housing the earth. What a beatific sight it is, to watch the sun shining as an orange ball on the horizon of the sea. The sea, yes I want to make love to a woman. Folks of Kerala offer libation to the sea in remembrance of their ancestors. The sea is a woman making love to a man. The gentle rhythm of sea breeze, the falling sunset of colors, the gliding of poetry by the birds, the indentations of the bay, the love of being in tune with the sea is a harmony that one can possess. Now I have wet my pants and I put the money into the sun to dry. A horde of whores come by. Their eyes twinkle with greed and ferocity. I watch their ugly glare and shoo them off politely. I have visited Cape Commorin. There’s a rock in the middle of the sea. One has to travel by boat to reach the destination. It is a rock where Vivekanand an Indian mystic-saint used to meditate. That is a place where the three waters of the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean become a confluence. I visited the rock one evening. Waves frolicked on to the rock like poetic jazz. The sun scattered poetry on to the waters of many hues. It was a sacred, mystic and an epiphanic experience. The sea now, a poetry of soul incarnation, a jazz of streams of consciousness, a soul of contemplation. When I think of the sea, it becomes a mystic of poetic beauty. I think of Jesus who walked on the waters and calmed the tempest. The sea is an epic of love. Tuna is poetry for the mind. I remember fondly, the Indonesian grilled fish that I had while in my stint in Indonesia. The aroma was so delicious, the taste so eloquent. I have a woman that loves me in the island of Bali. How I long to travel there and make poetry of love with her. The sea, now talks to me in meditative whispers. When I was in Portblair visiting my beloved her brother-in-law took me on journey through the many islands situated there. The salty breeze wafting through air made every one queasy and many puked. Thanks to my watery sign Pisces, I didn’t suffer from sea sickness. A French woman on the boat was wooing me. Like a fool, I rejected her gestures. I could have easily made love to her. The sea builds an edifice of aesthetic consciousness. The sea now a lyrical ballad, a poetic hymn, an idyllic pasture. I am caught up in the rapture of the sea. The sea, a metaphor of the womb. Each visit to the sea is like the beginning of a new novel. Ernest Hemingway was seaman novelist. Each time I write, I imagine I am traveling to a new sea. Virginia Wolf when I think of you and your waves, I am in the sea of writerly passion. I have loved your waves. If I was living in your times, I would have made love to you. James Joyce has also written about the sea. The sea is a voyage of time. Tasting a cunt is like tasting sea water. I want to wade into the sea of passion. The sea is a Homer who pelts out epics. Man conquered the sea and colonized nations. Now the sea is being decolonized in democracies. The storms raging in the mind are also a metaphoric sea. Sometimes I wish I was born as a whale. The sea is an abstract painting, an impressionistic landscape. It’s pleasant sight to watch children playing on the sea shore, building sand castles. I cast all my wishes and dreams into the sea and there I get a big fish of luck. Jesus asked his disciples to fetch a coin from the fish mouth and that was how he paid taxes. Thus we have the maxim: give unto Caesar what is his and give unto me what is mine. From the fish mouth is an idiom of a lucky happening. I hope it happens to all fortunate souls. How I wish that I could live near the sea side and spend the rest of my days with a loving passionate woman. Woman what I seek in you? I seek the sea in you. The sea is your kind heart, your beautiful mind, a soul cook and a passionate bed. There you are, you are the sea, and you are the woman of my imagination. I voyaged into the sea as an emotional epic. The sea, you are the rapturation of being. The sea, you are a celestial epic.

Philosophies which have moved me

I start right from Socrates. Socrates said: know thy self. That’s a deep philosophical question. I ask Socrates what can be known of the self. In the postmodern world, we as humans are a disintegrated and chaotic self. Yes there is no man on earth wiser than Socrates. Despite Athens being a democracy, Socrates was condemned to death by drinking hemlock. Socrates is democracy’s martyr. He had the stoic courage to take his death with light-hearted mirth. I say to Socrates: the self knows it knows not. Next I contemplate on Plato. I am moved by his theory of forms. I would like to recall Plato’s allegory of the cave. There is a dark cave situated by men. There is wall and from the wall emanates a bright spark of light. The allegory is used to reveal the theory of forms. For Plato there’s an ideal world beyond the existing world. Plato’s theory posits a metaphysical transcendence. Plato’s theory foreshadows the beginnings of Christianity. Plato’s ideal world of forms exists in art, in philosophy, in poetry and in music. In all these we are transformed into another realm of being. Platonism is ideated metaphysics of aesthetics. Next, I would like to take up dialectics. Dialectics as a discourse began in ancient Greece where a dense series questions and answers will finally lead to truth. We know that today there is no ideal truth but truth is language is a series of metaphors and metonymies. Dialectics has become Dialogical after Bakthin. A dialogical novel is prose wrapped up in poetry. During the time of the Philosopher Hegel, dialectics underwent a new turn. For him dialectics was a thesis, then an antithesis and finally a synthesis. How can we explain dialectics as an aesthetic? Writing the novel begins as thesis, addition of tropes becomes an antithesis and in the final stage the novel becomes an art, a synthesis. How can dialectics be explained in the political context? After World War II, the nation of Israel was created and Palestinians evicted from their own home, an antithesis and struggle for a homeland a synthesis. The World needs peace not pieces. Again during the time of Marx, dialectics took a U-turn and Marx synthesized dialectics with materialism. Material forces which work in society create its institutions. Materialism in its vulgarity has dehumanized the soul. But Marxism is a failed God. Entertainment today does not illuminate the intellect nor edifies the soul. We have become passive spectators of crass entertainment. Next I would like to move on to the great heavy weight of literature: Jean Paul Sartre. For Sartre, being becomes proselytized into an art of becoming. The Being for itself is an internalization of poetic subjectivity. The being projects to an entity of becoming. Being is a mytho-poetic subjectivity. Sartre deserves special mention for his portrayal of angst. Angst is real and experiential and the moral responsibility of angst lies with the self. Angst is not defeated manhood but the celebration of individuality. The celebration of angst makes Quixotic individuality unique. Next I would like to celebrate Albert Camus’ nihilism. I am so fond of his book: The Myth of the Sisyphus. Sisyphus is an art work on the philosophy of nihilism. Sisyphus is condemned by the Gods to roll a boulder all the way uphill only to find that it rolls down again. Camus is purporting the meaninglessness of life. Again existentialism has a panacea: authenticate your life. Optimize the circumstances offered to you. Don’t suicide but offer meaning to life. I move on from Camus to the existential philosopher Heidegger. Heidegger’s Dasein or being can be refined to an ontology of being in processual experientiality. Being or Dasein exists through affirmation, negation, possession and celebration. Next I would like to move on to Derrida the guru of postmodernism. Language for him exists in a binary divide. Terms privilege some and marginalize others. I have coined a new term called Binary fusion where terms attain a deification of neutrality. For example, the term colored encompasses whiteness, blackness and coloredness. Another term for binary fusion will be Hu/wo/man. Interpretation of texts phallification and vaginazation. Clitoral-tricks are fusing texts into an inter-textuality. Next I would like to move on to the modern father of modern linguistics Saussure. For him language is conglomeration of signifiers and signifieds. A signifier belongs to the sensate, tangible visual realm and a signified is an abstract idea. For example if Rose is passion, rose is the signifier and passion the signified. In art especially writing the signifiers and signifieds merge. For example I take a simile: eyes twinkle like stars. In this trope: the signifier and the signified merge into an aesthetic transcendence. Art Derridadaizes the signifier and the signified into a poetry of symbolism. Next I move on to Freud with a new interpretation. A postmodern Freud defies the ID, defies the Ego and transcends the super ego. This is the philosophy of art-cono-clasm derived from art and iconoclasm. Next I would like to portray the psychoanalyst Lacan’s thoughts. For Lacan the unconscious is structured like language. The mirror stage is where we become separated and enter the realm of language. It’s a stage where a being experiences desire and lack. For Lacan there is no stability of the self. The self has to do a tight-rope-walking act between the ID, Ego and Super Ego. The self in postmodern society exists as a chaos, pining for stability. The loss of values, the angst of being, all portray the emergence of an existential crisis. In olden days people had religion and God. After Nietzsche, God is dead. The hopelessness of life is to be encountered with stoic courage and passionate irony. Defeatism is the celebration of angst. The ideal human existence is a state of un-being. I would love to introduce the readers to my own philosophy of post-post modernism called Convenientialism. Convenientialism is the celebration of absurdism. In Convenientialism anything is everything and anything goes with everything. Some of the terms used in convenientializm are Binary fusion, phenomenological ontology, rapturation of being, and demogeocracy, the philosophy of Utilorasy and Bourgeolariat. In Binary fusion terms do not marginalize of privilege anyone; terms are neutral. For example the term human can be binary fused into hu/wo/man. Phenomenological ontology addresses the question of being. Here I introduce a new term and that being Unbeing. In a postmodern society—we have deify the Id, gratify the Ego and subvert the super ego. Rapturation of being is an experience of mytho-poetic subjectivity. Rapture has both celebration and mourning of human experience. A DemoGeoCracy is a world unified, a world that has no walls, no passports, world that is concerned for the caring of the environment. The UN has to play a big role in unifying nations. Next the Philosophy of convenientializm encompasses the economics of Utilorasy and Bourgeolariat. Utlilorasy comes from utility. Bourgeolariat comes from Bourgeoisie and the proletariat. There is only one class of people—the Bourgeolariat. Money should be freed from competent ownership and should attain a democracy of free purchasing power. Eudemonism is possible through the philosophy of convenientializm. Through convenientializm the whole society will be in entelechy.


What is the Philosophy of love? Love in Christian theology has three connotations. Agape is the divine love of God. Philos is the love of one’s own family and friends. Eros is erotic love shared as a passionate bed. To love is to be in the process of art. Love is the poetry of music. Love is the gift of the heart and music for the soul. Love is the divine gift of God. I have experienced Eros through the many women that I have loved and shared their bed. Eros is the elixir of passion. Eros is the nectar of the Gods. Eros is surreal, musical and poetic. When I think of Agape, I think of the unconditional love of Christ. Every drop of blood that he shed on the cross is a lyric to save human existence from sin and bondage. Agape is grace that overflows with the gift of forgiveness. We are freed from the guilt of sin. Agape is the music of heavens. Agape is the echo of the celestial world. Agape is a gift of joy. God incarnated through his son as Christ. When I think of Agape, I think of the love of Christ. Eros is a passionate bed, a sweet poetry of music. I waded on to her lake and she became a flower of ecstasy. Passions live rich in the body. Christianity is so rich in literature and so poetic. I am always experiencing the Agape of Christ. Reason is masculine and passion is feminine. Will passion and reason merge? Can one indulge in sensual pleasures. The Corybantic orgies of ancient Greece have fascinated me. When one thinks of the family one thinks of Philos. I love my wife and children very much. I am so fond of them. And I also love God very much. Christ has also taught us to love our neighbors and our enemies. If the world was saturated with love there would be no need for war and violence. Mahatma Gandhi was an apostle of non-violence. Through non-violence he was able to secure India’s freedom. Love can change even the coldest heart. To be in romantic love is to be in a passionate encounter. Eros, you sea of passion, you poetic music, you gift of the Gods, you typhoon of the body, you lyric of the soul, I succumb to you. Making love is the highest form of art. Passion is a lyric of the soul. Sex is nirvanaing the body. I crave for the love of a passionate woman. Adultery with Anita was pure passion. The joy of experience can’t be described in words. Adultery for me has been a vivid experience. Shame and guilt are poetic metaphors. In love we emerge from a being to a becoming.

When I think of the seasons …I think of metaphors, I think of abstract paintings, I think of music. How beautiful it is to have the four seasons, summer, spring, autumn and winter. Spring, Autumn and Winter are my favorite seasons. In spring and Autumn flowers bloom. Spring is a metaphor of poetry. The dance of flowers in the gentle breeze of spring is rhythmic joy. Petals leap in joy. Spring is a metaphoric wellspring of a fountain. The colors of nature are robes adorned by a mystic. Spring is an eclectic fusion of art in impressionism. The melody of spring lies rich in the fruits that grow. Autumn is a time when leaves lie as pale poems on the ground. It’s an art to watch autumn scattered leaves. I am an addict of autumn. I have named my lovers as autumn. Autumn is a rhythmic calypso. The dance of Autumn is nature’s calypso. Seasons are personified poems of nature in love. Winter is a desert of landscape. Snow covers the ground as a woman’s breasts. The ground remains barren. Winter is a motif for death. When I think of winter, I visualize skulls and skeletons. Summer, what a nice season? During summer I sleep outdoors. Summer makes me hot. I keep pouring water all the time. I live in the humid part of Kerala. It’s lovely to cruise along the backwaters of Kerala in summer. Another season that I love is Kerala’s monsoon. I enjoy children making paper boats and floating them in the rain water. I watch a rain-drenched bird as a mystic. Travelling on the backwaters is so much fun. The lush paddy fields are soaked in rain and they evoke the metaphor of a poetry of the earth. I watch a stork drenched in rain scattering its feathers. It’s cathartic to become wet in the rain. All of the monsoon evoked poignant epiphanies. Monsoon Kerala is God’s Own Country.

Notes on some favorite novelists

Kafka is an all time favorite of mine. Kafka is famous for the irony of symbolism. The tropes used in Kafka’s novels are so unique. Kafka’s metamorphosis is an all time favorite read. Kafka was forerunner of existentialism. I recall the protagonist Gregor Samza metamorphizing into a gigantic insect. He becomes the subject of ridicule and loathing for his family. The metamorphosis reflects Kafka’s on inner angst. Kafka was the most troubled writer of the century. He was Jew exiled. The Trial and the Castle are his other prominent works. In the trail a man is charged with a case but he is entirely innocent. Is the trial a symbolic motif a rigid bureaucracy? In the end of the trial we come to know that the authorities slit the throat of the protagonist. Human angst is subject of and a recurring motif in Kafka’s novels. Kafka’s novels are an impressionism of the mind and a surrealism of the body. I am also wonder-struck by the writer known as Gertrude Stein. Her writing celebrates streams of consciousness. Her famous quote is ‘a rose is a rose is a rose’. All of her language is the writings of tropes. Literature has to transcend genres and become more avant-gardist. Literature of today resembles an abstract music, an abstract painting. Plot and storyline are ancient dinosaurs. Another writer who has fascinated me is Maurice Blanchot. I have read his: Space of Literature. He examines the consciousness of a writer. The writer is a self leaving the self. All writing is confessional and autobiographical. One is an artist when one is writing. The pen that writes is the ego in personification. Words are the orgy of the pen. Writing is a fetish of ornamental aesthetics. A writer is no one but many selves. Genres of writing include realism, surrealism and the modern novel which includes a writing in streams of consciousness. What is the philosophy of fiction? Avant gardism has to make fiction an abstract work. The story is a dead relic. James Joyce in the Ulysses wrote in streams of consciousness, an epic covering a man’s day of life of twelve hours. Realism of the novel is a dead stone. Borges was skilled in the craft of magic realism and Henry Miller to the art of surrealism. Plotting a novel is as old as Hieroglyphics. The novel is a work of art an abstract painting. My writing bears traces of jazz and cubism. My writing is metaphoric and inter-textual. Next writer that I would like to take up in my dialogue is Nathalie Sarraute. She is famous for her avant-gardist writing. She invented tropisms, a device to record mental stimuli that passed on in the mind. Joyce recorded 12 hrs of a person’s life as an epic. I have chronicled a novel bearing seconds in a person’s life. A novel is a labyrinth of thought. A novel is a textual harp. Avant-gardism has to create newer and newer tendencies of writing. Fiction is philosophical art. A novelist has to live his or her life as a novel. This novel belongs to the genre of philosophical fiction, a genre of my own invention. Philosophical fiction where themes are dialogically discussed where philosophy is dissected with the tool of art. Writing is an art of the selves in multiplicity. I have invented a new figure of speech called the Museaphor. A Museaphor has a primary metaphor and a related secondary metaphor. Let me explain Museaphors with some examples. Dusk lies saturated as a cunt. The cunt is a musical stream. Word is a phallic Logos. Writing is the Logos of penetration. Palestine is a volcano. She is a hot volcano. Making love to her was like writing. Writing is passion found in the pen. She lay with me like a lyric poem. Sunset is a lyric poem. Music is the art of making love. Poetry is the art of life. Life is roses in a blessing and thorns as a curse. I am surrounded by an ocean of thoughts. God’s love is deep as the ocean. Art: you are a stoic ornament. Trump’s diplomacy is a stoic ornament. I fondle a cunt like stroking a guitar. Acoustic guitar is a music that soothes the senses. Picasso’s paintings are phallic metaphors. The symbolism of the phallus is related to the writing of the word. My mind exploded like a tsunami. The financial markets are recovering from a tsunami. Her scent was that of a flower. He coated a flowery rainbow in his poetry. Poetry is jazz of music. Jazz lives in the soul of the human. Why am I a living novel? The author is the novel. Passion is a tempest of being. Tempests are seen in fanatic Islam. A novel is being written in the book of life. I am fictionalizing myself into the art of Philosophical fiction. My hyper-ego is hypnagogic. Fairies and witches enchanted me when I was young. The irony of life made me stop thinking of fantasy land. What will happen when I die? I am so happy that I can leave a writing that’s immortal. We are vulnerable, intimate and passionate human beings. Humans are incurable sybarites. Humans alternate between Epicureanism and Stoicism. Is there middle path to life as mentioned by Buddha? America imports philosophers and exports Bibles and missiles. Jesus said that you must be child-like to enter the kingdom of Heaven. Passion is a river running deep. Solitude is the irony of existence. Humor is the triumph of life. The meaning of life can be found in a poem. Darling Anita, embrace me my love….let me melt you with kisses of dew. Let me smell the rich fragrance of your body. Let me fondle your breasts like a child. Let me suckle your nipples as sweet poetry. Let me make love to you like a wet morning. Plot of the novel is the pulp of fiction. A character in a novel should have considerable philosophical depth. The interiority of consciousness is the ontology of aesthetic consciousness. Roland Barthes, I am so fond of you, your post-structural assemblage of the sign. May your soul rest in peace. Picasso I am so fond of your cubist art. You have rendered painting into a musical metaphor. My affinity for writing stems from you. Artists and musicians, you have offered me more thoughts on aesthetics than writers. I deconstruct my Indian nativity. I have a white mind, a black soul and a brown body. I am a native of every country. Hellenic Greece you have made me mad with catharsis. Existentialism you have made a nihilist out of me. Deconstruction, and dear Derrida, I celebrate the privilege of the sign you offer me. Dear Shelly and Keats, you have kept the flames of romanticism living in me. My dear departed Father, the late Prof. V A Mathen Bose, you have Hellenized me in philosophies of literature and culture. Every day of my life is romantic poetry. My sentiments are colored in the robes of surrealism. Christ, you are my hero, I admire you so much. I have a faith that is Christian, an existentialism that is nihilistic and postmodern that lies in deconstruction. Interpret meaning embrace art. Noesis entelechy is the essence of life. Passion is a river, a brook murmuring, a sea of depth, a noble soul. I am not running away from time. I am running with time. Birds float in the sky—an idyllic poetry. I am a beatnik of the Orient. I am fond of Beatnik culture. Yes, I want to experiment with drugs, sex and altered states of consciousness. Jethro Tull, your music of the locomotive breath is phallic poetry. I am living in a Voodoo land of consciousness. Time is a whisper now. Kazansaki, how passionately you have written Zorba the Greek. The salmagundi of Catholicism and Hellenism blend rich as a trope or eclectic, cathartic fusion. Life you are the living soul of music. Man’s quest for freedom is the ultimate. There, the statue of liberty winks at me. I wink back in passion. Humanity is one, yet so politically separated. When will the need to show passports and visa end? When will the world become a sanatorium of liberal theology? A protestant theology has to develop in Islam. When will fanaticism, hate and Jihadicide end? We all want a peaceful world, a world united by the yoke of human camaraderie. Peace is the rock of Jesus. When will Allah become kind and benevolent? When will all the people of the world be imbued with the aesthetic of consciousness? Peace I speak to you in the breath of poetry. Yes ‘we shall overcome some day’. When will countries shift discourses to democratic dialogues? When will poverty end? The billions spent on weapons can be used to feed the poor. Yes, the world has to become a better place to live.

World Views on Art

Art through the centuries acquired different forms and conceptions. First of all there was naturalism, then developed romanticism, and then there was impressionism, followed by cubism, which was followed by surrealism and finally trends moved on to postmodern art. Here I would like to provide my understanding on various schools of art.
Naturalism proceeded out of mimesis. The aim of art was to mimic nature. A classic example of mimetic art would Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Mona Lisa lives through the ages for its enigmatic style. Another example would be the Last Supper by Da Vinci. Art became permeated heavily with religious motifs. What has naturalism contributed to the world? An answer would be representation of a mimetic ethos. There is very little to interpret in naturalistic art but we can admire its imitation of nature. I would also like to take Michelangelo’s sculpture of David. What would a postmodern interpretation take? It would perhaps couch it as being gay.
Another style of art that developed during the 18th century was romanticism. What is romanticism? The poet Wordsworth defined romanticism as the spontaneous overflow of feelings. Romanticism captured feelings on to the canvas. The canvas became permeated in rich colors of the baroque. Romantic painting is fanciful and ornamental. When we think of romanticism in the postmodern age we encounter a catharsis with the past. Goya’s exhibit: Saturn devouring his son can be taken as a classic example. The grotesque Saturn is portrayed as an admirable beauty. Romantic painters are endowed with passionate neurosis. Feelings and emotions lie with us to contemplate in ravishment.
Another school of art which developed during the beginning of the 19th century was impressionism. The great masters of impressionism are Van Gogh, Monet, and Gauguin. Impressionism is a unique style of art. Impression is marked by a wide usage of brilliant colors. Strokes were left like scars on the canvas. Impressionism was marked by a tendency of art to become modern. Van Gogh was a brilliant artist who etched out paintings in a style that marked a departure from his predecessors. When we look at Van Gogh’s starry night, we get a passion that is akin to listening of music. Similarly Gauguin’s painting: ‘where do we come from and where do we go’, highlights mythical allegories in brilliant dashes of color.
Another school of art which developed during the beginning of the 20th century was Cubism. Its master exponent was Picasso. With the advent cubism art left its mimetic modes and became the sole creation of the artist. Cubism had a tendency to portray art in abstract terms. Picasso’s La Demoiselles D’ Avignon presented harlots. Their features especially their breasts, hips and asses were made incongruous with oedipal fantasies. Another notable creation of Picasso was the Guernica. Guernica is fantastic rendition of the horrors of bombing Basque, presented in abstract terms. When we look at Guernica we become fascinated to the point of disgust. Cubism highlighted that art can be repulsive.
The next school of art which developed by the middle of the 20th century was Surrealism. My most loved surrealistic artists are Dali and Paul Delvaux. Dali’s most famous painting is the ‘persistence of memory’. Surrealism following Freudian psychoanalysis attempted to portray art with a conglomeration of reality and fantasy. In the painting, persistence of memory, we find melting clocks hanging on trees and covered by an embryo. The tree can be symbolized as a phallic construct. The melting clocks portray time as flowing with the literature of streams of consciousness. The embryo can represent the artist’s oedipal trauma. Delvaux most famous painting is the call of the night. In the ‘call of the night’ a barren land is seen with skulls. There is a nude standing on the open with luscious vegetation growing on her head. There is also a nude whose head is covered standing outside a building with a candle on her head. Delvaux is trying to portray ancient fertility rites in modernistic terms. The painting can also be interpreted as a sexual awakening. Thus surrealism attempted to portray dream with reality.
Next I would like to focus on postmodern art. Postmodern art is contemporary and tends to be a rebellion against existing artistic norms. In postmodern art normal objects are presented in unusual terms. For an example: we can take Marcel Duchamp’s inverted urinal. Postmodern art is also famous for inventing pop-art, where cartoons, comic strips and consumer products where drawn as artistic representations. Another interesting example of postmodern art is Rodin’s thinker. The thinker can be interpreted in two ways. One in a way that a person has constipation, another as an intellectual poised in thought. Postmodern art freed art from all inhibitions and pre-existing conceptions.


Analysis of the Space of Literature by Maurice Blanchot


Maurice Blanchot though being a heavy weight of Literature is largely ignored by the mainstream public due to the dense obscurity of his work. Blanchot’s literature remains largely ornamental like a piece of Baroque opera with strands of philosophy running through it. I would like to discuss the thoughts that I came through while reading his magnum opus: The Space of Literature.

Maurice Blanchot begins his work be characterizing Writing as Solitude. What is solitude in everyday life? It means an inner calm of tranquility. It is questionable to ask whether a writer writes out of solitude or excitement. He quotes Rilke: ‘I haven’t produced a single work: my solitude has engulfed me’. Why can’t the writer be agitated when he is writing his work? I am sure that Nietzsche wrote: Thus spoke Zarathustra while undergoing bouts of insanity. A Freudian ID gets provoked into the necessity of writing. Even mystics when they meditate are never in solitude. There are in a state of deep contemplation. One can also write out of the passion to write but one can never be in solitude when one is in a state of writing. When one is in the process of writing, one gravitates to the center of meaning. So I would like to reformulate Blanchot’s solitude as excitement, agitation, passion and contemplation. The mind can never be in solitude.

Again Blanchot goes on to say that a writer never knows whether his work is finished or not. In one sense it is true and in another sense it is not. Any work of Literature is only partial does not display art to sense of completion. But then again in a literary work, there’s a beginning and an ending. Let’s take an example of Ulysses by James Joyce. The novel running into eight hundred pages and depicts twelve hours of person’s life mainly Bloom, Stephen and Molly. There is a beginning and an ending to the work. Blanchot is partially right when he says that no work of art is complete. A work of art has got only degrees of perfection. Similarly Blanchot also mentions that a reader enters into solitude while encountering a work. Readers of pulp fiction are causal readers. The work of a serious reader is marked by the phenomenology of reading. The mind of a serious reader works as an inter-textual machine. Reading interferes with what has been read in the past. The ontology of existentialism, the autobiographical possession of the reader comes into play while reading. There is perfect reading but there are only imperfect interpretations.

It’s through an absence that word being of writer comes into existence. I would like to refute this statement by saying that writing is affirmation of presence, a saturation of it. Being is pronounced into the becoming of meaning. In writing there’s indulgence of the meaning of being. Writing is excess of being. Presence of being is an affirmation for a writer.

Again he goes on to say that a writer never reads his or her work. That can be true to some extent. Would a writer really enjoying editing his or work?  A writer does not function as a reader. The writer merely proof reads his or her work.

For a writer, a word is something that cannot be mastered. How could that be the case? A writer is a lingual-maniac. He finds new usages for pre-existing ones. He or she also creates new words: for example neologisms. A writer invents tropes of language. How can this be possible without mastery? Writing is not sterile but active and dynamic.

To write is to break the bond between the word and the self. I would like to say that writing is a catharsis. The bond between writing, the word, and the self is one of unison. Writing is akin to having sexual intercourse. The self and the word are bonded to a writer.

The writer belongs to a language that no one speaks. Yes, writing is inventive and seeks new paradigms of a discovery of meaning. Tropes belong to the language of nascence and newness. Writing is a process of self discovery.

When we admire the tone of the work, we are not referring to style or virtues of the language but to a silence. Blanchot is not sure about what this silence is. We are in fascination and catharsis when we unveil the imagery used by a writer. There is intellectual and emotional gratification. We do not encounter the work in silence.

What is the journal? It is not romantic, not essentially confessional. It is the writer when he or she is not writing. I feel that Blanchot is being vague there. Again he goes on to say that a journal is written out of fear and anguish. The writing of the journal is no longer historical. Romanticism has acquired new shades of meaning in blog writing. Taste, art and culture are all romanticized by bloggers undergoing a new experience. As Wordsworth has said ‘poetry is the spontaneous overflow of feeling’. To be romantic is to be in state of mind that’s in passion. Writing a journal can also be confessional. To be confessional is to be passionate and expressive. My writing on adultery is confessional. It is wrong to say that a journal is not historical. For example let’s take Ann Frank. Ann Frank is a passionate outburst of the oppressions that she encountered during a Nazi regime. Thus a journal can be confessional, romantic and historical.

To write is to surrender to time’s absence. I would like to disagree with the statement. Time in writing flows as streams of consciousness.   Time is reflective and contemplative when the writer engages in writing. Writing cannot be marked by the absence of time.

Fascination is solitude’s gaze. To write is to let fascination rule the language. The gaze of the writer could be a sexual, one; it could also be subjective, philosophical, materialistic and transcendental. The gaze is intentional and is borne out the repressed in the ID.

Again he quotes Mallarme: ‘When I write into verse, I encounter nothingness, an absence of God and my own death. It is questionable to ask Blanchot, how negation can enter the realm of writing. Negation is nihilism, a negative affirmation when something positive does not happen. Writing is self proclaiming and affirmative. Yes after Nietzsche’s proclamation that ‘God is dead’, writing has become anthropocentric. How can a writer enter the realm of death? Is the writer killing his self when he enters into the train of writing? According to Camus, while writing we enter into a philosophical suicide. Yes there’s death of the actual self and birth of the creative self.

Again Blanchot goes to distinguish between the crude word and the ornamental word. When we say that the flower is in the garden we are using crude language or the language of communication. If I use: I am flowering her lips, I am ornamentally decorating the language. Writing is ornamental, decorative and hyperbolic. Again he goes on to say: poetry is the universe of words where relations and configurations are attained through sound, figure and rhythmic language. Poetry is akin to the musicality of words, and it flows with the Dionysian rhythm and makes presence with the Orpheus of figures.

Kafka began his writing out of true despair. We should know that Kafka had a stormy relationship with his father. He was also an exiled Jew. Kafka despised authority figures. Writing for Kafka grew out of protest against authoritarianism. This is especially true when we analysis his work—the Metamorphosis.  The work is allegorical and shows the negation of individuality by authority figures. The individual in Metamorphosis is reduced into fragments. Writing for Kafka was spiritual and psychological salvation. Kafka made the affirmation that nothing else besides literature satisfies me. The more Kafka writes: the less sure is he of himself.

Art is primarily the consciousness of unhappiness not its consolation. How can art be the consciousness of unhappiness alone? One can experience art through the consciousness of joy and affirmation. Let’s diagnose Picasso’s painting of the Guernica. Was Picasso filled with angst of the bombing of Basque? Or was he affirming creativity while painting the Guernica. When I meditate on Dali’s painting: The persistence of Memory, I am filled with cathartic interpretation. I appreciate its meaning to portray time as streams of consciousness. I also marvel at the melting clock placed on the frozen embryo and interpret it as Dali’s own oedipal trauma.


Introspection of Salvador Dali’s Persistence of Memory


I have been fascinated with this painting for a long time. At first my consciousness accepted it as a work of art and nothing more. Then slowly my consciousness started interfering with it like pebbles struck by the moving stream. I thought of Freud and the association made by the surrealists with him. The surreal painters used to juxtapose dream and reality to create in my own words a (Hallucinogence), a hallucinogenic reflection on the art’s work. Probing the painter deeper, what is Dali trying to manifest from the unconscious? Is it his own oedipal conflict which is vividly portrayed in the frozen embryo? The melting clocks portray time as Streams of Consciousness. Time is not a linear entity but is marked be the phenomenology of drifting towards a past, present and future. The genealogy of time is not chronological. Is time also showing a depiction of state where there is no care or worry, an embryonic time?