This is a strange tale I heard from a member of a parish. It went on like this. All in one family except the father had converted to the cult Jehovah’s Witness. When the father died there was no one in the family to take the corpse to the church. The willing neighbors interfered and took him to the church to be buried. When the last rites were uttered and the corpse was to be lowered to the grave, there was one more ritual that is to cover the head and face with the burial cloth. Then the son appeared out of nowhere to do the ceremony and the priest stopped him on his tracks and vociferously said: ‘you have no right to do the same, since you did not cooperate with the burial of your father’.
Mellow pink ….
The sky light up
In praises of
Of a sinking
As soft hues….
Tender the sky….
A veiled fruit ….
A figure of speech
This happened to me about a year ago. I was engaged with duty of marking answer scripts for English (general) paper. To my surprise one student put about 500 Rupees between the pages with the short message to pass him. After valuing the paper, I found it very bleak. I was able to add a half there and a half here and so on to the point of passing the candidate. I smiled at the way I got additional sources of income.
This gentleman is well known to me. One particular feature about his ears is, hair grows on it and protrudes outside, almost the shape of a leaf. I find it quite irritable and think of ways and means to cut it off. To make matters worse, I think of spitting on it. Sometimes I feel like puking on it. I don’t have the heart to tell the gentleman to cut it off.
Armed with a gun, he entered the Newspaper printing factory. He shot one on the leg and one on the hand. He wanted to change the news. One was the big lottery scam run by the government and another was his sworn enemy a financial company, a private bank now. At gunpoint he changed the frontline headings. He felt satisfied: ‘at last revenge taken’. It’s easy to guess what will happen to the people when they read the news in the morning.
Life is a boring scum. I am wandering like a lost dream of words. I am sinking into the abyss of pathos. Mutiny is a million flowers scavenging a dead corpse. Feel tired and worn-out; feel like losing out the self to a rebellious resurrection. I want to peruse the meaning of life. I am feeling like losing my faith in God and I feel sorry as an empty canvas. Life has become a prison of routine. What had come of me? It’s been ages since I have a read a good book. I wonder why? I am the pillar of insomnia and depression. I wonder why I can’t end my life. Solitude, you infect me with fangs. Is writing a Moloch of dead dreams? I am depressed with nothing working favorably for me. Do dreams actualize life or are they merely wish fulfillment. May be in my previous birth I was a nomadic hunter who could sit around grandma’s fire pot and expurgate a story or two. Why does the avant garde decimate a good story or two? I am a mourning Kafka caught up in the riot of fin de siècle madness. My travel is limited to the four boundaries of a village. It is said that writers have to travel. I plant writer’s seeds with my pen. Even the iconic Joyce had a stint n Switzerland. I sink my lips into a cup of coffee as an art of rebellion. I love to wander, travel and write. I want to shatter the glass of memory and I want to relive the past as moments of happiness. Dark skies cloud my mind in epic sorrows. How does the prism of life actualize a quantum of experience? Cheer up there are better times ahead. I have to live in the castle of hope and make my dreams a wishing want of truth. Who does not want better money, space to travel, and enjoy life? Is Jesus the answer for all existence? Aren’t celebrity evangelists out to make a fast buck or two? Is life a hugger mugger of deception? Ideas in a novel are philosophical fictions. Is fiction the art of telling the self through a series of revelation? Is fiction the art of lying of the self? Do morals have place in the fiction of life? Myth is the solidarity of living through a series of fictional extracts. Every day I speak to myself to become a better fiction. I laugh all of myself in philosophical hyperboles. The body is a festoon of desires. Why can’t I be free and liberated? What causes me to doubt my desires? Are desires evil? They aren’t as long as they don’t offend a democracy. Passions are the mantras of poetry. Socrates said: ‘know thy self’ and I say ‘live yourself’. Words are to bear the dictum of truth. A good writer is in the art of making.
He had a peculiar habit. He was fond of sending hoax messages to the Police stating the bombing of places. Till now he has not been caught. He likes to give a hard time to the police.
I wanted to get a disability certificate for my son who is having autism and so I had to go to the government hospital. The bathroom was horrible and un-cleaned with lumps of shit and urine lying all around. As I was sitting in the psychiatric ward, there was a huge notice board and on it was written—number of people with STDS counseled—number of condoms distributed. A smile broke out on my lips.
Nothing much has happened in my life. This day to day routine is trying and troublesome. I think of content to write but nothing much emerges.
I had a strange dream and in it I was going through a tunnel. I looked up at the dream dictionary and found the meaning as, going through a tunnel means solving a problem and beginning a new phase of life. I am excited at the prospects that the dream has to offer.
I wonder where life is taking me to. I dream of visiting enchanted islands like Bali, the Philippines where my significant other lives. I dream of smoking clove cigarettes and having Indonesian grilled fish and duck roast and rice with Sambal.
I nourish writing as a poetic dream. I draw writing with my pen and brush against the canvas of the paper. Form is the evolution of the ego into an aesthetic symbolism of an idealism. Content is what the pen plants as a seed and writing is an evolution of a fruit. Style of writing is a fictional utopia. Meaning is the recognition of the allegory in aesthetic semblances. I carve beautiful sculptures with my pen. Writing is the joyful exertion of freedom. The joy of writing is the liberation of the ego, the joyssance of the body. The text is the manna of celebration. Nietzsche the philosopher said: ‘a good writer is a one who is ashamed of the self’. We write in words about what is a bodily negation. Writing bears the angst of the self. Writing is the art of being a stoic epicurean and a philosophical Socrates. To write as Derrida has said: ‘is to have the passion of origin’.