July 15, 2019
Morning was a late bard. Woke up and drenched cups of coffee. I feel so happy and contented as God is on my side. Muses danced in art—a ballet—objet d’ art. Clouds hung across the sky as beards.
I am comforted by the Bible Verse: Blessed are the Meek for they shall inherit the earth. I am reading the gospel of ST. Mathew. Again it says in the Gospel: Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. It also says: Blessed are the poor in spirit: for they shall see God. The Sermon on the Mount is my all-time favorite.
I got some letters from scammers—men impersonating as women, wanting me to transfer funds. I have grown tired of scammers.
Sometimes I get offers employment abroad. When I look at their mail address it is Gmail. Then I realize that they are serpents wanting to cheat the innocent with their poisonous fangs.
Sometimes I wonder what is a writerly consciousness. It’s a process which starts with the beginning of writing. Thoughts are the dictionary of the mind. And from there they have to be channeled into the writer’s pen. I still enjoy writing in a book. But mostly I do it on the desk top. It’s fun to imagine mythological figures as being real entities. Yes fairies, leprechauns, gargoyles, mermaids all populated as tales of a mental hallucination. Many a writer still experiments with these forms. The most intense desire of a writer is he or she would love to be read. A writer has to be an eccentric person. He has to portray customs and conventions in a bizarre manner. Sometimes writing is gun waiting to explode. Sometimes writing is a suicide of the pen. Sometimes writing has to resurrect with new forms. Writing is the passion of the pen. Writing is art divine. Writing is a magical formula. Writing is poetry that changes a landscape. Writing is muse that writes in the rhythm of Jazz. Writing is a monument as beautiful as the Tajmahal. Writing sometimes can be a diabolic symbol. Writing is Atlas carrying the earth in agony. Writing is a fruit that has grown from the seed. Writing is a new way expressing love for our creator. Writing is the excavation of the past. Writing is a sculpture resembling Rodin’s Thinker. Writing is an art of the danseuse. Writing is a lit cigarette blowing rings of smoke. Writing is the passion of the heart. Writing is an eclipse of the sun and the moon. Writing is the tides of the ocean. Writing is pleasant music for the ear. Writing is a symphony of music. Writing is a sweet that is good to taste. Writing should transform and motivate the mind. I write by invoking Hallelujah. Yes, Hallelujah is my password for writing. While writing I feel closer to God. I can feel his presence, his grace, his mercy and favor. Sometimes I write with a repentant heart. Sometimes I write out of angst and anxiety. Sometimes an experience is transformed into a fable. Writing is a quixotic pen. Cervantes in all his madness has portrayed man to be a torrent of struggling nature and who surprisingly balances reality with fantasy. Cervantes broke away from religion and fictionalized man’s being into an oasis of fiction. Borges is another all time favorites. From him I have discovered the writing of the whimsical script. He is a bard of pregnant prose. I have discovered a lot from the existential philosophers like Camus and Sartre. Being is epitomized has the heart of existence. Character is the resonance of the soul. Angst is carried in the well of the mind. Man’s character is hypnotized into tragic and stoic and paradoxically linked with triumph. My writing carries the colonial gift of the language and the pen. I am now writing post-coloniality as my own invention. My enemy is always lurking behind me. He is Dyer of the Jalllianwala Massacre. Yes, I have to free myself from the grips of colonial fangs. Freedom of being free, how much I relish it. My writing forms the canon of postcolonial literature. Why did the colonizers teach English? It is because they wanted a bunch of administrators. Indian writing in English is slowly freeing itself from that of a colonial consciousness. On the other hand the irony of it is, if I hadn’t learnt English, It would have been a big loss. I wonder as a writer what it is to be situated in a culture that is oriental and what it is to be a part of occidental culture. I consider myself a hybrid of both these cultures. The orient is my wife and the occident is my husband. I blend them with eclectic fusion. I am an Indian who loves the Gospel, Jazz, Rock and Blues. I am a writer who is fond of western thinkers like Camus, Sartre, Derrida and Foucault. I am a Christian with liberal theology. I am a writer who loves to travel and explore cultures. Sometimes I wonder what it is to be a writer. Writing won’t end till I die. I love to wander to places and I also love to be in touch with sights, smells and experiences. Writing is a poetry of prose a magic that supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Writing is a beauty that will never fade. Writing is the will of staying firm when there are temptations and troubles in life. Writing is the ethereal, cosmic gift of God.
Today was a crawling day. I didn’t have many classes and I was able to rest a lot. I was creating fantasies of writers that I have read. I saw poems floating in the sky. The sky had an angelic color. I was at peace with myself.
I am taking Lottery Tickets but luck fails me. After a winning streak the tables are down.
I sometimes wonder what’s my purpose in life. It is said in the Bible: the less you have of yourself, the greater will God be present in your life. I ask God to take me through these lean months. I have asked God for a large bounty as a windfall. I keep my fingers crossed in faith. Yes Jehovah Jireh will provide for all my needs.
I think of fondly of Camus, the writer of existential nihilism. Through him I have a developed an ideal philosophy of ontological being as being a purposist (purpose) and valueablist (valuable). For Camus being was Camutic (chaos and anarchy). However I agree with him that an individual must authenticate existence. Sad to say Camus died in a tragic car crash. There are speculative rumors that the crash was engineered by the KGB. KGB guys attached something sophisticated so that the car will sever from the road and hit a tree. An unfinished manuscript of a novel was also found at the crash site.
I admire Paris as being the mental opera and out of it French Philosophers and Novelists have added a lot of fodder for my brain.
I admire Kafka a lot. I ponder a lot on his metamorphoses of Gregor Samsa into a gigantic insect. The fable—metamorphosis is lit with existential irony. We all need myths and fables to make our life interesting. Kafka was a voyeur of existential myths.
I often think of James Joyce my favorite writer. He is an adept in writing in streams of consciousness. The Ulysses is an epic of one day in a person’s life. The protagonist, a fictional self of Joyce, is named as Stephen Daedalus. He is an iconoclast who has defied Ireland and Catholicism and wrote a master piece— Ulysses, embracing Greek Hellenism.
I think of Salman Rushdie whose novel I have started reading. It is a fable lit with magic realism.
How to develop a style of writing that’s unique? I don’t know the answer. I put my thoughts in my pen and make it a point to lead it the way the mind works. I have also started writing for God—Jehovah Jesus. My novel is kaleidoscope of many salmagundis. Sometimes my pen is a poetic flower, sometimes a carving of inveterate irony, sometimes an awake muse, sometimes a theater of conflict. I like to sculpt words of prose. Yes Schopenhauer said that all art should aspire to the condition of music. The Philosopher Nietzsche has said that art is the fusion of the Dionysian and the Apollonian elements. Apollonian means melody and Dionysian is rhythm and beat. My novels contain philosophical ideas, tales and small vignettes. What do I get out of writing? All my pent up feelings get released. Writing is the libido of the mind, the ego of passion and catharsis of the superego. I write for the sake of writing.
The day a slow waltz and I enjoyed the comfort of a holiday by being a couch potato. In the evening I was happy to read the parables of Jesus and I thought that I will write something about it.
Parable of the Seed
In this parable, the farmer sowed seeds on the road and the birds came and ate it up. There’s a spiritual and secular meaning to this parable. Now what it is? In a secular sense it means being very lazy. In a religious sense it is not being able to understand the work of God’s Kingdom. Again the parable says that the farmer sowed the seeds on gravel. It refers to people who accept the word but choose to ignore it. In a secular sense these are people who are plunged with self-pity and blame others as scapegoats. Then again the parable goes as the farmer planting the seed on weeds. The weeds choke up the seeds and they don’t flourish. These are people who rubbish off God’s Word. Such people are prone to profligacy and negate God’s Word. As a secular meaning, it means those type of people are wicked, corrupt and immoral. Then the farmer sows the seed on good ground and there it grows very well. These are people who listen to God’s Word and obey it. As a secular meaning, it refers to those who work hard and are successful.
Again Jesus goes on with another parable. In this parable a master has got farm hands who plant seeds. Later on in the night, the enemy comes and sows thistles. When the farm hands got to know of this, they asked the farmer what should be done. He replied that when the harvest comes, the thistles can be pulled out and the grain be harvested. The spiritual meaning is this: only those who are chosen will be able to enter the kingdom of heaven. In a secular sense it means facing all obstacles bravely.
The sun was a melody of music. Tales floated in the sky with mystic silence. Colors of the sun spread a mystic halo. I thank Jehovah Jesus for all the blessings given. The sky wrote with crayons, a tranquil dream. Life to me became a dream of passion.
I think about myself as a fictional self and a real self. The real self is a teacher teaching English in high school. The fictional self is a writer with the passion to write. Sometimes the fictional self is abounding with dialectical narcissism. Sometimes the fictional self is a passionate monument of memory. Time becomes an inner architecture releasing a manifold into letters of prose. Is writing a whimsical flower, or a stoic spear or an Epicurean indulgence? I don’t know. The consciousness of the writer blooms into a lettering of flowers. What is the consciousness of a writer? A writer is a very flexible person immersed in the garden of prose. Writing is a game of letters and words. The writer’s consciousness is brought out through streams of consciousness. Writing is an art of a cubist painting, a calypso of thought submerged in the sea of letters. As a cubist painting, writing takes on narrative shifts in time, and then it experiments with fiction caught up in the web of prose. Writing makes the heart filled with gratitude. Irony flows like a stream in disguise. Meaning slips into thoughts. The words are in a garden of veils. Writing is the canopy of trees. Plato practiced virtue in writing, so too the zealous Christians. After the end of writing, a shy writer like me, examines the body and smiles with irony. Oh what have I done? The architecture of writing is fanciful and whimsical. Writing can be fantastical too. So are the writers of magic realism. There is a writing of combining dreams with reality. Derrida has said: ‘to write is to have the passion of origin.’ Writing is a bizarre soliloquy of fetish, an overbearing waltz of a contaminated self in exaltation of narcissism. Writing is the discovery of the self. Writing is God like tabernacle made to be worshiped. Writing is poetic music. Writing is made for the deity—God to be glorified. Writing is phantasmagoria. Words are shallow streams. Who’s is the writer’s higher-self? Karl Gustav Jung had a higher self called Philemon. Writing is an art of connecting with your higher self. Consciousness is a broken personality of many fragments. Writing is an art of fondling a guitar. Writing is a therapeutic messiah. For a writer time is folded into a sculpture of the present, past and future. Writing as a cubist painting becomes convoluted prose, meandering Picasso-edges, a stream of Dali’s eye and an egg born through the prism of the pen. Isn’t that magic realism? Writing is also very Quixotic. The writer aims to shake the windmills of the mind. Every full stop is death and every new sentence is a beginning.
I met her in college when I was doing my graduation. At first we went on days and months smiling at each other. Finally I mustered the courage to speak. She came from a remote island in India and her name was Sheeba. We fell in love with each other. She was the most beautiful girl in college. One week-end she suggested that we go out and I was thrilled. We stood near the door while we were traveling. We sweet-talked with each other. After the train came to a halt, she suggested that we go for a movie. I replied yes. While the movie was going on, she offered me her hands and I fondled her palms. Her skin was so soft and smooth. I felt a passionate awakening. After that we used to go out every week end. Kissing her was as beautiful as honey. I got to fondle her shapely breasts. How I loved her. When the college got over she went back. And then I said, I will meet her there. But by the time she came to Kerala and told me to cancel the ticket. I did not! When she came back, she refused to talk to me. I felt sad and pained at her silence. She could have said to me that she was not interested. Disappointed and wearied I caught the next flight to home. I have tried searching for her on the internet, especially at Face book. But my search came to no avail. Then someone told me that she died in an accident. I feel sad and I hope I will be able to meet her in heaven. I wonder why she treated me so cruelly. What have I done to deserve her hatred? I wonder why the world as so unkind to me. I even took her to my parents and they willingly accepted her. Sometimes she visits me in her dreams. Where ever you are, may your soul rest in peace.
Morn was a tranquil dream. I watched the sun casting shadows with tremulous excitement. Fairies floated in the sky with magnificent luminous delight. I praise God Jehovah Jesus for all blessings given.
I stopped reading the Old Testament and started reading the Gospel of Mathew. The narrative is profoundly moving. The mysteries of the Bible are profound and deeply moving. I am subduing my will and asking God about his will in my life. It’s a wonder to me as to why the Jews could not accept Jesus as their savior. But today it’s a different scene. There are hordes of Messianic Jews. And that makes a difference. I was reading the story of the woman who had issues of blood, who touched the robes of Jesus and was completely healed. How moving is her childlike faith. I always ponder on the mystery of the Trinity, yes it’s quite esoteric.
The monsoon has started in Kerala and yet the rainfall has been very scanty. I hope that God won’t give a water scarcity. I remember the days when I used to make paper boats and send it through the stream. Monsoon has been a chorus of joy. Monsoon has been a poetic epiphany.
I have also started reading Salman Rushdie’s Midnight Children. The novel starts with the protagonist Saleem Sinai born at midnight 12 and strangely it is the time when India got its independence. Then the novel shifts to the past and he does a detailed narrative about Sinai’s grandfather Adam Azees.
Every day, I teach something new to the children. It could be a word or a grammatical thing. I enjoy it much now.
I spent time on the evening quietly meditating on the art of sunset. Sunset is clad with a myriad of colors—orange, pink, red and golden. They make a beautiful music, a solitary poem. The rhythm of colors in the sky forms a passionate music. God Jehovah Jesus had blessed me to appreciate the nuances of nature, the gentle, silent rhythm of poetry, the transmogrification to a soul of love. The travelers in the sky are dancing in pulchritude. Their rhythms are beauty so sweet.
I had an anxiety disorder. I am praying to God to get me rid of it. The Devil was hacking my brain severely and now I have the sweet balm of Jesus to heal it. Thank God Jehovah Jesus, I have got cured from insomnia.
I am fascinated by the way post-modern fiction is written. There are temporal shifts in time, extreme irony, and use of tropes, unreliable narrator and inter-textuality. All my works in fiction has been experimental. Yes, I am slowly getting readers to read about my work.
I had trouble falling asleep. This happens when I venture into sin especially while reading astrology. I have asked God Jehovah Jesus for forgiveness.
I had a strange prophetic dream. In the dream, I am living in Indonesia and I am in a Hotel. As I was about to pay the Bill, the cashier is not accepting my money and he is demanding a lump sum. Is this dream a warning that I should not go to Indonesia. The dream was so clear that I assume it is God Divine.
I had fun teaching 9th graders and 10th Graders. I taught them both History and Geography. In History I started Renaissance with the Nine Graders and World War 1 with the 10th Graders. It was a lot of fun I make them think of History from different sources. Teaching Geography was also mind blowing. I am teaching the 10th Contour Maps and the children were able to grasp the intellectual concepts. For grade nine I did earth as a unique planet.