July 18th 2019

July 18, 2019
Morning queued itself as an epic poem. The muses serenaded with poetic whim. I feel so grateful to God—Jehovah for giving me a blessed life.

While reading the gospel: I came across the incident where the disciples were on a boat and then the tempests raged. Then they cried out to Jesus: Master Save us. Then Jesus walked on water and calmed the storm. He said to them: you are of little faith. Little Faith as an idiom means having not having the faith and innocent trust in God. Even though I am a believer, sometimes I am of little faith.

I am very fond of the Romantic Movement. Wordsworth defines it as the spontaneous overflow of feeling. It means implanting a rich plethora into animate and inanimate things. I am forced to live a life of romantic ecstasy. Yes in romanticism brooks murmur, rivers flow in speech, the mountain breathes a passion, thunder roars in anger, poets float in the sky, waves frolic in passion, winds kiss in noisy breath, lovers pour passion on the bed and so on.

I am also fascinated by Ezra Pound’s imagism. Pound has defined Imagism as an ‘intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time’. Poems transform themselves into profound images. Let’s look at some examples. Morning wore a doctor’s stethoscope. He lay on the bed covered with maggots. Gray christened into a loud shout. Poems wore images of dusk. Passions raged from the ring of fire. Romance sung a duet in the sky. His anger was as cloudy as the sky. Beautiful poems blossomed in the garden. The landscape lay trembling with an echo. Stones breathe in whispers. The lovers kissed like a musical garden. The tomb was covered with desolate grass. Beauty, you are the charm of the soul. Poetry is a rich tapestry of meaning. Ecstasy is a ripe fruit. Dogs do omen howls. Peace is a dove released from the earth. The seed is meaning of life and the fruit the rich harvest of life. The spring mimics a metaphor. Irony is an empty wallet. Sounds bark, and colors grimace. I am not impressed with your metallic phrases. The mountains are chanting fire.

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July 15th 2019

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.