Nov 15th 2019

I savored the beauty of the sunrise with a mystic passion. I heard the chirps and tweets of birds singing a fond lullaby.

I took an English Class for the 8th graders, the story being 6 Napoleons by Sherlock Holmes. I am not a big fan of pulp fiction, but I enjoyed the plotting of the story. Conan Doyle is a master of storytelling. In the story we find the busts of Napoleons being broken to rubble. Then we come to understand that it is the work of an escaped convict who had placed a priceless pearl in one of those busts. Sherlock Holmes discovers that the 6th Napoleon is to be burgled and makes a plan to catch the intruder. The robber is caught and Holmes smashes the head of the bust to recover the valuable pearl.

I read the Bible and in it the Story of Moses. Moses was born at a time when the Pharaoh persecuted the Jews and ordered that all the male children be beheaded. When Moses was a baby, his mother put him in a reed basket and placed him in the Nile. When the Pharaoh’s daughter saw the basket, she asked her maid to fetch it. She adopted the baby as her own son. The mother of Moses was called to look after her own son. When Moses was a young man, he saw an Egyptian hitting a Jew and then in a fit of anger, he killed him. When the Pharaoh found it out, Moses had to flee to Midian. There he married a Priest’s Daughter.

Nov 14th 2019

Frills of tweets woke me up to a pleasant day. The day passed on without anything much happening in my life.

I am having no luck with windfalls after all the prayers I have made.
I have started reading Kierkegaard’s Philosophical Fragments, but I have reached only its preface.

I have coined some metonymies

A congregation of Pens met at the resort. A Pen was crowned as the monarch of writing. The fruit of democracy is love, peace and joy. The head resigned and the others followed. Many mouths of the organization spoiled it. The herd grazed in Green pastures. The flock swam as a poem in the sky. The muse is writing poetry. A chorus started howling. Oh Pen, yield thy art to me. The cards played a game of Rummy. The cup drank a lot of whisky. His body was covered with wool. Time moved on dials. She wore the ornament of beauty. The honey he carried in his purse is new. The bum roared with ecstasy. The flower palace blossomed with many hues. Feathers plucked the guitar. Devil is a serpent of all lies. I played on her fan and drove her to ecstasy. A dramaturge cheered the sky. Heaven’s persona: you are wonderful in my sight. Her body is a mystical island. His words were a tasty tongue. The soul is the music of emotion. Love is a soaring bird. I have tried to woo a tulip but it did not yield. Life has gone out of the body. The biceps are doing a workout.

Nov 13th 2019

Today was a free day as the kids were practicing for the school anniversary. I did a book review on Rushdie’s Midnight Children. Though eminently nominated for the Booker Prize, the writing is shallow and having no depth. The writer up-plays his ego and subjectivises India’s attainment of Independence.

I was reading the story of Jacob in the Old Testament. There are four phases in Jacob’s life, one, the up-phase, then a middle phase and then a down phase followed by celebration and happiness. We find that Jacob stole his brother’s birth right and had to flee home to escape the wrath of his brother. He came to rest in Laban’s home, his uncle’s quarters. He had to work for 14 years to get married to Leah and Rachael. Later on we find that his son Joseph was proclaimed as dead by the treacherous brothers who sold Joseph to the Egyptians. After Joseph interpreting the dream of the Pharaoh, Joseph was elevated to the hierarchy of a minister in Pharaoh’s court. When the famine struck, the brothers came to Egypt to procure food. Then we find Joseph reuniting with his brothers and his father. The end of the story is a happy one. It is provident for us if God blesses us like Jacob.

Nov 11th 2019

Nothing much happened in my life today. It was a lethargic day. I spent my time introspecting.
I have not been very successful in my life. But I try to make use of all opportunities that God Jehovah Jesus has given. I have a contented heart with no regrets. Life has not been a smooth sailing ship, but I am elated about all the blessings that God Jehovah Jesus has given.
I sincerely want to perfect the art of writing and I have asked God Jehovah Jesus’ help for it. I am asking the question whether I have weaned from infancy of writing to a professionalism of a skilled writer, an artist primarily.
Writing collects the bits and fragments accumulated in the Ego. My body has not been a perfect one and many a time I have sinned with it. I have always asked God’s forgiveness. I sometimes wonder why God does not answer prayers. I am nobody to question God’s will. God’s timing is a perfect one and I wait eagerly for it.
Oh Pen Yield thy ART to me. Is it right to say that Novel is ART or art the Novel? Who cares? How to transcend writing and make it unique as the avant garde is the writer’s real challenge. A writer has to recreate his or her world in new beginnings.

Nov 10th 2019

I woke at 6 early morning; had coffee and spent a lot of time in bed. I am reading Midnight’s Children by Rushdie. The story is written the style of magic realism and was a Booker Winner. The narratives are shifting constantly and the prose is very fragmented.

Day before yesterday while napping in the afternoon …I was woken from sleep by an exotic, rich smell of jasmine. I became surprised as to where the smell is coming from. No one had sprayed perfume in the room. Then I realized it was the Holy Ghost. I gave all praise, honor and glory to him and I thanked him for visiting me. I have never had such an experience in my life. I remember the verse in the Bible: ‘the reed which is broken: I will not break: the lamp which is flickering: I will not extinguish’.

Once again I have stopped reading astrological columns. Reading them give me trouble with sleep. More than that they were a pack of lies. I am happy to quit liars.

I have asked the Holy Spirit for some wishes and I thank him in advance that he will satisfy them according to his right time.

Today I had tete a tete with my uncle. He said awesomely that the self is not an individualist freaking machine but the self is a gift of offering to others, manly to God and the family. This in stark contrast to Sartre’s individualized existential self, or the being for itself.

Nov 7th 2019

Morning wriggled like a clown showing off. I had to take literature for 8th graders. The story revolved around an elder boy and his brother leading a hostel life. The author of the story was Premchand. The story had no punch line and spoke only at a mundane level of cognizing personality. The elder brother is domineering and he uses caustic remarks to rub shoulders with his younger brother. The younger brother is brilliant and gets a very high grade but the eldest brother fails in the exam. There is no denouement for the play. In the last section of the story we find the younger brother playing with street urchins and the elder brother chiding him for it. He also comments that knowledge alone won’t make character. It is quite a lack luster story. I used some jokes to make the class lively.

Nov 6th 2019

Morning was a sound of music in colors and a chorus of birds in poetry. I thought about my relationship with God—Jehovah Jesus. II am like a dog, loving its master and that’s my relationship with him.

I pondered on my Ego State with God Jesus Jehovah.
I— IN
God –Out
I—out
God— in
I take up the second ego state.

I thought about the self and the meaning of the self to be in the nature of writing. A writer is an artist with an aesthetic function to fulfill. Watching nature is a great impetus for writing. I love watching the whispering brook, the colors of the rainbow, the blossom of a flower, the roaring of thunder, the poetry of rain falling; all these are subtle rhythms of nature and they have to manifest in writing. Here it’s raining now and I am reminded of rain’s rhythm as blues and jazz. Writing is an orchid, flowering in the soul garden of love.
I have come to a point where I have bridged the gap between the fictional self and the real self. Both are a gentle cosmos of the many women I have loved, of having smoked clove cigarettes, of having Indonesian grilled fish, of aesmic writing of writing a fiction of within a fiction.

Writing is the art of the kunstlerroman, an aesthetic development of the writer’s autobiography. In this fin de siècle age, a writer’s pen should be stamped with the authority of the avant- garde.

Life of a writer is throwing caution to the wind and tasting the pleasures of an Epicurean cuisine. Writing is a melody and rhythm of language. What the Philosopher Nietzsche says about art is so true. Art is the synchronization of the Dionysian and Apollonian, the Dionysian being the beat and rhythm and the Apollonian being melody and harmony.

A Pen should blossom flowers; a pen should make souls free; a pen should tune the lyric of nature to music of words; a pen should sketch a character’s personal; a pen is an opera dancing in the celestial rhythms of music; a pen should frolic in the caricature of a soul’s persona.
The Philosophy of Nihilism—the theater of the absurd is the negation of life. But all life is creative and cathartic. Life can be made creative, precious, blissful, and harmonious. And that’s a philosophy of post-modern existentialism. Life is Eros, Creative, Cathartic and Blissful. Life can be lived in aesthononsciouness (aesthetics and consciousness).

I have been taking many lottery tickets but the veil of death encompasses the results. I want to gratify the little desires of my heart. I wonder why I am having no luck. I hope to have a Cinderella’s shoe of luck.

Writing is a great state of contentment. It is not that the self-knows-it-all. Writing is a shock-absorber balancing the resolved and the unresolved issues of the Ego. Writing is a therapy for the soul. A writer laments stoically and also celebrates life with Epicurean vigor.

From a novice-writer, I have emerged as a writer with clarity of vision and surety of content. Writing is the putting the self to art. Sometimes my writing is interspersed with fancy and whimsicality.
I think as a writer you have to be an alter-ego of many writers. Joyce, Kafka, Sartre, Nietzsche, Derrida, Foucault and Eliot—all of them have entered my mind with voracious appetite. I have learned to free myself and construct independent thoughts.