Melancholic Epistle

A Melancholic Epistle

I don’t know why I am writing this epistle. My being is plagued with the sadness of the heart. Stones weep and pillars cry. Emotion is like a knife piercing the artery. My family has become a cold shoulder. Nature itself speaks the solitude of sadness. Winter has settled in the body. Angst after angst, when will the captain of my ship give me a burden that I can bear. Fortune has hit the flesh and has battered and bruised it. I am Job’s shadow personality. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Can I have the doors of a window to help me? Can I have the patience to bear my sorrow? When will I be rid of doubt? When will Grace and Mercy be a part of my heart? When will all prayers be answered? When will my marrow of doubt and indecision be removed? Commonsense is rude jester playing a cruel joke. I am worrying about being helpless. When will life be smooth for me? Faith, redeem me into your oasis. Yes I live with the hope that tomorrow will be a better day. The junk of daylight cripples me. The tatterdemalion of night stands as my obstruction. Eternity with God, don’t be curfew of the darkest night. Philosophies of the world offer me no solace. Sometimes I doubt about my worldview. When can I live without being sad? When will hope live its fondest dream in me? When will character recognize the art in me? When can I understand the esoteric mystery of heaven? Oh God, grant me the solitude to take one day at a time. Teach me your patience and your virtues. Oh God Jehovah Jesus let worry not plague my life in the days to come. Be easy on my heart. Cheer my heart with a new horizon of faith away from the dark clouds of skepticism. Though know my being perfectly, the inner man in me. Make me and mould me according to your will. Drain my angst out of my shrunken body. Freeze my daylight worries. Shrink my fear of being alone in a desolate night. Dear God Jehovah Jesus, let me wake up with a new heart.

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Assorted Drabble

The Prostitutes
This happened a long time ago. I and my Karate master went visiting to the beach. My pockets in which I had kept money got wet. And then we put the cash we had, outside to dry. Immediately a flock of prostitutes came to us and started a fierce solicitation. We had a hard time driving them away.

Ham Country
Ham country was a peaceful democracy. The majority of the people there are idol worshipers. Then there are minorities like the followers of the BOOK and followers of the prophet. Many a time the idolaters have persecuted the followers of the BOOK and followers of the Prophet. Now the idol worshipers have won an election that was rigged. Some followers of the book are paraded naked for preaching the WORD and some followers of the Prophet were torched alive in a train. Now the idolaters want to change the constitution of HAM and want make into a religious country. The fate of the followers of the BOOK and the Prophet are in jeopardy.

Hobby
I am an avid visitor of various countries in various continents. The only irony is that I use a finger and visit each country on a Globe. Quite a whimsical fancy I have.


She

She was my colleague in Indonesia. She was eager to sell an old computer to me. I like a fool became tempted and I had to pay through the nose. Matters didn’t end there. She invited me to her house for dinner. When I came her husband left. We talked for hours and then she took me to her bedroom and put her hands in mine. I still didn’t understand that she wanted to lie with me and do poetry.

July 20th 2019

Today the clouds were angry, wet and sullen ….Day remained austere …clouds were pouring sentimental poems.
Lots of thoughts are crowding mind all fragmented. It is not my real self that is writing but a fictional self. What is the fictional self? Politically speaking, it’s the voice of post-colonial literature. Culturally speaking it embraces the liberal theology of Christianity and the moorings of occidental culture. Autobiographically speaking, it is a fragmented self with its desire to live in Bali, the enchanting island of Indonesia. The self is a fictional bard of sharing romance and passion. The fictional self tries to interpret Biblical Literature. The fictional self is fond of the clove cigarettes of Indonesia. It is also fond of roast duck (bebek), sambal (a mixture of lime, shallot and chilies) and grilled fish (ikan). The fictional love is fond of giving love and sharing love. It’s an escapist fanatic filled with wanderlust for places. Yes, the sights, smells and colors of exotic places like Bali fascinate the self. The fictional self is the mirror of existence. It is a passion of the soul, a delicacy recipe. Time moves in a dream as a slow wandering pace. I am fond of Jazz, Gospel and rock music. Time is flowing in the art of streams of consciousness. Yes, the writer James Joyce was a master of it. The writer Salman Rushdie transforms historical events into fiction into an ambiguous fictional language. I am a writer passionately seeking the art of transforming fiction into and epitome of pure art. Words dance colors, play music of sounds, and be a recipe of smells. Writing is a curious and enigmatic process of inter-textuality. Writing makes cultures into the exotic. Words are muses playing with fire. Words are mermaids singing in the ocean depths. Words are bards wandering across the earth. Words are the romance of the earth. Words are the halo of angels singing. Autobiography is the mirror of existence. Passion flows as river from the passionate pen.

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.

Prayer in One’s Life

Prayer in One’s Life

While reading the Gospels, I encountered many a time Jesus taking time to pray. After addressing the multitudes, he used to go to the mountain to pray. He also taught the disciples to pray. How do we pray? First of all we have to give all honor, glory and worship to God. With prayer God opens his wings of favor, compassion and grace. With prayer we receive the gifts of God. Doors are which are closed open. Prayer is a window to healing. Prayer is a veil for protections. Prayer is the abundant receiving of God’s grace. Prayer also gives comfort to those who are coping loss of a loved one. Prayer is the gift of the Holy Spirit

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.

Collective Unconscious and Christianity

Mandala

Jung the famous Swizz psychiatrist introduced what is known as the collective unconscious. For Jung, it was repository of psychic symbolism common to all of humanity. Jung has used the symbolism of the Mandala as an example. But Mandala belongs to Pagan religions and could be a satanic talisman. What I would like to say is God—Jehovah—Jesus is the reservoir of the collective unconscious and he has skillfully created Adam in his own likeness. The collective unconscious is the consciousness which we share with God.