Last Post Date Art Blogs (253)

They came to my house with two books. I thought they were giving it for free. Then they said the books cost 200 Rupees. They asked please help them to have lunch. To my irony I didn’t have a single paisa in my pocket. I told them that, they went away angrily without believing me. I thought of celebrity evangelists and I thought of them. All beg in the name of Christianity. When I was having a good job, I was liberal with my money and I used to dish out hefty sums for Christian work. Now I am penny less. ‘Christ’ you are an irony for my purse. I have stopped worshiping Christ and now I follow the path of Mammon. Christ himself has said you are free to worship me or Mammon. I think ironically of Christ’s saying ‘what gain is there if you gain the whole world and yet lose your soul’. Rabbi: I haven’t gained the world. I think it is better to sell my soul to Lucifer. Yes, I long for riches, money, women and fame.

My body is corpse of rotten flowers –my soul an angst ridden Sisyphus—Where’s warmth of a woman gone? When can I smell sweet Jasmine on your hair? When can I caress your hair with trembling fingers—your lips are sweet wine—When can I immerse on them—I long to plant loving kisses on you—When can I kiss the vermilion on your forehead, the sign that you have a husband. Adultery is the passion of poetry. When can I fondle your mounts of Venus, suckle your nipples like a child. I am fond of lesbian voyeuristic sex. How playful are they when they fondle their erotic breasts…How adorable are they when they sodomize themselves with their tongues…oh how I love to hear them moan in ecstasy.

No or little direct eye contact is a classic sign of deception.
A person who is lying to you will do everything to avoid
making eye contact. Unconsciously he feels you will be able
to see through him—via his eyes. And feeling guilty, he
doesn't want to face you. Instead he will glance down or his
eyes may dart from side to side. Conversely, when we tell
the truth or we're offended by a false accusation, we tend
to give our full focus and have fixed concentration. We lock
eyes with our accuser as if to say "You're not getting away
until we get to the bottom of this."

I happened to read the story since I had to teach it to eight graders. The story belongs to the genre of the Gothic Vintage. The protagonist of the story becomes obsessed with the killing of an old man. The whole story revolves around his pathological mania for killing. The reason for killing is psycho-analytically revealed in the story. The old man has an eye that resembles that of a vulture. The evil eye is haunting the protagonist. The wealth or possessions of the man like Gold does not interest the protagonist. He visits the old man’s house several times in the night and goes through the ecstasy of the thought of butchery. And finally one night he accomplishes the mission. He decapitates the body and buries it in the wooden planks that make the floor of the house. Then Poe brings in the cops who come to house on the pretext of having heard a shriek. The protagonist at first manages to maintain his composure but in the end looses it and spills the beans to the cops that he has liquidated the old man. It’s true that Poe has been characterized as a mad genius and as a tormented artist. The protagonist is suffering from narcissistic, psychotic melancholia. The narcissism is an obsession directed with quirk of violence that shifts the mind from reason to that of passion. The protagonist is going through an intense psychotic phase of psychosis where he is not able to distinguish murder as something diabolic and goes against the Super Ego, the laws of the society. Melancholia is pining for an object that cannot be obtained. Here it becomes a phantasmagoria, the vulture-eye of the old man. The psychotic character is unable to distinguish between fiction and reality. He does not want to take responsibility of the crime and willingly surrenders himself to the police. The psychological build up of psychotic anxiety is a super rendition of art.

I had lovely time last night

seeing Tosca for the frist time,

I just love the villain Scarpia..

You dont love some one for their looks or their clothes or for their
fancy car but because thay thay sing a song only you can hear..

The drought brought forth cracks in my soil
As the seeds, carefully sown await
Under a black and white sky
I call the clouds to me as if I was their master

With gentle words like rain, he tends to me
Until the life in me awakens, in pale greens and yellows
New life growing outside of me links earth to sky

He is not a farmer who works the land
He is a steward of my fertile fields
Encouraging life in my land’s empty furrows, waiting
For his same tender hands to cultivate and harvest the best of me

Dusk
The splendor of the sky dazzled as an ornament. The sky, a golden furnace, robes of orange, mystic flames of purple all serenaded me like a catharsis. Angels on wings danced in the pulchritude of delight. Time has become a frozen dream of music. Evening is a tranquil lullaby, a poetic sonata of love. I watch the sun go into its hive. Dark has become a mourning night.

Dream
Had a strange dream—in this dream, a black cat was hissing at me; it was only a kitten. Looked at dream interpretations and it said: ‘I am afraid of my own intuition’. I am not fully convinced by the interpretation.

Illuminati
I joined the fraternity of the Illuminati today. Feel happy as a new born flower.

Herd on the raido that Hugh Masekela have pasted away..

This news was like apart of my world is no more..

It was a very hot after-noon sitting in a Breadfruit tree when I of Hugh Masekela for the frist time

His music from then have always stayed with me..

I think this might be his frist Lp coming out os South Africa..