Zen Buddhist under the shadows of the trinity

Tony Dezongpa sitting on a mount and sermonising.

“The God exists in his awesome wholeness”

“None there is pride or earthiness”

“The God is mind and there evolves with God, mind in unison with million minds”

“Yes! million minds contained in a single mind”.

As Tony finished with his daily sermon he fell in the doubt as usual what if the God is trinity”

He so far never believed in the idea of Trinity but after reading Freud he has come under the impression it is sexual desire that dominates the world of the psyche and if there is a sexual desire there must be a relentless wish to coexist with the Holy Spirit.

So far Tony was mum but on being prodded by the listener to sermonise on the beautiful angels of the God who would never surrender to any whim of the soul, Tony erupts into a sudden burst of nonsense and said something gibberish.

There exists in the east a consolation that God after all is not a mere spirit but spiritual symphony to be sung in the praise of the Lord unlike the Church it is done out of daily memorising of the scriptures. The west is with the drive for life, the drive that affirms God exists not as a ritual but more so as a thought.

Tony wished he could analyse the psyche of his sister whom he had considered at a disfavour with the God. However intelligent the soul is, it would do her no purpose until it fathoms the name of the God. The trinity had begun to haunt him but he would keep it to himself.

You cannot endlessly theorise about God, it must end somewhere and where it ends thought Tony, it begins a new cycle as if birth and death are done into a cycle by the Lord hardly caring for the fate of the soul. In Christianity there is no rebirth but then thought Tony there might be that the trinity exists not for the founder of the religion but the followers who meditated on the name of God In the Himalayas.


For the writer to tame the whiskey on ice and fire within

Whiskey and for some wish-key, is no doubt a refuge for the writer to douse his inner flame with a little bit ice in it and forget the tidings of literary bent of mind. Further eroding the confidence or may be gaining the confidence to face the world and the blank paper with a square eye.

Pour a little Bacardi for the devil to relax and spread its tentacles for another busy but idle haul at gathering literary wealth in the midst of bleary winter or sweaty summer as might the season be, whiskey is a cure for all the writer based ills like lack of ideas, lack of recognition, a skewed sense of belonging or utter faceless feeling with years gathering in heap and dwindling life span in which to attain Nirvana or fame as it could be called. The established writers might chime in whiskey as the source of fun to be had while getting on flings with ideas but for the unestablished it is cure before ending as an nymphomaniac in writing unsolicited writings for the papers and literary magazines.

But the real catcall is how to drink like a writer? Slow is beautiful as you pace your drinking with evening and scurrying in morning before sitting in front of a ruthless typewriter, half besotted with hangover. There could be an ultimate solace in whiskey if a woman might fail in becoming the president of the united states there is a little comfort in knowing that you only failed to seek publication of one poem. The whiskey is the key as it builds the real DNA for the literati to take you seriously.

Comfort killer, really the aroma of whiskey is, equally decimating is its influence on the body which might indulge you to be a little health conscious while you burn hours writing charming or not so charming stuff. Still staying healthy while drinking and writing for the merciless audience should be the goal.

In the end in a battle between David and Goliath its the Goliath in you who soars as you taste the whiskey again and again ad infinitum while David relaxes ad infinitum in making a better writer.


Romancing the search engines as neurotic

Though bound by instinctual and economic needs we could outgrow search engines to fancy all the artistic or philosophical competency we have. The search engines care for what is prevalent thought through out the history that you could write a moving prose about eighteenth or nineteenth century and could receive a pat on the shoulders from search engines.

What to care about is what is my mastery? The mastery alone entitles love from the fairer sex. The women tend to fall for the men who are masters of some technical or artistic ability and more so if they could turn out to be the masters of their own destiny. So in a way search engines and women could be clubbed together subsuming the classification of species. So search engine is a species that don’t have mind of their own  but could crawl on the mind of others. Some would demand SEO as visionary or a field respectful of mastery but that is not the case, You cannot optimise search engine though your optimised content could meet a death wish from the search engines.

Are the search engines maniac depressive that they drive the content that is overtly pleasing and optimistic in nature to the top? It seems so. The works of great philosophers though might have been rendered fashion less in the current epoch could be cast away as unwanted by the search engines because search engines want to evince a response from the society that is more affirming with the current norms.

So are we in favour for the SEO being reclassified as it looses the value it affords to the content and the content might be fresh and creative. Either the content is fresh or creative, the fresh content is what’s happening in the tone of twitter while creative is what depends upon the whims of the audience as they might choose what pleases them as the writer is not established or the creative content is obscure.

As Freud went about curing the neurosis of mind that search engines are creating the neurosis of mind as they happen to shape the consciousness of man in more ways than one and when the consciousness comes in contact with reality as being held by the audience, it suffers from neurosis.

Last tango in Cairo leaves speechless blues behind

Tango is for the two bodies in close proximity swaying to the beat of the drum or music which is affordable for the occasion. It is a sign of liberation, liberation from the social strata. It is essentially an expression for freedom; freedom from oppression as discovered by the black America and to top it with the mood of artistic expression comes the music of the blues. Recently Cairo celebrated a moment befitting its ancient past, embracing Tango as the legal expression for the revolution.

The signs of revolution could be read from the beats of the blues music as the liberated or would be liberated enjoy sexual closeness while relishing political openness. A man dancing by the side of a woman poses a challenge to the political establishment as he ignores all the hangups of politics to enjoy the sexual freedom with his partner. Lately Cario was a witness to an uprising marking the age of enlightenment finally dawning in the erstwhile ancient civilisation.

Blues music is the chance to drink beer from the bar artistically and enjoy the favour of love as endowed by the host bar as a painter would exhibit the nudes on the streets of Paris, marking the breaking off with the social protocol. This enchantment with art and politics was shown by Cairo Opera in its bid to uplift the social,political and artistic scene of the country and bring out the truth to the people of the world.

There was no hiccup as the crowd broke into a free dance where the women and men left behind the repression of past and eased into happy dancing and the blues music as organised by Cairo Opera was an icing on the top. For how long there could live a suffering when the popular media is limited with its pack of entertainment. It was Cairo Opera that let the intermingling of the populace a big event and the blues music a chance to express artistically the political and social tendencies to break free for the regime to realise how effective a collective resolution of fun and politics could be.

My Little Punk Radio airing romance

If I have a device that takes me to the world of Lilliputians at will, it’s my radio that blares not every tune but the one demanding punk’d dreams. The dreams born in the hemisphere of Italy and exported to the other demanding lands. The radio catches like frog jump catching its own shadows but nonetheless failing all the times. It’s a dead radio I am talking about which when was new was envy of the family as it would have inbuilt sensors of touch that I presume with my habit of playing Pele with the radio got dead.

Once put on Soundcloud, if we could ever put a radio onto Soundcloud, it had speakers detachable which once plugged to the android let the Soundcloud froze on its own. The colour was black and noir films it would stream on Youtube like a charm. Then I fell in love with a girl who had white earphones, they sneaked through the streets on her whim and off packed my radio without any speakers.

It could not talk, the talk shows were just blatantly empty void. It would just produce a rattle for a hum. Then I was day dreaming about Julie Christie, her ever demanding presence in Doctor Zhivago would be trimmed into cuts of the speech where the poetry of Doctor Zhivago is recited and I decided to recite my own poetry instead. The lurking shadows of nothingness remains nothingness on my punk radio as it would not recite anything. All silence and no romance makes the head start to football game a demeaning shortcut of the narrative. I am really struggling nowadays with my radio it would be a self pleasing rogue on female worship.

The games are for the mind, when football gets into the goal one feels as if the cat has left the hot tin roof, fearing a mouse on the loose. The cat romancing the air it pawns past, I put on the radio loud as if the girl next door hears not the boos of the crowd but the smooches of the radio antenna catching the game.

Inheriting Jazz love underground

Jazz sprang up like bootleg liquor growing in the veins of wannabe rockers or dancers wooing the floor that is comparatively darker than one would assume in the beginning.

She had expressed a faint glimmer in living a life of slut  beseeching  Jazz as the soul of man. She whored in the districts like red wine being bootlegged and young men willing to take to the dance floor on the beats of much sinister blues music and taste the wine licked like honey from a honeycomb.

Yelling to the crowd, She opened her arms as if the whole sky would elope in her basket which she carried only to carry blues records but Jazz was the spirit and she was young for it. The rich men wanted more of love originating at a back burner to what the records play on the streets, a binding courage to crash the world with a symphony that is born on the by-lanes of Paris, mixed with the Parisian painting backdrops as many painters flourished on the whim of her dance.

If Madame Bovary could live the day, Voltaire could live the night, the nightclub must fancy the underground Jazz, Jazz born in secret meeting places as an expression to the wild interest of love. Dressed in a black polka dress which was more of a translucent silk, she fell in the arms of the crowd, jeering the death of a rival in the mischievous bar fight. The David Harley parked in the middle of the dance floor, a fresh black young man on the flute, her dancing steps on the floor, a beer in the open while a lasting night in the offing was all a Hamiltonian dance club could aspire. But I had met her as a replacement for Rita Hayworth and the bartender banned me the next day from consuming music mixed with desire that made paramount romance more endearing than death.

Death was plenty in the era of First World War when Jazz mushroomed as an expression to beat the cultural revolution thus making the soul as centrepiece of any composition. He was rich enough to woo the young bootleg dancer, puffing at the air as if there were only few moments left into the night and he was right to sleep with her on the dance floor.


Logical Laundry to superior design

If bits could be arranged with symmetry yet talk to the peripherals I would call it logical laundry where you don’t see the underlying structure but feel it when writing the code for the device. There are many devices which demand attention and each has the common denominator that at the core is a switch for data, allowing for either you made it or not. More like a binary option, the binary data shows when you signify not to have the current. But you must have a basis to ensure the logic for the current and that is when hexadecimals come into the picture.
What appeals to me the most is the consistency of logic in making the man fulfil its role of creator besides relishing the fruits of its creation and the moment there is glitch in the pattern or thought making alluding there is an error in logic, the symmetry of the hexadecimals is destroyed. I ensure the go between factor of design where by you go for the design which is more perfect as to the task it takes on to accomplish. I have a video, its beautifully shot and might be in symmetry of bits but if it lacks the reason,and the signifying effect of brain is destroyed, the beautiful video might end in the dumps. But the audience can’t have peep into the symmetry of bits and choose the design so there enters the concept of artificial intelligence.
What is symmetrical yet reasonable to argue by a machine is worthy of a place in the man’s collection whether it’s a video or a gallery of pictures. So the artificial intelligence is the factor of Occam’s razor, eliminating all those that are assumptions and yielding all that is reason or logic.
Like doing laundry with a spin we are designing content that is logical yet artistic in bearing. Art without the logic of suffering is banal and of little concern to the vintage collection of man. All the public galleries showcase the struggle of man with or without nature, to supremacy of soul through logic and logical laundry leading to better design in the offing.