Jest will not solve the paradox of meno, as it can not solve the absolute irreducibility of what matters between de anima and its formal conception.
That is why both states the absolute irreducibility manifests differently, but as they reform they are a zero sum entity.
Fear is a simulated affect, fearlessness is an assimilated effect of equalization by synthesis.of imperceptible near absolute reduction of both types to prototypical archetypes.
The proof is in the pudding , the answer to Meno’s paradox has to do with Esther and her elixir:
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The book of Esther does not mention Jesus or God, but it coordinates with the rest of the Old Testament to foreshadow Jesus as deliverer and mediator for God’s people. There are parallels between Esther’s story and Jesus’s story. For example, King Ahasuerus represents God the Father, Mordecai foreshadows Jesus Christ, and Haman symbolizes the devil / Satan. Jesus is also seen as the unseen rudder on the ship of state, directing the events of history to accomplish God’s will.
crossway.org**+2**
The links devolve unempeded , as if seeking objectivity among the branches of the Tree of Knowledge,
What happens through the trunk that pass through the trunk , they disperse again into the roots, where all probable branches above are again duplicated and get nourished through repeated cycles.
I wrote ‘Ester’ unwittingly thinking it a typo, but then in retrospect it may make sense in a greater sense , and I do feel that it is a lot greater.
In that sense, it’s undeterred yet not fated that leaves fall from up above to gain their energy by photosynthesis, but to arise again , they have to seek out their power to grow again from the ground up.
These interchanges., Ec, show nothing of the failure of western culture to derive simulations of the battle of echos and reflections implicit in archytipical formations between Echo and Narcissus, wether they be of immanent or or transcended constitution.
The jinns are typically constituted as proactive reformations, they are necessarily playing the reverse role to delimit the struggle’s unfortunate resultant reflection dealing with Echoes punishing reverberation.
They are playing such necessary roles as required of them, and even such imaginary ones are quite useful at times.
Sorry, Carleas that I may have appeared to take a casual take on how animal-human apparitions may cause negative/positive inferences on kids, and I apologize for the laxity.
The ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ tale may have been embedded later then such casual like bed-time stories had any relation to either Darwin’s evolutionary theory, or Freudian, or any other.
The approximated - configured value to succeeding generations, making assumptions that determine how these 
will evaluate them in the future, terms of being 
good or bad guides is uncertain.
To measure the path their life will take, depends on how they directed are they, wether they descend into the rabbit hole of Freudian analysis, and like the Wizard in Oz, find no exit except by invoking the dream of unconscious content or ascribe it to the agency of powers on a conscious-superconscious level, that they hope evolution of conscious manifestation will hopefully lead them.
The choices diminish on the way up, while the descent fragments through the redundant irony of choices there, creating contradictions and paradoxes there.
The final choice is theirs between heaven and hell.
True but some ghosts are ghosted themselves, as well, and they too have a choice and those ghosts have choices .
Where ever does that gravy train start or stop working, or do a series of right or wrong choices finally calculated in an other more a-propo, place, where even angels fear to thread?
Apologize for the delay, Loca
Ghosts are real— just not out there in the world, but up here in our heads. We’re wired to find patterns and make sense of noise, so a creaky floorboard turns into a whisper from the beyond. It’s not proof of spirits—it’s proof of how powerful belief is. We don’t need evidence to feel something’s there; we just need a story that sticks
Agreed, first of all… to: Carleas, then to others to whom I faile to deliver, as politely as expected, my apologies, which I will try to acknowledge sequentially,-with anything other than a blanket apologie. but first this, hoping that such amiss will be rewarded with an inverse grant of peace .
For which I suppose I did for a spell sacrificed so much, in as much hoping for some other than self serving vindication thereof,
Where sense can be made between lines so given; I pray.
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HE LINES BETWEEN REALITY AND UNREALITY WITH MAGICAL REALISM
Expressing the contours of reality in literature.
Lina Tupak-Karim
October 21, 2024
Part of the allure of creative prose is that authors are not restricted to the limitations of reality, whatever that might be, to construct a compelling narrative. A complete rejection of reality can offer riveting commentary on diverse subject matter. Creative world-building that constructs imaginary worlds is a visionary way to interrogate notions like otherness and our responses towards it—like through le fantastique, the French term for the genre that embraces Gothicism and ghost stories.
Some styles play with reality rather than reject it. Magical realism is a style of writing applied to literature in Latin America that accepts the strange and surreal as compatible with pre-existing understandings of reality. Often, this style explores elements of Latin American culture and history about mystical occurrences. As a result, magical realism serves as an instrument in unsettling Western narratives of history.
Magical realism departs from genres like fantasy because it is rooted in real experiences of the otherworldly, and genres like fantasy depend on breaks from reality being central to the narratives. As such, readers are encouraged to reckon with a different starting point—one that questions notions of reality and objectivity while maintaining a plausible enough basic fabric.
One of the most famous examples of literature that embodies the sparkle and subversion of magical realism is Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude. In this novel, the extraordinary is rendered unremarkable through narration, void of censure or surprise. The extraordinary—the magical—is a facet of reality that serves as an instrument to a larger narrative.
García Márquez positions the inhabitants of Macondo, the fictional village that appears throughout the body of his work, as more than mere extensions of European presence in the Global South. He does this by blending myth, history, and folklore—compressing time and engaging in a non-linear, cyclical mode of narration.
In The Fragrance of Guava, a book based on conversations between García Márquez and his friend Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza, García Márquez suggests that the magical text is, in fact, more real than the realist text: “disproportion is part of our reality too,” he contends. And, as literary critic and theorist Robert Scholes argues, the linguistic model that prose employs is insufficient in capturing the complex contours of reality.
Traditional realism seeks to depict life as it appears: externally, physically, and in linear order. But the reality is far more complex than this. It embodies contradiction and confusion and is experienced, whether there is an objective world or not, through subjective interpretation, which is flawed and complex. Magical realism considers this and presents the unreal as part of the collective human experience, as part of our journey through the world. In this vein, magical realism reflects the religious and spiritual experiences we take seriously in a creative new way.
Well last resort, restart. In a hospital. Wanted to publish a journal. Like alway an unstoppable urge to write.
This will be my imaginary friend, to whom I can talk to, finally, cry my heart out, like Lesley Gore says. You are all my illusive friends, you know how entirely mean it is to cry that party is mine.
I don’t have to name all of you , as you are an image in mind, ( just had an interruption a cleaning lady came in to mop up.
She was mopping up, as my daughter calls she heard the news bla bla blah, and that she is worried about Shirelll, she may be taking it not so well. So when does the neurologist come in to tell of the particulars . Such as what now after a stroke, blah blah blah.
A guy who may be planted here to cheer things up, talks like this:
“THIS FEELS LIKE A PRISON IN HERE AND A BOUT ABOUT HIS BABY IN SANDIEGI.
And the daughter concludes the conversation with, we’re going to San Diego with my friend , to celebrate her birthday , and I feel the special guilt reserved for her. I say my. Apologies masking that immense weighed down guil which props up the exclamation of why me?
The suddenly remember that magical deal, that brought us together, ergo our soles, and go for it. to excise it for her as much as fir me.
We do the Sutra every day she’ll , assuredly, oh I wish I had an old grand dad sbut right now, not literally of course , for this crazy magical lice that some mistake for fxxk, …
But the ex he of the tiger’s sin so brightly, as when all weeping sullied childs of god( smiling down cherubim like no other time or place in creation.
As she speaks my daughter, is she strong enough to weather her brothers suicide, and sisters OD, I tell myself I need to keep it together, unlike him my little sweet son, who placing so much trust in. Me, going to his therapy, ..and denying me, denying to let. In myself the fact I’ve been so screwed up all my life that dad did unto me, as old granddad to him, down the line and life goes in.
About Jack, Kerouac. I am up one notch the better than him denying his link genetically speaking fro his daughter JN Kerouac, breaks his hear, I bet, at least me more like Thomas Mann in a magicallmyteey tour like the Wittgenstein brothers, taking an off handed sacrifice for art’s sake, and maybe to Baal as well.
I dunno. She leaves with promise not to tell mom, although she knows by now, inspire for my humble prayers for strength.
She says call me as soon as the neurologist gets there and put me on 3 way converse, for she is a lawyer and a nurse, and she’d like to share. Again the pangs of guil.
Now comes the sutra, will do not just for me but theee poor patients all around, some coherent, others not so much. The Mystic Law will do something, you gotta have faith, absolutely,
(Does absolute dissect to abs Latin for out of, and solute, = a solution out of? Or, am I the only one?)
Faith.
I’ll do this journal as long as possible, boy this need to write, it’s some thin.
.keats-poems.com
Ode to a Nightingale
Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
May 1819
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: ‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
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My take here: how can fear enter love, when all the sets have registered their loves and joys, and ask You, that the meaninglessness of all little boys to soldiers of fortune be fearlessly kept into the great white wild, edged by leaves of grass for ever in a dream within Elysian Fields, none can forewarn of?
