The story of Violet

Forward to an unfinished story .

Notes: is she corrupted?
If she is is she so from rain trickling down on her head, like so(demonstrates on head by culping head NY extended fingers and slowly dragging them down) or, by the process of evaporation , or. Maybe synchronous action. Course that is very definitive of violet. Much so, because she is in the process of attending philosophy classes at university without walls and it has become imperativeto her to get in touch with other philosophers before it’s too late.

But it really is never too late.

Why? Because Jung is right then events in synch are really synthetic and really a lot can be learned from that , for instance can go a long way in deciding the real look of the rousseau-en and Hobbsian conflict of social contracts and relate violets struggles with the conflicts around the ongoing struggles swirling around social corruption.

Who is Violet?

Who was she and where is she going with this.

At this point these prelimenary questions , naturally cannot be answered.

What is shocking, however is the loose way her life has evolved, from uncertain sources. Like camus and a lot of other folks

We’ll get to them later. Who knows maybe never.noblisse oblige.

One thing one of her friends Marseille one time, after she quit thinking of the very serious stuff, during coffee break at at&t where she was a telephone operator came up with: what about UT violet are you…and she looked away, unable to meet her eyes as she , barely audible lisped out "are you,??? "

"Whhhhaaaat? Violet searched for her eyes , which she thought extremely erogenous.

“Are You…autistic”

Then violets expression changed dramatically, and tried to assume a serious look of an authentic thinker, while triumphically , almost dramatically withdrew a piece of paper from her folded.

The folded consisted of codes that she had to memorize, in the early days computer programs. necessary to complete telephone connections between international callers.

She handed it to Merielle. She read it and she became aghast

I was able to remember and note it down, dear readed, and present it verbatim.

The Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein is another inspiring historical figure who very likely had autism. In fact, Wittgenstein’s most famous work, “Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus” has been cited again and again as a classical example of the autistic thought process.

These scene came up vividly in my mind in relation of so many, many things I remember her for, but strangely depressed about peacgirl’s attempt to incorporate camus sense of what is meant by obsessive guilt as quite an uncut, version, all with the wholehearted absurd notion that i can ever integrate violet into who she was ever fated to be.

Who are you violet? A woman, a nan, a child, an aberration , or a sore eye’s broken image of what will become of you or so she thinks?

At this time he was working at AT&T, and on probation there as a telephone operator trainee.

At another time, someone, I only remember her by thinking of her archytipically as Peggy sue, ( for she was typical of girls in the early 50’s bobby sox, white swaddle shoes and pony tail) and overhearing them talking about her, and deciding she really was a he.

This was before a notable earthshaking event in NYC that involved the busting of a homosexual bar, and became a watershed event in what now has become ‘gay history’

So that settles it, in spite of other thrilling ideas like Lionel thrilling, could have said as easily and with minimum effort.

Who was Lionel Thrilling? He wondered, now that that case was settled. And she wondered about Peace Girl, and Marsh call her Marshall for simplicities sake.

And no worries most characters from the love of philosophy will be included here. She, told me to tell You he is quite found of u all, nitwithstanding, and added to this no need to return the favor.

Still on forward or a still backward epilogue? Really it is rather ordinary to read between lines and merely choose bookends and infer the books in between, that os, of they are arranged in any conceivable order.

Immature artists imitate. Mature artists steal.
Where misunderstanding serves others as an advantage, one is helpless to make oneself understood.

Literature is the human activity that takes the fullest and most precise account of variousness, possibility, complexity, and difficulty.

It is now life and not art that requires the willing suspension of disbelief.

In the American metaphysic, reality is always material reality, hard, resistant, unformed, impenetrable, and unpleasant.

We who are liberal and progressive know that the poor are our equals in every sense except that of being equal to us.

The poet is in command of his fantasy, while it is exactly the mark of the neurotic that he is possessed by his fantasy.

Probably it is impossible for humor to be ever a revolutionary weapon. Candide can do little more than generate irony.

Being a Jew is like walking in the wind or swimming: you are touched at all points and conscious everywhere.
We are all ill: but even a universal sickness implies an idea of health.

Lionel Trilling Quotes (Author of The Liberal Imagination

“Immature artists imitate. “Literature is the human activity that takes the fullest and most precise account of variousness, possibility,
complexity, and difficulty.” “Where misunderstanding serves others as an advantage, one is helpless to make oneself understood” “In the most secret heart of every intellectual …

Matthew Arnold (1939)

Lionel Trilling: 'What marks the artist is his power to shape the material of pain

Regrets Only

15 Lionel Trilling Quotes on Books, Liberal Imagination …
l

Back to violet

Since time appears intermittently, between odium and exhilirated mantra sessions, everything can recede by opening to extended forwards and epilogues. , supposing the very large hole, as large perhaps as a super black hole in the center of all the universes,

either that or close try to close the gap so as to seamless make god’s supposed assurances to the contrary.

Violet or maybe with a garnish of violets.

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Violetta

Memories of Ecstasy

By Olivier Liron 27 September 2019

SERIE

Pretty Yende (Violetta) et Benjamin Bernheim (Alfredo) dans La Traviata, Palais Garnier, 2019

LA TRAVIATA LITERARY BREAKS

From a faded flower is born the promise of a lost love. Thus begins the libretto of La Traviata and the tragic story of Violetta and Alfredo. The writer Olivier Liron has imagined a final encounter between the two lovers. Between dream and hallucination, Violetta evokes her memories of Alfredo as he enters the realm of shadows. They will each savour the body of their beloved for the last time.

Violetta

It is getting worse.

I have not the strength to leave my room. I am weak. I feel too weak. Alone in my room I am obsessed by the memory of the hands of all those men and women on my body. I think of Alfredo’s hands. His hands descending. Gently. As far as my waist. It burns with such violence. I feel like a flower. I have no more brain. I dream that I have become a flower and that I am walking on my head, my slit and my legs in the air. Alfredo is here. He approaches me and his hands push me down on the bed, caress my belly, descend to my slit. He loved to slip very slowly down into me. He descended into me. Yes, he disappeared inside me. He is still descending. How did he see me? What did I feel like to him? I long to see him again. Violent desire for him. His arms. His hands. His skin. The memory of you, Alfredo, the obscene memory.

I have not forgotten the warmth of his body. Longing to kiss his hair, lick his eyelids. The pulp of his fingertips. The beauty of his eyelashes. I wish he were here. My body is full of longing. Longing to be caressed. The heat weighs on me. I think about returning to Paris. No point. I am delirious. It is too late, in any case. I feel Alfredo’s hands on my arms calming me, lingering on my hips. I see his face again, the way he parted my lips with his tongue, while everything convulsed, all that commotion within me. I am going to die and I long to cling to him tenderly. I long to plunge my hair into the almost feminine dimple he had in the small of his back. Desire mingles with fatigue. At present I feel the summons of the flesh and it is worse than hunger, worse than thirst. Worse than pain. I would like to disappear in sensuality combined with sex and love which is true ecstasy.

Alfredo

My love, I call to you in winter.

I call to you from the land of cold and filth where I am, I call to you from the land of the living.

I speak to you in a field buried beneath snow.

I walk towards you at the winter solstice. I am in a field of pain and of cold and it could be anywhere in this world.

A strange coast beneath the snow. Winter is a dazzling shroud of light in which sometimes, for an instant, I revive you.

Violetta

Hallucinations. In my memory hole-ridden by time things come back to me. All disordered. Years have passed, wildly lived, wildly lost. Scorched. Consumed. Pell-mell. I am nineteen, I emerge from a broken love affair with a young man and I am alone, I encounter solitude. She has huge dark eyes, I fall madly in love with her, she is twenty-two and a half, it’s her, it’s my solitude, Solly, oh Solly. I no longer fully grasp the passage of time. I would like to see Alfredo before I die. I do not have the courage. My resolutions crumble. Contradictory. I suppose I am rendered up to solitude, the most profound solitude, that which reveals no meaning, no truth. Now I must face this solitude and the serenity that I had counted on escapes me. There are streets that I perceive from my window and light that penetrates. I suppose solitude is the fear of dying and in that fear there is still the body of my love.

In the late afternoon I heard a silvery laugh in my room, a voice, hot breath on my neck. “Alfredo!” I cried. It was not he. Nobody was there. I was dreaming. Suffocating heat. Ventilator on full. Room insatiably empty.

Alfredo

My love, I am walking in the evening light.

It is not quite the evening light, that which seeps gently into the hidden velvet of the shadows…

How can I forget that ravenous good-bye, near the Dorée gate, in the Rue des Feuillantines?

For the last time your silhouette, in that steep little road that sloped down towards your death… You left without a word, you descended towards the great shadowy hole, my little defunct twenty-eight-year-old, and sometimes at night I feel your body throbbing against mine… As if I was pressing you to me, with our naked bodies side by side, and side by side estranged… And now, I walk in the evening light that falls endlessly over the world, that falls on the sea, my love.

Is there a way of denuding oneself, of losing everything and forgetting everything so as to live again? At best so that breath weary of snow, mingles with it?

Violetta

The darkness of memories re-emerges. In bursts. Perhaps the effect of the pain that never relents. I see again the sordid nights of my twenties. A kiss on a street corner with Alfredo in a narrow alley in Paris. My memories pound away. More troubled vision in the late afternoon. It’s hastening. Impossible to sleep. I have a sun in the centre of my retina when I close my eyes. I sleep a little and I have a strange dream. My breasts have turned mauve and radioactive. I remember my first season as an artiste in that cabaret in Berlin. A hotel room on the banks of the Spree in the fading, ashy green light of winter. I see once more that first night with Alfredo in my little flat in the Rue Gît-le-Coeur. Wild nights, with champagne, a fainter thirst. Mud from a brackish river. We were drunk. In the early hours of the morning, I had a bite of black honey on my neck. The river. Night again.

I think of Alfredo. Of the others. Love does not exist. There are loves. There is a multiplicity of desires that scatter us to the four winds. My desire was never fixed. Found. I was unbridled. I loved life distractedly. I loved losing myself to distraction.

Alfredo

My love, you must not

You must not give in to sadness.

You know, if we want to resist this, we must not reflect upon it, we would like only to advance very softly during the night, until we are transformed into something else, into clouds or mist.

It is not quite winter, at least not the winter we were expecting, but the city is there, somewhere there, close by, and there is warmth. Lucky that we have been able to kiss on the street corner, an instant with the whole universe in disorder within, before it is too late: it was like the calm before the great storm of absence, before death evades us and unmasks us.

My love, we must make do with night oblivion snow. Be content with it.

We will taste each other no more.

I shall never again enjoy the taste of your body. How can one sing, light-hearted, the sorrow that is looming?

So, rhythmically, one uses the music and the melody. And already, everything is less heavy.

What to do, since it is certain, that what we once were is buried under the raw blankets of the snow.

Since there will come grief and then the vast fortress of forgetfulness.

Since your shadow is less real than the ghost of it that I am drawing.

Since you lived out your desires to the full.

Your joy.

Your urgency to be alive.

Since the snow falls painlessly, noiselessly?

It seems like the end of a season, of a poem… of a love story… Unless it is something else?

A way of beginning again?

Violetta

My years of servitude to a strange passion. My passion for dancing never left me. Why? A form of madness, that never left me alone. Dancers are not angels. All the men that fell in love with me told me I was an angel. I always thought: That’s not right. I am not an angel or an ethereal creature. I am not a dragonfly that fades away into the clouds. An ephemeral apparition. An immaterial, threadlike creature. That is a man’s point of view. Purity is a masculine invention. Men are primitive animals who fantasise about innocence because it excites them. They think that young women who dance are airy nymphs, of the sort who make love balancing in unlikely positions. I am an earthly body, that’s the truth. They say: “You are an angel, a fairy”. They see an evanescent young woman forever conjoined to the heavens in nuptials of velvet. They imagine the immense firmament, the cold, motionless stars, a romantic, nocturnal ballet in the night. It is the opposite.

And yet, where does it come from, that sensation of grace, the joy of flight that I feel when I spin on the dance floor, intoxicated to the depths of my being? They ask: “What is the secret?” There is no secret. I reflect light. I dissolve into flight, into my desire. I feel it inside and it makes me want to experience it again, evening after evening. They said: “What do you feel?” I said: “It’s music. When I am on the dancefloor I am a violin of flesh and the shivering space makes me vibrate. I take solid shape.” They don’t understand. My entire body suddenly exists and I feel alive. I don’t scatter myself in the air. I resist. I work to become flesh, to gather myself in the entire volume of my skeleton, of my hips, from the tips of my toes to the pulp of my lips. I know my weight. Dancing is a little fantasy for four hands, sometimes sad, sometimes joyful. Each time, it’s like a sensual act. Dancing is like defying heaven. Which ceaselessly, lovingly also consecrates me to earth, and to desire.

It’s fading away. My throat and my skull torment me. I must take more tests. They want to give me a blood transfusion. I no longer have the presumption to express the pain that defeats me. Nor the strength.

Alfredo, my fiery angel, my devil, my maelstrom. These last thoughts are for you. I would like you to forgive me. I burn from you. I burn from your body. Inside me I am still burning from your body, from the memory of our mingled breath. I would like your love to bring me back to life from time to time. I want you to talk to me from beyond your absence. When I am no longer there. To call to me. To let me return from time to time with you, on earth, from the other side of the mirror, into the world of the living. I have not had the time to understand much about love. It is sometimes said that love itself does not exist; they say there is no love, only proofs of love. But if you think about it, it is a great folly to think that, isn’t it? On the contrary, there is never proof. Love is impossible to prove. There are no proofs of love.

There is only love.

Alfredo

My love, you used to say to me with a laugh: our era is not a great era for sentiment.

And we, we wanted to reinvent our er a, so I would like to tell you a story with naïve, winged sentiments to bring you back from among the shadows. Or join you there.

A story like those in fairy tales in which love has the burning, icy colour of desire.

I am going to tell you this story and you will come back to me, from across the oceans and beyond the shadows.

You remember, my love, when you had huge shadows under your eyes after your sleepless nights, and I called to you softly: “Dearest darling”?

So now, my love, my dearest darling, I shall call you that again to bring you back.

And of course, it won’t work. And you will straightaway return to the realm of words, the realm of the dead. It won’t work because time is not reversible. But I shall try. I shall knock at the door to the land of the dead. I shall call you. I shall call you softly: “Dearest darling”.

That will be the signal.

I shall say: Come.

Come. And our love will be icy and burning like the snow.

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Violetta

Memories of Ecstasy

By Olivier Liron 27 September 2019

SERIE

Pretty Yende (Violetta) et Benjamin Bernheim (Alfredo) dans La Traviata, Palais Garnier, 2019

LA TRAVIATA LITERARY BREAKS

From a faded flower is born the promise of a lost love. Thus begins the libretto of La Traviata and the tragic story of Violetta and Alfredo. The writer Olivier Liron has imagined a final encounter between the two lovers. Between dream and hallucination, Violetta evokes her memories of Alfredo as he enters the realm of shadows. They will each savour the body of their beloved for the last time.

Violetta

It is getting worse.

I have not the strength to leave my room. I am weak. I feel too weak. Alone in my room I am obsessed by the memory of the hands of all those men and women on my body. I think of Alfredo’s hands. His hands descending. Gently. As far as my waist. It burns with such violence. I feel like a flower. I have no more brain. I dream that I have become a flower and that I am walking on my head, my slit and my legs in the air. Alfredo is here. He approaches me and his hands push me down on the bed, caress my belly, descend to my slit. He loved to slip very slowly down into me. He descended into me. Yes, he disappeared inside me. He is still descending. How did he see me? What did I feel like to him? I long to see him again. Violent desire for him. His arms. His hands. His skin. The memory of you, Alfredo, the obscene memory.

I have not forgotten the warmth of his body. Longing to kiss his hair, lick his eyelids. The pulp of his fingertips. The beauty of his eyelashes. I wish he were here. My body is full of longing. Longing to be caressed. The heat weighs on me. I think about returning to Paris. No point. I am delirious. It is too late, in any case. I feel Alfredo’s hands on my arms calming me, lingering on my hips. I see his face again, the way he parted my lips with his tongue, while everything convulsed, all that commotion within me. I am going to die and I long to cling to him tenderly. I long to plunge my hair into the almost feminine dimple he had in the small of his back. Desire mingles with fatigue. At present I feel the summons of the flesh and it is worse than hunger, worse than thirst. Worse than pain. I would like to disappear in sensuality combined with sex and love which is true ecstasy.

Alfredo

My love, I call to you in winter.

I call to you from the land of cold and filth where I am, I call to you from the land of the living.

I speak to you in a field buried beneath snow.

I walk towards you at the winter solstice. I am in a field of pain and of cold and it could be anywhere in this world.

A strange coast beneath the snow. Winter is a dazzling shroud of light in which sometimes, for an instant, I revive you.

Violetta

Hallucinations. In my memory hole-ridden by time things come back to me. All disordered. Years have passed, wildly lived, wildly lost. Scorched. Consumed. Pell-mell. I am nineteen, I emerge from a broken love affair with a young man and I am alone, I encounter solitude. She has huge dark eyes, I fall madly in love with her, she is twenty-two and a half, it’s her, it’s my solitude, Solly, oh Solly. I no longer fully grasp the passage of time. I would like to see Alfredo before I die. I do not have the courage. My resolutions crumble. Contradictory. I suppose I am rendered up to solitude, the most profound solitude, that which reveals no meaning, no truth. Now I must face this solitude and the serenity that I had counted on escapes me. There are streets that I perceive from my window and light that penetrates. I suppose solitude is the fear of dying and in that fear there is still the body of my love.

In the late afternoon I heard a silvery laugh in my room, a voice, hot breath on my neck. “Alfredo!” I cried. It was not he. Nobody was there. I was dreaming. Suffocating heat. Ventilator on full. Room insatiably empty.

Alfredo

My love, I am walking in the evening light.

It is not quite the evening light, that which seeps gently into the hidden velvet of the shadows…

How can I forget that ravenous good-bye, near the Dorée gate, in the Rue des Feuillantines?

For the last time your silhouette, in that steep little road that sloped down towards your death… You left without a word, you descended towards the great shadowy hole, my little defunct twenty-eight-year-old, and sometimes at night I feel your body throbbing against mine… As if I was pressing you to me, with our naked bodies side by side, and side by side estranged… And now, I walk in the evening light that falls endlessly over the world, that falls on the sea, my love.

Is there a way of denuding oneself, of losing everything and forgetting everything so as to live again? At best so that breath weary of snow, mingles with it?

Violetta

The darkness of memories re-emerges. In bursts. Perhaps the effect of the pain that never relents. I see again the sordid nights of my twenties. A kiss on a street corner with Alfredo in a narrow alley in Paris. My memories pound away. More troubled vision in the late afternoon. It’s hastening. Impossible to sleep. I have a sun in the centre of my retina when I close my eyes. I sleep a little and I have a strange dream. My breasts have turned mauve and radioactive. I remember my first season as an artiste in that cabaret in Berlin. A hotel room on the banks of the Spree in the fading, ashy green light of winter. I see once more that first night with Alfredo in my little flat in the Rue Gît-le-Coeur. Wild nights, with champagne, a fainter thirst. Mud from a brackish river. We were drunk. In the early hours of the morning, I had a bite of black honey on my neck. The river. Night again.

I think of Alfredo. Of the others. Love does not exist. There are loves. There is a multiplicity of desires that scatter us to the four winds. My desire was never fixed. Found. I was unbridled. I loved life distractedly. I loved losing myself to distraction.

Alfredo

My love, you must not

You must not give in to sadness.

You know, if we want to resist this, we must not reflect upon it, we would like only to advance very softly during the night, until we are transformed into something else, into clouds or mist.

It is not quite winter, at least not the winter we were expecting, but the city is there, somewhere there, close by, and there is warmth. Lucky that we have been able to kiss on the street corner, an instant with the whole universe in disorder within, before it is too late: it was like the calm before the great storm of absence, before death evades us and unmasks us.

My love, we must make do with night oblivion snow. Be content with it.

We will taste each other no more.

I shall never again enjoy the taste of your body. How can one sing, light-hearted, the sorrow that is looming?

So, rhythmically, one uses the music and the melody. And already, everything is less heavy.

What to do, since it is certain, that what we once were is buried under the raw blankets of the snow.

Since there will come grief and then the vast fortress of forgetfulness.

Since your shadow is less real than the ghost of it that I am drawing.

Since you lived out your desires to the full.

Your joy.

Your urgency to be alive.

Since the snow falls painlessly, noiselessly?

It seems like the end of a season, of a poem… of a love story… Unless it is something else?

A way of beginning again?

Violetta

My years of servitude to a strange passion. My passion for dancing never left me. Why? A form of madness, that never left me alone. Dancers are not angels. All the men that fell in love with me told me I was an angel. I always thought: That’s not right. I am not an angel or an ethereal creature. I am not a dragonfly that fades away into the clouds. An ephemeral apparition. An immaterial, threadlike creature. That is a man’s point of view. Purity is a masculine invention. Men are primitive animals who fantasise about innocence because it excites them. They think that young women who dance are airy nymphs, of the sort who make love balancing in unlikely positions. I am an earthly body, that’s the truth. They say: “You are an angel, a fairy”. They see an evanescent young woman forever conjoined to the heavens in nuptials of velvet. They imagine the immense firmament, the cold, motionless stars, a romantic, nocturnal ballet in the night. It is the opposite.

And yet, where does it come from, that sensation of grace, the joy of flight that I feel when I spin on the dance floor, intoxicated to the depths of my being? They ask: “What is the secret?” There is no secret. I reflect light. I dissolve into flight, into my desire. I feel it inside and it makes me want to experience it again, evening after evening. They said: “What do you feel?” I said: “It’s music. When I am on the dancefloor I am a violin of flesh and the shivering space makes me vibrate. I take solid shape.” They don’t understand. My entire body suddenly exists and I feel alive. I don’t scatter myself in the air. I resist. I work to become flesh, to gather myself in the entire volume of my skeleton, of my hips, from the tips of my toes to the pulp of my lips. I know my weight. Dancing is a little fantasy for four hands, sometimes sad, sometimes joyful. Each time, it’s like a sensual act. Dancing is like defying heaven. Which ceaselessly, lovingly also consecrates me to earth, and to desire.

It’s fading away. My throat and my skull torment me. I must take more tests. They want to give me a blood transfusion. I no longer have the presumption to express the pain that defeats me. Nor the strength.

Alfredo, my fiery angel, my devil, my maelstrom. These last thoughts are for you. I would like you to forgive me. I burn from you. I burn from your body. Inside me I am still burning from your body, from the memory of our mingled breath. I would like your love to bring me back to life from time to time. I want you to talk to me from beyond your absence. When I am no longer there. To call to me. To let me return from time to time with you, on earth, from the other side of the mirror, into the world of the living. I have not had the time to understand much about love. It is sometimes said that love itself does not exist; they say there is no love, only proofs of love. But if you think about it, it is a great folly to think that, isn’t it? On the contrary, there is never proof. Love is impossible to prove. There are no proofs of love.

There is only love.

Alfredo

My love, you used to say to me with a laugh: our era is not a great era for sentiment.

And we, we wanted to reinvent our er a, so I would like to tell you a story with naïve, winged sentiments to bring you back from among the shadows. Or join you there.

A story like those in fairy tales in which love has the burning, icy colour of desire.

I am going to tell you this story and you will come back to me, from across the oceans and beyond the shadows.

You remember, my love, when you had huge shadows under your eyes after your sleepless nights, and I called to you softly: “Dearest darling”?

So now, my love, my dearest darling, I shall call you that again to bring you back.

And of course, it won’t work. And you will straightaway return to the realm of words, the realm of the dead. It won’t work because time is not reversible. But I shall try. I shall knock at the door to the land of the dead. I shall call you. I shall call you softly: “Dearest darling”.

That will be the signal.

I shall say: Come.

Come. And our love will be icy and burning like the snow.

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During her brief life, Vivien was an extremely prolific poet who came to be known as the “Muse of the Violets”, derived from her love of the flower

Vivien who?.

Renee Vivian

Poems:

Undine
Your laughter is light, your caress deep,
Your cold kisses love the harm they do;
Your eyes-blue lotus waves
And the water lilies are less pure than your face…

You flee, a fluid parting,
Your hair falls in gentle tangles;
Your voice-a treacherous tide;
Your arms-supple reeds.

Long river reeds, their embrace
Enlaces, chokes, strangles savagely,
Deep in the waves, an agony
Extinguished in a night drift.

Indebted to university of open arms, intellectimid progressivus. intrrmettius absurdus necessitimus

Polish youth says:

“the autistic lunatic is really confused…he really believes he is a deep and unique genius with such an interesting and valuable personality that anybody will give a shit if he ever speaks to them again or not…that guy is 40something btw…quite sad really…but I am the least of his problems.”

How to set up the polish young’one so that I could avoid an introduction to virginal Violet?

Don’t have any idea, meant an introduction to Peace, girl but her head is filled . cause a bad intensional accident to degrade the spider or catwoman from further embarrassment, but these are unkook-ed folks, biggy may still write to me somehow ill try him, but he seems so foreclosed nowedays that I may never rekindle any thing by him.

The Polish kid may be my last bet but he is incapable for total self reliance, as I seem to be, why?

Because he is prone to canter type madness of intentionally dissolving bounderies toward the very singular fate he thinks befits everyone.

Violetta don’t you mind those brusques they live in some shadow world of their makings, they are not really aware of what you may be capable of.

Whay are you capable of, violetta?

Chorus:

What is she capable of.
What are You capable of?
What are You capable of?
What is she capable of?

D-O-I–I–I-N-G ?

She smirks, and dribbles out. few cacaphonous sounds that don’t resemble any form of dialect, instead bows to the East with great reverencd and closes her eyes for a while

She is in trance now. This becomes a trance into the very depth of being. Hers is a world of saintly encounter with others of her kin:
Her sainthood may land her into the August world of holy embrace with those saints who have been
martyred

But oh no please not that. No no no, not those to be found in the book of saints. St. Gellert comes to mind and this is a description of what happened to him.

They took an ordinary wine cask the Romans , and they hammered with nails from the outside, then pushed Gellert into the barrell, hammered shut and rolled him thus down the mountain into the blue Danube.

.

The next day, Marseille greeted Violet with a long list of autistic. noteables, and here is the list that I was able to acquire from her.

Violet was elated, caused she previously was merely some weird negative personality attribute:

Here is a copy:

Famous Autistic People in History
Dan Aykroyd – Comedic Actor
Hans Christian Andersen – Children’s Author
Benjamin Banneker – African American almanac author, surveyor, naturalist, and farmer
Susan Boyle – Singer
Tim Burton – Movie Director
Lewis Carroll – Author of “Alice in Wonderland”
Henry Cavendish – Scientist
Charles Darwin – Naturalist, Geologist, and Biologist
Emily Dickinson – Poet
Paul Dirac – Physicist
Albert Einstein – Scientist & Mathematician
Bobby Fischer – Chess Grandmaster
Bill Gates – Co-founder of the Microsoft Corporation
Temple Grandin – Animal Scientist
Daryl Hannah – Actress & Environmental Activist
Thomas Jefferson – Early American Politician
Steve Jobs – Former CEO of Apple
James Joyce – Author of “Ulysses”
Alfred Kinsey – Sexologist & Biologist
Stanley Kubrick – Film Director
Barbara McClintock – Scientist and Cytogeneticist
Michelangelo – Sculptor, Painter, Architect, Poet
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart – Classical Composer
Sir Isaac Newton – Mathematician, Astronomer, & Physicist
Jerry Seinfeld – Comedian
Satoshi Tajiri – Creator of Nintendo’s Pokémon
Nikola Tesla – Inventor
Andy Warhol – Artist
Ludwig Wittgenstein – Philosopher
William Butler Yeats – Poet
meno - philosophic poet

Wow, she thought, wow wow, guess you aire in pretty good company.( he thought)

So synchrenistically, does it begin to be obvious that things are coming together for her, so that she can in the confusion to make sense of things, relating to her story?

but rest awhile dear , and take up your load later.

So discouraged for everything , for this messy sketch, but I’ve got the spine not to dissolve into a jellyfish, and I have to, even if it take years, to come to any characterization, that may bring her alive.

You cannot quit for the problem, her problem has to transpire. Whatever, may I be damned or banned.

Justinian no just. Just.
She discovered Phylo

Look into it and the many faces of satyr. So little time.

Last night at mass the priest talked of seeder and holocaust in Christ IN terms.

2day go get records of the medical history behind my prostate. See what’s with that.

Must continue to search …

Dont really no much, must talk with Violet and how she goes on about her.business as usuAl without making a mess of it.

And I showed her this, and when she glanced at it, she became exuberant. Here it is: but like a chess game coming to only an an-passant move, she snatched it away as an absurd thing to do.

No one cases about crap like this, course it means a life to me, she quipped

Here I reproduce this seemingly haphazard and time consuming waste nobody will café about.

And she says, " worry and boredom are stranger bedfellows yet. Its really absurd that You should entertain the thought.

"Indeed, in a way the best argument that Quine at least implicitly raises against the analytic and its kin is precisely that they perform no serious scientific explanatory work, and this he attempts to show by providing what he takes to be a satisfactory explanation of human language without them. In his (1960, 1973) he sketches a behavioristic theory of language that doesn’t rely on the postulation of determinate meaning or reference. He argues that translation (i.e., the identification of two expressions from different languages as having the same meaning) is “indeterminate”; there is “no fact of the matter” about whether two expressions do or do not have the same meaning (see Indeterminacy of Translation). This would appear to imply that there are pretty much no facts of the matter about people’s mental lives at all! For, if there is no fact of the matter about whether two people mean the same thing by their words, then there is no fact of the matter about whether they ever have mental states with the same content; and consequently no fact of the matter about the content of anyone’s thoughts. Quine himself took this consequence in stride—he was, after all, a behaviorist– regarding it as “of a piece” with Brentano’s thesis of the irreducibility of the intentional; it’s just that for him, unlike for Brentano, it simply showed the “baselessness of intentional idioms and the emptiness of a science of intention” (1960, p.221


.and, this remarked the brazen limits of her reliance on the cutoff method, as somewhat more indiginous then say, fee association.

( Knowing well enough that this ’ method ’ PR state of mind was prophetically foreshadowed way earlier, bu decades perhaps…

youtu.be/hIXeb2Cb1XI

youtu.be/ITaQTEnEiJQ