The story of Violet

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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.”

12th night

Twelfth Night, Or What You Will, Violet
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Play Twelfth Night, Or What You Will
Author William Shakespeare
Role Violet
I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord’s ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man: if it be so, as ’tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master’s love;
As I am woman,.now alas the day!.
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time! thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!"

Violet in repose.

Maybe get some juices flowing up here in Big Bear, well will see.

Zoo: winter animals most impressive the Mountain Lion. Very unperturbed by the craning necks of visitors, non chakantly yawning at the so called civilizational discontent.

Now this about Laing.

Convolutions, bindings.

Small town atmosphere: he said she said and did you hear such and such my my can one imagine, tell it as it is.

What if he tells her what he said about her mother that she is a user, but using is honest, why not I’d be a fool not to

But don’t you understand using is not always fearlessly choosing the calming type the one that transcends the cruelty of Nature into it’s consoling gentle whispy breezy shadows of various shades of green?

Hades hides at nighttime when sexual rigidity can esoterically pretend that the dripping forgone can re-fuse into it’s chacric elements?

Or does the mountain lion deep down has brought home this too mystery?

What use makes her a user other then the drip of necessary effervescence to which Europa opened her limbs to receive the swarms of bees?

Does transcendence of such closing circle as that through Brunhilda was eclipsed, stop the higher conscious that ar least lifts awareness of the shift toward iron’s fumes.

That you don’t have to maddeningly wait fid, the atomism of the ego to the vaporized essence of soul soup.

It is happening here and there" befire this after that, the nemesis of something into something else, for the tree gets tired of the buddhic pretense of many years of meditating bums, dharmic lackluster bums waiting, waiting in sheltering embrace of it’s periodic timeless anchoring roots.

Now now don’t wait just release the knotted veined mushroom head pulsating for release it’s manic jetsome draining futile infinity into it’s eternal embrace.

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Knots, entanglements of colonial witchcraft

Just laugh and bear it but not all.

But its all good. Re read the sheltering sky.

Glad the throes of LSD afforded this last choice: Imprimatur! And that after invective NDE !

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In other words Violet& Co was a strange brew, and so far kind of skewed, but hope along the way.

His constant worry about the kid unabated, sometimes blaming her, and all the sorrounding things, such as where is the kid now and who holds him and love him more. and why didn’t Big Bear forage some medicinal mystical balms on their soul at a time like this?

The heart is a strange and relentless hunter and some Buddhist monk kind of lulled the pathos around the promise of aligning energies , emotion , thoughts to bring about focus to create a faithful desire.

So that his live for Violet could reduce the erotic plane toward that of real godly live of urgency.

This waiting for a climax about the knowledge of the whereabouts of the kid eclipses any conceivable earthly pleasure
.The heart cries inwards.

Always used to wonder about strange looking people mostly women pushing children carts with some age old dolls or teddy bears who seemed to emanate some terrible lostness, now they love back as they could , wetly from late night drunks so inconsolably terrible under a torn blouse heaving, . slight childhood sobs of past endearments almost forgotten.

Went to court on guardianship for the kid. Was happy to file in pro per, saved a couple of grand doing the paperwork and the trip downtown with public transportation. Guess my law school played off in spite of them rejecting me on technicality

Now what? Appearances and more paper trail discovery. I hope next year I can laugh about it.

In park with My tree. He knows ne by now surely, been coming up here sauce my great adventure’s inception into groovy Lost Angels.

Drunk on bourbon but thats ok, im so high on making progress on seeing the kid.

“Forgive them for they do not know what they are doing.”

Jesus-was he a gnostic?

Fears: retaliation for what? forsomething their son did?

Coming home yesterday saw two capped guys parked alongside their house and when I looked at them inside their late model luxury car

they sped away

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Now the control simulating the brain wash techniques of southeast asia, and the kid’s aunt taking café of the tyke, preparing a kind of judgement of Salomon type spiritual combat over possession of the kid.

Now, Salomon was a wise man, but saw no compromise but, that was in antiquity,

but in these modern days,

Cut Cut Cut control screams.

Something of antiquity needs to be brought back into the middle era of mystery and magick when they still believed in a smoky Grey area that signaled fire someplace.

That tenuous middle can cut down modern angst to the before mom, his mom who like him the kid he drew an invisible circular contract with, analogous thinly with the deal he made on route to Denver to meet beat poets to make an impression.

Why?

Why the burning need to write when everything , idea an nuance, plot and character has been deconstructed several times over?

Maybe to mine the depths of Salomon where what you could hope to find was entirely based on what was seen.

But just like a pure dialectical synthesis failed during the 20th. century wars, and a Trumpian recurrance is yet on hold, a compromise mag yield merely to compromising situations, having only premordially developed underpinnings.

The Judgement of Solomon

My astrological sign falls between Virgo and Airies/Taurus: me being Leo. Now , understand Violet . and further self indulge.

Not.

Polanyi et Al.

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And now me my Sage , smudge sage to overcome the familial scent as dogs do , keen. to accent that which can not be seen for darkness covers platitudes, and the dog can smell for miles and miles and miles where the blinded sage can not fathom to venture to open his atrophied eyes…

So many much sages

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