The story of Violet

Elevate form over function to get at less easily articulable truths.

The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 9:44 am

Forward to an unfinished story .
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 8:08 pm

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
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 8:10 pm

We'll get to them later. Who knows maybe never.noblisse oblige.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 9:07 pm

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.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 9:09 pm

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.
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Re: The story of Violet - Lionel Thrilling Quotes

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 10:02 pm

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
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Re: The story of Violet - tea and ......

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 10:16 pm

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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Re: The story of Violet - fascinating violetta

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 10:31 pm

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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.
















Literary breaks

The Secret Time



Episode
01





Literary breaks

Manon and Disrupted Time



Episode
02





Literary breaks

Elvira the Serenissima

VOIR TOUS LES ÉPISODES DE LA SÉRIE






Literary breaks






Palais Garnier

Place de l’Opéra
75009 Paris

Opéra Bastille





 



 


 


https://youtu.be/JiDuMLZawP4I'm



https://youtu.be/YNCi_OxOPSQ




https://youtu.be/pvmm9f2KcdQ
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Re: The story of Violet - mise

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 11:18 pm

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?.
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Re: The story of Violet - mise

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 27, 2021 11:20 pm

Meno_ wrote: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
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Re: The story of Violet - polish youngster

Postby Meno_ » Sun Feb 28, 2021 1:28 am

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.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Sun Feb 28, 2021 1:47 am

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.
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Re: The story of Violet - violets mystical powers

Postby Meno_ » Sun Feb 28, 2021 1:55 am

.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Sun Feb 28, 2021 2:04 am

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)
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Re: The story of Violet -

Postby Meno_ » Sun Feb 28, 2021 2:34 am

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.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Sun Feb 28, 2021 2:53 am

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.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Mon Mar 01, 2021 5:08 pm

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.
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Re: The story of Violet - an absurd notion among others

Postby Meno_ » Mon Mar 01, 2021 6:27 pm

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
Last edited by Meno_ on Mon Mar 01, 2021 6:33 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Mon Mar 01, 2021 6:30 pm

.....
.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.....
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Tue Mar 02, 2021 2:21 am

Last edited by Meno_ on Tue Mar 02, 2021 5:15 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Tue Mar 02, 2021 4:50 am

AUTISM

Were the Timekeepers of the Ancient World Autistic?
Archaeologists ask where ancients got the math for complex calendars.




When we read of ancient civilizations, there are many mysteries. One perennial question is how societies with (supposedly) no technology, no system of writing, and no known system of calculation managed to develop the mathematical ability to calculate movements of stars and planets. There is overwhelming evidence that many early civilizations did this with great precision; we did not surpass them until quite recently.



One question I’ve never seen asked in that context is this: Is there reason to think those early mathematicians and engineers were autistic?

During the past few years I have been studying the role of autistic people in history; particularly in the church. There’s a good body of evidence to suggest that churches have been home to autistics for thousands of years, and indeed we neurodivergents may have had a hidden hand in shaping many of the world’s religions.

For example, Isaac Newton is widely believed to have been autistic, based on accounts of his behavior and his own written words. Today we know Newton for setting down a description of calculus. Some say he invented calculus, but there are many autistics (me included) who can manipulate waveforms in our heads, and the written calculus may just be a way to share that ability with others. If that's true in Newton's case as well, then what he did was lay out for others an ability he was born with. In that sense, he didn't invent anything. Instead, he described his different way of thinking.

But that’s “Newton now.” In his time, Newton wrote considerably more on theology and religion than he did on science. In his day he was more known as a theologian than a mathematician. When we go back in time, we find most scientists and deep thinkers were supported by churches. Prior to 1800, churches were the world’s centers of logic, reason, and abstract and scientific thought.

With that in mind, we can find many descriptions of autistic behaviors alongside the achievements of early churchmen. We even find evidence of accommodation. For that, look no farther than the silent orders of monks, or the reflective orders that spent their days in cool shade. Today we’d call that sensory-friendly. What did that call it then? It’s reasonable to ask how far back that connection may reach. York University archaeologist Penny Spikins posits that sustainable autistic traits made their appearance in the human genome some 100,000 years ago.



When we reach back a few thousand years, the written record gets mighty thin. There are few descriptions detailed enough to retrospectively consider whether any particular person of that day was on what we now call the autism spectrum. Yet there is a very strong sign that autism was there in the background. We see it in the calendar. And remember – the calendars were traditionally kept by the priests.



Ancient civilizations had very sophisticated calendars that were tied to long and short term celestial events. They forecast the years and the seasons with extraordinary accuracy. They also noted much slower changes in the sky – the cycles of precession that unfold over thousands of years.

It’s interesting to consider how calendars have changed over the ages. Today we use calendars to plan our days and weeks. We schedule what we will do at 10, and where we will go at 3. We note the day of a birthday or an anniversary. The events we record seem trivial, except to ourselves.

The ancient calendars recorded dates of more moment. Calendars counted the days since the beginning of the world, or they counted the hours till the end. They forecast the changing of constellations and the arrival of comets. Calendars told our ancestors when to plant, and even how to navigate. If you've never done so I encourage you to explore Mayan, Egyptian, or Indian calendars – you'll find them incredibly fascinating.



Early calendars tended to be far more complex than the calendars we use today. They were also harder to maintain and calibrate, in the absence of electronics and standards such as we rely on in the modern era. At the most basic level, ancient calendars were tied to the sky, and built upon knowledge that must have been gathered and passed down for many generations.

AUTISM ESSENTIAL READS



Flexible Brains and Adjusting to a Changing World
Archaeologists ask why early societies needed such complex and far-reaching calendar systems. While that is a good question, a more interesting question (to me at least) might be, what kind of person could build and run such a calendar?

To find that answer, we need only turn to the autism community. Psychiatrist Michael Fitzgerald has studied calendar calculating abilities and other savant skills. He’s found that calendar skills are almost exclusively the province of certain autistic people. In his experience the people with the greatest calendar skills were often quite disabled in present society, but they could tell you the moon phase or day of the week for any date 500 years in the past or present with complete accuracy.

Archaeologists and historians have puzzled about where ancient people got the mathematical skills to construct and run their calendars. After all, they were not even known to have written language. So how could they have higher math? The answer is simple. The math was in the autistics. It was inborn, in their minds. Practice makes better, but formal teaching was not needed. That's evident in today's calendar calculators.

article continues after advertisement

Need evidence of that? Ask an autistic with calendar calculating abilities to show his work. He (she) can’t. It’s like asking me to show my work when I added musical waves in my head. It’s a thing we can do, but we can’t necessarily set down a written path for someone else to do it. Newton did for calculus, and changed the world. I’ve yet to see something similar for calendar calculation.

In the absence of that, it’s reasonable to turn the traditional archaeologist’s question around and ask: Who but an autistic person could have run the calendars of ancient times in his (her) head? The historians say, "there was no evidence they had math" and they may well be right. They didn't need math. They had autistics.

And yes ... science does suggest that. We may not have found evidence of computers in prehistory, but for some of us, the autism is in our genes, and for genetic evolution, prehistory was just the blink of an eye away.

So look where it's brought us ...

Dr. Fitzgerald noted that most of the autistic calendar calculators he found were living in group homes or institutions. They were said to be totally disabled, with average IQs below 70. Yet a Mayan or Egyptian calendar would be play for them. Indeed, play is probably a very apt term.

2,000 years ago, would that person be disabled or venerated, for the same ability?

It’s an interesting cultural commentary. We talk about all our challenges. Seizures, depression, language. But if you could keep a calendar in the time of the Pharaoh, there might well be some honor and accommodation beyond what we see today.

Not that it makes life easy – the lives of early shamans and priests are often described as tortured and painful. Honored didn't necessarily mean comfortable. But it means we had a place in the world; something many of us feel we've largely lost today.

What do you think?

John Elder Robison




John Elder Robison is an autistic adult and advocate for people with neurological differences. He's the author of Look Me in the Eye, Be Different, Raising Cubby, and the forthcoming Switched On. He serves on the Interagency Autism Coordinating Committee of the US Dept of Health and Human Services and many other autism-related boards. He's co-founder of the TCS Auto Program (A school for teens with developmental challenges) and he’s the Neurodiversity Scholar in Residence at the College of William & Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia.





John Elder Robison is the author of Look Me In The Eye: My Life With Asperger's, and Be Different.









Do Environmental Changes Explain the Rise in Autism Diagnoses?

Do You Think of Narcissism as an Autistic problem?





Psychology Today © 2021 Sussex Publishers, LLC
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Re: The story of Violet real down

Postby Meno_ » Wed Mar 03, 2021 3:46 am

She took my gun away. Was trying to do well .....now I am .... but im reluctant this story.


Not making it up. This is no fiction. But gotta get it off my chest. Carleas knows about it.



I needed a gun. For self protection. And i hope this guy, my ex son in law who has got my grandson deals. He took my daughter's life because she dumped him , found someone she lived, and could support her.


He moved in after her ex moved out.

Then on one Sunday night he took the little kid the apple of my eye, on Sunday night.

There was a flurry of communication between my Isabella my daughter and alwx, my son in law for the delivery.


It was supposed to be the unicorn

We didnt know a thing, not a thing, until it became too late.


The gun thing set it off. Originally I bought it for he is a rough crowd and it is a family business.

But she found me cleaning it, and says afterbdecades of marriage " It's either the gun that goes or You will.


So i gotta get at least a quater of the price back fof I gotta fix her car's door handle, someone tried to break into it. So I go sure, for i can't afford to be thrown out at this stage.


Plus I love her cause I promised not to make the same mistake like my old man made walking out on mom.


But back to the story, just get to sidetrack at times?
Now I don't feel that bad, cause I am not afraid to be shot, and now I'm clean in their eyes.


And Natalia says, that's my wife, that if I get mad I'd shot her.

She can hardly wait for him to get arrested, but I kind of feel half heartedly sad for the kid for one time, were talking, and he says to his dad " are You also going to die daddy( for they told him, being 5 years old
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Re: The story of Violet -family

Postby Meno_ » Wed Mar 03, 2021 4:23 am

Violet was here other name. She went to live in Asia, she was beautiful
She was in centerfolds. She lived her 15 minutes of fame, when with her girlfriend dressed only in lettuce, paraded near the basilica to protest cruelty to animals.

Then I got an urgent call for help. She worked six months in Manila in a TV show, and her agent, an older woman raped her and stole her wages, leaving her penilless. The maid who took care of her, wrote me that all she dies is view a movie called ' into the wild' , over and iver, and her flat was haunted and she was afraid to go into the sunlit street for barrages of autograph seekers tormented her constantly.

So I went, brought her back after two years of the suicide of her brother , my youngest son, fir they were so close.



She and her high school swearheart tied the knot soon after, and we were all concerned and hoped that he may help her forgett her brother.

He had issues, wrote a book , that I published under his name post humorously.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Wed Mar 03, 2021 4:29 am

But Violet was really a gentle soul,l a sort of underlying sadness betook her, she tattooed her back in Thailand with the same pattern that Angelina Jolie did on her back.

So she goes and marries than, whom she was supposed to know, and everything unraveled for her. He was a dealer, drove i3 new infinities for which she paid, and proceeded to total one after an other.

She became an interior decorator, did well did some exteriors later on, in upscale places like along PCH, and her portfolio spoke of volumes.
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Re: The story of Violet

Postby Meno_ » Wed Mar 03, 2021 4:40 am

Her last night . Seeking the unicorn, he was supposed to bring oxy, but brought fentanyl, and she and her current boyfriend couldn't tell the difference for they wete both of purple color. She never woke up, and i found her as i did her brother a few years hence. Now the noose is tightening around her ex, who has costudy of the kud, and that brings it to this bitter closing.

All hoping for clisure, and I regret the Missus found me cleaning the gun, I promised to take it back and get at least a few hundred back so that I can fix the broken handle of her gun.

Why I bought it last year was a general fear if a possible social uprising where people will run out of food, and they may break into the house for food. Did not anticipate further use, but now, maybe it's a good thing, fof now my only remaining worry, that if they get me, what will happen to my dear wife of many decades, to whom I have sort of become an emotional anchor.

I had a lot if legal hurdles to overcome, before I succeeded to gain 1 hour of visitation rights per month with the kid, my dears wonderful grandson, with whom I was supposed to attend child psychiatric sessions, but that promise became as empty and broken as his dad is.
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