Trump--the novel

 

"If this were a novel, no one would believe it," my husband said watching the beginnings of Trump's trial.

I thought about it. 

He's right. 

Many changes would have to be made.

First: Names of the characters must be changed. They are too unbelievable.

Trump...it can be a card. It can mean getting the better of someone. Take away the T and you have rump which can mean a small or inferior remnant or the hindquarters of an animal. A ridiculous name for the hero of any novel.

Pecker, the first witness's name ... I suppose there's an irony in the vulgar description of a male's organ in this trial with its sexual themes.

 

Stormy ... the prostitute who was paid to keep the secret of a liaison. It has unleashed a storm. But it is too obvious for good fiction or bad reality.

 

Second: The hero can't piss off the judge. 

 

Conflict, yes, is good for fiction, but in a case before a court, it is just plain stupid at best and idiotic at the very worse. It would be hard to believe the hero would do that. 

 

Third: Fairness...

 

Despite that everyone in the U.S. is supposedly allowed a fair trial, many are not. This trial where the defendent seems to get advantages an average person would not. I suspect they would have been in jail for contempt of court long ago. 

 

So where does that leave a novel based on the Trump trial? 

 

No where. 

 

It is bad enough in reality, that a fictionalize version would be just too depressing to write or read. Bad enough that the U.S. has sunk so low that this character had ever set foot in the White House. That too is unbelievable -- except sadly it's true.

James Joyce Free Since 1941

 

"It went on and on for five pages," she said about Anna Karenina.

Our friend and her husband had joined Rick and me on our patio for a mattress celebration apèro in the late afternoon sun. We were sheltered from the Tramontane which had been blowing for the past three days.

They had recommended a friend who had sold us the new mattress, so this was our thank you.

My mind jumped back to how I read most classics at uni including James Joyce.

When I was at Joyce's house in Dublin, I saw his desk and thought how he must have written Ulysses there. 

I had loved Dubliners. For Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, I went from doubt to considering it a treasure hunt.

As for Ulysses, I've never made it past page 42. Thank goodness for Cliff Notes.

Joyce died in 1941 in my country, in Zurich to be exact.

I will never finish the book even though I tried after uni several times. I can live with that.

I took comfort in a travel guide of Switzerland that said about Zurich "James Joyce free since 1941."

I joke that my grave can read "She never finished Ulysses."

Whew

 

 After 18 months of research and writing, I've finished the first draft (really many drafts because I edit along the way) of 300 Unsung Women. All the -mini-bios (100-200 words) are written, the formating is done and the women are in 68 categories such as activist, astronomer, doctor  inventor, lawyer, resistance fighter

Who are these women?

They did spectacular things, breaking the bondaries of gender limitations over the centuries.

•  Some were never known but their work made a difference
  
• Some were known by a few but are mostly forgotten
• Some had their work stolen by men

I want to sit down and chat with them all. I would like to thank the women who invented the dishwasher and windshield wipers. The woman who had to teach behind a screen so she wouldn't upset the male students. The ones refused degrees or were called names because they didn't fit the stereotype of what a woman should be. The spies that fought for their beliefs often sacrificing their lives.

I had help in finding the women. When I mentioned the project to friends, they would add names to those that I had already found. 

Then it was my job to research and write. I ended up with more than 300 women and the decision of whom to include was difficult at best. My husband said, there could be volume two.

Tomorrow, I print out the book to edit it again. Then my husband, also a writer, will edit it and probably after corrections are made still another editing before I am ready to send it out into the world.

Protecting Oneself

If I were working for a university, some government offices or certain corporations I might be punished for writing this. If I had been invited to speak somewhere, the invitation might be withdrawn.

I don't care. I'm so frustrated with hearing Israel has a right to protect itself. 

I don't disagree. 

What is frustrating is that so does every country. Protecting oneself does not mean killing and starving 33,000 people.

Israel attacked Iran's embassy. Iran protected itself by striking back.

You attack us, we attack you is not a good way to peace.

I am not anti-semetic. I am anti-Israel's government bullying of other countries. 

Until my mid-twenties I was 100% pro Israel...then I met a a number of Palestinians, and the more I met I learned there were two sides. 

I am also ashamed that my birth country's weapons have helped kill people in Gaza. At least the weapons industry is happy while the survivors will have had only more hatred for their enemy generated.

Free Write--The Cat

 

Prompt: Photo of a cat waiting for the store to open so she can spend the day inside on a pillow that the owners keep for her.

Today's Free Write was at Bronzette, because we learned that they serve an almost English Breakfast. For almost a decade three different restaurant owners of La Noisette served English breakfasts. The last two did not. Thus, when we found the breakfast on Bronzette's menu we went there for breakfast and out Free Write. Rick and I are still in France and Julia is in Switzerland. Here's this week's Free Write. As usual we write for ten minutes without stopping, editing or correcting.

Rick's Free Write -- Les Chats

Many of the cats in our village don’t have owners. Rather, they deign to spend time with you, as they please, and permit you to adore them for awhile.

A few are skittish and haste into the sewer drain or jump/scale a stone wall and disappear into an open window in a vacant building.

One silky-furred black cat, who spent most of his days sleeping in a flower planter, began a habit of prancing halfway up the street to greet us as we returned home, probably because we showed him some affection. He basically ignored Sherlock, who was perplexed at our fraternization with the enemy.

The black-and-white pictured here, whom I will call ‘The Burglar’ because of his mask, appears to live somewhere around the church plaza. A few months ago, he decided to adopt the new flower shop that opened across the street from the church.

Each morning, including days the shop is closed, Burglar bounds down the steps and waits patiently for the merchant to open up. Then the cat strolls in through the door and takes up a position on a chair or a table.

Lately, another cat, a ginger, has attempted to follow Burglar’s lead. But he doesn’t seem to ever get in the door. This is clearly a one-cat shop.

D-L's Free Write Le chat attends

"Where are they?

Puss looked at her reflection in the store window then up and down the street.

The church bell rang once ... 9:15.

Why was he late? Bad enough that the store was closed Sunday and Monday. Didn't he know she needed to find another place to hang out on those days.

It wasn't that Puss was homeless.

She'd taken up residence at night with a little old lady after her first family had moved and forgotten her.

She refused to accept she shared responsibility.

She'd avoided her cage when they brought it out and placed it on all the new boxes.

Seth and Lisa had chased her until their father said, "We have to go:  we'll miss our plane."

The old lady offered a really good menu at night when Puss returned.

Ah! There he was strolling ... strolling just like he wasn't late.

He patted Puss before opening the store.

From her pillow near the counter, she watched him put the plants outside.

Her job was to look cute and adorable for their clients. 

The bell over the door tinkled and a couple entered.

Her workday was beginning.

Julia's Free Write The Cat

The cat

And here I sit, even with my shadow, my changed circumstances seem mighty strange.

I watch for the dogs I knew.

I see neighbors, children, and many people with whom yesterday I exchanged news and pleasantries.

I see the people I ignored and some that I will even happily now be able, and more comfortably, to ignore.

The weather is fine, our house and surroundings remain the same and where they always were.

I’ll take a nap on what used to be our bed.

I openly laughed about those who believe in re-incarnation.

Yesterday I stumbled, struck my head and here I am, no longer a man, but a cat!

If only I could let my family and friends know that I, the pragmatic lawyer, have become a cat.

Hey, I’ll just curl up beside them, purr, and hope that none of them turn into that nasty dog down the street.

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com

 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com

 

 

 http://www.markfiore.com/f

Afternoon tea

 

Arabic mint tea, which I often order.

My Irish friend is waiting at Mille et Une tearoom. We meet infrequently yet regularly. I forgo my usual Arabic mint tea for plain old Ceylon. 

The Easter bunnies and decorated egg baskets in the window have been replaced with white and wicker baskets of cookies, biscuits to my UK friends. I decide over the next few days, I'll try each one starting at the right bottom corner with the citron cookie. Spoiler alert: It was wonderful.

The tearoom fills up. Despite the sun, the wind is a bit too strong for outside sipping.

There's a woman dressed if she were doing a Ritz tea or an English cream tea. She is with a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt. If they looked alike, they might be mother and daughter, but they don't. They are engrossed in their conversation.

Sonja, the green rocer across the street, comes in with Pepsi, her chihuahua. Her dog has the same name as the tailor's dog from the shop next to hers. She can watch her store from the seat she takes. When there's a customer, she runs out, leaving Pepsi, who watches at the door until she returns.

Nelson, who is named for Mandala and not for me, rushes in. He's a black French bulldog followed by his owner, who has the restaurant not far from the train station. As usual, he tries to extract a doggie treat from my right pocket, but his nose is not designed to reach the pocket's bottom. Of course, I give him one, two, three as he knows I will.

A retired woman who is usually there in the morning with a friend with amazing shoes, comes in alone. I don't know her name, but we've smiled and chatted and I have with many of the regulars.

The tearoom owner's twins come in from school and disappear to their living quarters upstairs.

The owner of the new candle shop next door returns his cup and saucer from an earlier coffee.

The tea room is a pretty pink. All types of teas and coffees are on a shelf in matching, large aluminium cans. They are labeled.

There is a low buzz of conversation. 

Outside, my husband walks by with our dog but doesn't come in giving my friend and me a chance for woman-to-woman conversation. If Sherlock knew I was inside with his doggy copains Pepsi and Nelson, he would want to come in.

My friend and I talk about the lack of professionalism in communication today, Barcelona, attitudes, introverts vs. extroverts and more. She is at least half my age, but generational differences do not exist. Background differences do, not as a negative but as a plus as we share experiences. 

There are other places in the village where we congregate with friends. L'Hostalet is now open for the season mornings, but still not at night where expats and villagers mingle over a glass of wine.

The new owners of the original restaurant La Noisette at the end of my street is once again a gathering place, and Bronzette which is a restaurant serving all-day beverages another. Before Bronzette, the place was called Fountain, but when the village redid the road in front turning it into a plaza/pedestrian walk, the fountain was removed. At least they left the large shade tree providing a respite from the sun at the outdoor tables.

We adore Mille et Une and l'Hostalet and want them to do well. They provide a welcome break to our writing. They let us do people watching. Both are informal meeting places. We also patronize the others.

When my daughter comes later his month, she is already planning her morning coffees and maybe an afternoon tea or glass of wine. In the interest of good mother/daughter relations, I will have to go with her.

You know the cliché: It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

Note: Visit https://dlnelsonwriter.com.

Free Assange

 

Three men, Edward Snowdon, Julian Assange, Daniel Ellsberg have paid dearly for speaking truth to power. Their statues stood in front of the UN in Geneva and the three-legged chair which will stand until all nations sign an anti-land mine and anti-cluster bombs. Out of the 164 countries who have signed, the U.S. and Russia have not.

Biden said, according to the BBC and France24, that he is considering dropping charges against Julian Assange, based on a request of the Australian Prime Minister. 

Assange, 52, a journalist, is guilty of speaking truth to power. From June 2012, he was a captive, first voluntarily with asylum in the Ecuadoran embassy where he had been made a citizen. 

He was forcibly removed and then imprisoned by the British government  awaiting various court rulings to extradite him to the U.S. where he faces up to several lifetimes in prison for violating the Espionage Act when Wikileaks, of which he is publisher, put online a video of U.S. troops shooting unarmed civilians in Iraq, a war crime.

Several major publications picked up the story including The Guardian and New York Times. They have never been charged with espionage.

When Assange was in Geneva in 2010 to speak at the UN and at the Swiss Press Club, I wanted to see him.

I did not have press credentials, although I was a financial journalist with a weekly newsletter directed at Canadian co-operatives -- so I made one and sealed it in plastic.

The guard at the press club gate was dubious as he examined it much too carefully.

"Please," I begged in French. "My boss will kill me if I don't get this story."

He told me to check with the next guard inside the gate, who was talking as I walked by. I made it inside the building.

The Swiss Press Club was in a mansion. The room where the press conference was to be held has a chandelier that merits being in a château with its crystal decoration. Large wall mirrors on each side create a chandelier that reflects light into infinity. 

The reflection could be a symbol of a truth that has no end.

Inside the room was crowded with reporters, some of whom I recognized from the local news. I found a seat.

Assange talked mostly about his work, reporting news from Africa and how his organization worked.

Assange was besieged with questions. I did not ask the questions I wanted to. The other reporters were there legitimately with editors waiting for their stories.

The session ended. As Assange left, I stopped him. We exchanged a few words. 

I didn't get to ask what I wanted. "Aren't you afraid for your life?" 

No one knew what lay ahead for him. A fake accusation of rape, years of voluntary imprisonment in an embassy, an assination attempt, forcible removal from the embassy, court hearings in the UK, bad conditions of imprisonment in an unsavory UK jail.

Every journalist who reports the truth should be afraid. Every non journalist should be afraid that a country as powerful as the U.S. can arrest you for breaking one of its laws even though you were never in the country whose laws you were said to break. 

Assange has paid a high price for speaking truth to power as a legitimate news person. It is time to drop the charges and let him go home to Australia.