So, in this particular instance, there was no reason to send Trump to the Tower. or chop off his head.
Source: FACT CHECK: Did President Trump Break Protocol in His Meeting with Queen Elizabeth?
{I wrote this after Donald Trump was elected President of The United States of America. I note folk have been looking at it after the glorious meeting in Helsinki with Putin, Tzar of ALL The Russias. So – gosh darn – why not post an oldie but a goodie? It is more appropriate than ever.}
~ Frank. Welcome to your world.
~ Thanks, DT. I’ve been living it all my life.
~ I’ve taken some pages out of your books, Frank.
~ I did try to get them burned.
~ You didn’t try too hard.
~ Well – no.
~ You know – neither did I.
~ I know. They all ran to your tune.
~ They did.
~ You were the Pied Piper of Havoc.
~ Worked like a charm, Frank.
~ Yes, DT – yes, it did.
~ They thought I was a bug.
~ Yes.
~ But I turned them into bugs.
~That you did, DT. And turned them against each other.
~ Yes.
~ And stood back, and watched.
~ Pretty well.
~ To the victor goes the spoils.
~ I was astounded – believe me.
~ And they keep making the same mistakes.
~ I know, Frank. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so funny.
~ The one-eyed man is King in the land of the Blind.
~ Yes, Frank – yes. But you know what?
~ What?
~ I’ve got great vision in both eyes.
DE
(image)www.crapula.it/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/kafka-for-president.jpg
Tracked down to my own apartment, I give a sample reading from my book of short stories, “The Elephant Talks To God”. And I explain the genesis of the book. Gotta say, it might have been more entertaining to emote some of the Elephant’s poetry.
http://www.authorsaloud.com/prose/estey.html
The book:
From The Elephant Talks To God:
The elephant was a curious pachyderm, and followed his persistent quest with a guileless intensity.
“More lucky than smart,” said some of the other elephants, as he blundered his way toward another piece of knowledge. They nodded their heads in his direction with the heavy weight of caution, and warned their small ones that too much thought would make them strange.
“An elephant wades in water,” they would sagely say, “only if the mud hole is wide enough.”
And the little ones would watch him, as they stood between the legs of their parents, and wish that they could follow.
~ Have you been drinking the vodka, Donald?
~ Why do you ask, Vlad?
~ Because you are acting like Russian.
~ You know what Ivanka told me?
~ Nyet
~ That I was Putin you in your place.
~ Maybe I’ll have other drink.
~ We all laughed, believe me.
~ A double, I think.
~ Even President Xi. I didn’t know a Chinaman laughed.
~ To hell with double. Leave the bottle.
~ You know what Ivanka said about Assad?
~ Let me fill glass.
~ She said that I Bashared his Ass.
~ Ivanka has a mouth.
~ Tears. We howled laughter until the tears came.
~ Maybe she’d like to sell dresses in Russia.
~ She’ll sell you the best dresses, believe me.
~ Maybe some fur hats – made in Crimea.
~ You don’t want her starting a war, do you?
~ Donsky – you’re a funny man.
~ It’s where she gets it. Believe me.
DE
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in missing entries of his actual diaries. There are many days to fill, as he either did not write during these days, or he destroyed the record.
I do give him a brief recognition of Friday 13th. Kafka was not a superstitious person, and such things weighed on him lightly.
In reality, memories of the Swiss Girl he mentions (a teen he met and probably had an affair with) haunted him all his life. But pleasantly – oh, so pleasantly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
13 April 1917
I almost wrote down the year as 1913. That was the year I met the Swiss girl. And I remember her joking about Friday the thirteenth, and how we had missed it by just a day. She was superstitious – Christians seem to be. I wonder what precautions she is taking today. It will be three years and seven months since I saw her. Yet some of the things we did could have happened last week. I think that memory must be made of rubber. You can sometimes pull it toward yourself – and sometimes it snaps away like a shot. Causing as much pain.
(image)https://www.playhugelottos.com/uploads/assets/news/PlayHuge/Fridaythe13th.jpg
I was walking along the river and heard the strangest noise. It was one of those noises which, when I found out what It was, sounded exactly as it should. A beaver was chewing at a branch on the bank of the river. First there were small rolling noises as the branch went through its hands, and then the ‘gnaw gnaw gnaw’, and then the turning noise and the cycles were repeated.
This went on fifteen minutes or so, then the beaver and I both heard noises in the water. We both saw another beaver approaching. The beaver-at-gnaw quickly went in her direction (though I can only guess which sex was which). They swam toward each other, then rubbed faces. The approaching beaver made small bawling noises like a young calf. They rubbed bodies and seemed to sniff each other, then they swam in different directions. This performance – the swimming away, the languid circling, the approaches – went on for twenty minutes. A couple of times the ‘gnawing’ beaver clambered over the over beaver’s back, but this lasted just a few seconds. The beaver which approached rubbed noses once again, and made the bawling sounds one more time.
I never appreciated how large beavers are until one of them came up on the bank. The water was clear enough to see their feet and tail move underwater (I wonder if the portion out of the water might have the 1/10 proportion of an iceberg). The sun was setting and they became difficult to see. However they decided to part anyway. One began to go down river toward the harbour and one headed to the other shore.
But I bet they were going to meet the next day.
I visit wharves and gaze out to sea.
It is a pleasure that took hold some ten years ago. I don’t know why, for I certainly had experience with oceans and coast long before that. For some things it seems its time just comes.
I prefer small working ports, gritty and smelling of fish and lobster and ocean. The scurry and comings and goings (though I also like them in the evening when most work is done). I walk the docking between the boats and peer from the end of the wharf. I ponder distant shores or endless sea and screaming gulls with sometimes seals and whales and archaic Blue Herons.
Last night, when I thought the wharf was my own, a man, woman, toddler and dog arrived. They seemed to do much as I was doing, though they knew the owner of one of the fishing boats. The man was gruffly talkative, the dog was rambunctious, the woman apologized for the toddler’s dirty face and the little girl didn’t quite know what to make of me. Friendly and chatty but she wouldn’t take my hand as I offered to walk her up a gangplank.
I left them on the docking between the moored boats and started to walk on the wharf itself. The fishing boats and the docking were parallel to the wharf. I was half way along when I heard a shout. I heard the dog. I looked over and this is where life becomes art becomes life. It was a Kodak moment. It was a Motorola moment. It was a ‘freeze frame/real time/fast forward’ moment. It was a composition/edited moment. It was all these things which came to my visual mind. All this and the knowledge that there was no way I could get there if I was needed.
The little girl was going for the gold. She had God in her feet and Angels in her streaming hair as she raced between the moored boats. Her dirty face was wide with excitement and it is probably the happiest she has been in her life. The man was restraining the dog and the woman was in athletic pursuit. They raced between the boats and the mooring lines and the tools of the fishing trade. The dock swayed in the movement of the waves. I could not believe the swiftness of the child. The woman finally took what seemed to me a runner’s stance and eventually grabbed the exuberant child. I heard, over the water, admonishments of what could happen if she had “gone under a boat.” All – of course – true.
But the dog understood.
Yes, 03 July is Kafka’s birthday.
Imagine all the celebrations running rampant in the world.
No doubt a hearty rendition of “Hip hip hooray” and the occasional exuberant “Huzzah!”, echo through each major city and every quiet hamlet.
In my novel about him, Kafka In The Castle, I gave him this diary entry.
03 July 1918
The anniversary of my birth.
In celebration of the day, I did not make it my last.
I do find it grand to have such this connection to the Celts, about whom I have written three novels.
During World War Two, my father had the unique experience of guarding Stonehenge. Not by himself, of course, there were other members of the Canadian Army with him.
The vast plains around Stonehenge were utilised by the military in both world wars. During the First War, the area was a training ground for troops from various countries. There were many encampments for recruits, with both basic training and preparations to train for the trench warfare awaiting on the continent. There were thousands and thousands of men, and huge amounts of supplies.
During the Second War, the area was used as staging ground for the D-Day invasion. There was great security, and as much secrecy as possible. Soldiers were in place to guard the perimeter.
So, my father found himself not only guarding Stonehenge, but doing so on Midsummer Morn, when the sun rose over the monument.
He was a learned man – a school teacher – and versed in the history of the place. He knew of the Celts and the Druids and some of the mythology. He knew this was sacred ground and that Midsummer Morn was especially important.
He might have paused and tried to look into the past, and see more in the morning mist than was actually there. I do not know.
He did, however, when their shift was over and they got to eat, tell the other soldiers of the history of the place.
He mentioned that, during such celebrations by the Celts, the Druids might have a virgin killed to appease the gods.
They were aghast.
“What a waste,” said one
.
.
DE
(image)//media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/02/e1/1d/c3/salisbury-stonehenge.jpg
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