Michael Henrik Wynns skrivedagbok

[Michaelhe]

At the top

Conditions are rough for those at the top of society, there are gale force winds, and media storms. Politicians therefore develop thicker skin. In addition, there is a considerable draft caused by flatulence.

Endret 22. mars av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

The enduring legacy of Charles Chestnut (1858-1938)

“In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp
The hunted Negro lay;
He saw the fire of the midnight camp,
And heard at times a horse's tramp
And a bloodhound's distant bay.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There once lived a terrific African American short story writer called Charles Chestnut (1858-1938). In a very vivid way, he managed to describe the absurdity of racism. He was a handsome man, who could walk down a street and pass for a white person, but due to the society in which he lived, he lived in utter fear of having a few black ancestors revealed, as this might result in shunning, the KKK and no work for him as a writer. And these themes you will find in his stories.
Megan Markle is gorgeous woman of African American ancestry, who is -like Chestnut- fair skinned, and she is also a successful actress. However, at the moment when she spoke about this same issue, her approach was different. She was not afraid of being exposed, and then hunted down like the slave in the dismal swamp, she is afraid of losing her connection to a culture to which she always thought she belonged. And this is something noone else can take away from her. But she is not alone. Some symbols are so powerful they have universal appeal. Some of the people I grew up with - in a culture that is predominantly white - walked around in hooded sweaters and identified with black rappers, and their racial and even family claims (unlike Markle’s) were nil. Like the rappers they felt like urban outcasts. And black culture is immensely powerful because through the oratory of MLK, Mandela and Obama etc negro spirituals rise from those past cottons fields - the most powerful musical expression in history. And then the world falls silent. But if you are a white obese and balding man in Manchester, no such sounds will echo your sentiments. Then the options are vulgar skinheads and hooligans.
In South Africa, the center of power shifted after apartheid. Even if whites still are economically strong, the culture created by Mandela looms over society. In his shadow, poor whites face some of the issues I have mentioned. And I was very pleased to discover that some writers like Marlene Van Nierkirk, are in fact able to address some of those issues with humor and irony. This little text is not about Chestnut or Markle, but how society has shifted, and in some ways progressed. Chestnut has shown us how “race” is an irrational fear imposed on us. According to “the human genome project” it does not even exist. The environmental conditions that created these variations in skin color are overlapping, and predate modern culture by millennia. Race is culture, that is, race is James Brown.

Note: Even if Markle was not afraid of becoming a slave in a dismal swamp at the moment she spoke, this is in fact what the tabloids made her, which just goes to show what hold culture has upon our minds.

(This may seem controversial, but it is not. What I am saying is that racism is an irrational fear of non-existent biological mechanisms, and that it is imposed by society.)

[Michaelhe]

"Good Morning"
Honking horns and squabbling seagulls
kill my slumber,
the glare of bathroom lights,
cold water and a toothbrush
make me sick.
The cacophony of dawn
has conspired against my ailing back,
while a fat neighbor yells at his wife
somewhere in the distance,
and high-pitched pupils giggle,
as roads are crossed,
pulling hair
while I munch dry bread by the window.
I then tune-in to bulletins announcing
the end of the world by global warming,
and military vehicles have been observed,
and pathogens
are brewing in cows and dense jungles.
Humanity arrives by a ring at my door,
followed by my shuffles in slippers
to that obvious intrusion,
steaming java in hand.

«I am not buying!» I shout
at some grinning bearded stranger.
Then he says:
«I am from the CIA, and I just wish to inform you
that we are NOT involved in any conspiracy»

by Michael Henrik Wynn

Endret 12. april av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

There is a persistent rumor online that - following the strain of the pandemic in which the elderly were isolated for a whole year - Europe has experienced a significant swing in the direction of more transparency and more democracy. We can also expect this trend will continue in years to come, given the onslaught of evil Russians and the threatening hegemony of totalitarian China. Democracy will rise from its assumed ashes, exile those flawed systems of government to the dustbin of history. At journey's end, a solution to global warming will found by a common brotherhood, which will reach even beyond this planet to worlds not yet discovered.

[Michaelhe]

"The Crystal Ball", by Michael Henrik Wynn (me)

I was walking about the town square when I was ten. Suddenly, I noticed that somebody had parked a camper at the far end. Outside, a group of dark-skinned gypsies in colorful garments stood vigil. As I approached a middle aged woman in a fluttering red silk costume waved me inside. I was curious, and when I entered I noticed a crystal ball on the table. She then bid me take a seat by the table and stretch out my hand. After she had examined it intensely from many angles in the scarce light, tracing each furrow, such as I had then, she fixed her deep brown eyes at me and said:
«You are not going to live long, and you are not going to have a short life....You are going to meet a very beautiful woman, and you are not going to have many children, but neither very few.»
In the next moment she let my hand slip like stone from her cold grasp. She stood up, and as her rank lean body hovered over me, the wise and mysterious fortune-teller declared:
«That will be ten kroner, please.»

Endret 5. mai av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

"The surprising benefits of a traditional Ruritanian diet", by Michael Henrik Wynn, science correspondent for historyradio.org

Studies have shown that the soil in Ruritania contains nutrients that are beneficial for the brain, and enhance brain activity and stimulate cognitive processes. Rats that were deprived of these elements all died within a month. It has also been demonstrated that clean water helps the body absorb these nutrients, and that clean water - preferably in combination with minerals and vitamins found outdoors in lush meadows and green hillsides - plays a crucial part in metabolism, not only in humans, but in the wider primate species, as well as many other organisms. Furthermore, it has been demonstrated in several meta-studies that the activity involved in harvesting itself counteracts several illnesses, including Alzheimer's, congestive heart failure and cancer. But the findings are even more remarkable, for analogous studies have revealed similar patterns elsewhere, and this could have extensive ramifications if followed to its logical conclusion. According to a recent pubmed meta-analysis, research has found similar benefits of a traditional diet and life style in the following countries: Canada, Japan, Turkey, Australia, New Zealand, the United States, and eighteen European countries: Austria, Belgium, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Iceland, Ireland, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Portugal, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, and the United Kingdom, Brazil, Korea, and Singapore, and the countries of the former Soviet Union and Central and Eastern Europe, Russia and the Czech Republic.

Endret 5. mai av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

I stumbled upon a strange idea, namely that two of the great heroes lauded after WWII were to meet in 1938. To my knowledge this meeting never took place, even though it is a theoretical possibility. So this morning I wrote short story in which this happened. Here it is (there are probably typos, I will fix it later)

"The Disclosure", a short story by Michael Henrik Wynn

«Sieg, Heil!» the nervous man said upon entering the main auditorium in 1938, his hard polished shoes echoed against the marble tiles. Short of breath, he placed his leather briefcase on the mahogany podium, and eyed his audience with anxious suspicion. There was rustling of paper, distant coughing. The apparatus for showing slides was prepared in the wings by a secretary in formal attire. Some of the employees seemed curious at least, while others had shown up as a matter of duty. And yawned. No doubt there were those in the small crowd for whom the word “duty” had special significance.
At one wall a long crimson flag with a swastika, on the others the long history of the company, portraits of past industrialists that had built something from scratch, and hammered out the might of the German nation from steel.
Finally, a small cortege of black suits entered the room, headed by the manager, a formal man by any standards, a man who appreciated efficiency, and man who knew he had proven his worth, and risen to senior rank.
He eyed the speaker with a certain skepticism, but with acute interest.
«My dear employees», he began upon entering the stage. «I have arrived to introduce our speaker tonight, a man of extraordinary courage and dedication who has traveled far and wide as a representative of our Fatherland, and been a unique witness. I will make no further comment, but let him recount his own story. The stage is yours, Herr Rabe. We are honored by your visit»
The tall and nervous John Rabe then entered the podium.
«As you all know, I have come from China recently, and in particular from a great city known as Nanjing. It is of the events that I witnessed there that I now wish to speak.”
“Where is this city?” shouted a man from the back. The manager turned in anger in his seat, but fell silent when he saw the face of the man in the audience, and sighed.
“That is a very good question. The city is centrally placed in China and have been historically of considerable significance for the Chinese, which is why I – as a representative of Der Fuhrer- was placed there. And it was in the service of our Fuhrer and as his envoy that I was able to witness the atrocities that I am about to reveal to you, the ruthless murder of thousands of old men, women and babies by the Japanese army. It is true that we in Germany are of a higher race than other nations, but we must also act in accordance with this, which is what I tried to do.”
“But these people were of the mongol race, were they not?” persisted the voice.
Herr Rabe stopped, the light over his head was bright, it hit his face in such a way that he was unable to make out the contours of the shadow in the audience, the annoying back seat heckler. But he did not need to see the face, he knew by the authority of the voice that personal animosity would get him nowhere. He had to fall back on his powers of persuasion. At that moment, he was taken back to that recent battlefield, and to the face of an elderly grand mother. She had run past him carrying a small child as he stood on the lawn. Artillery thundered in the distance, the glimmer of explosions colored the horizon. And then the shrill cries of the assaulting Japanese. For some reason he stood watching her escape. Just as she was about to melt into the fog, a shadow had stepped out of nowhere, a sharp blade was raised, and moments later both the old woman and the child lay dead on the grass one hundred meters from him.
“Herr Rabe! Please continue”, a voice said. He shook his head, and found himself once again in the great hall wiping sweat off his forehead.
“Yes, I am sorry. I will do as you say. I arrived I the city of Nanjing, and took up my position at our German station, and in that position, by the grace and might invested in me by Der Fuhrer, I witnessed the most horrific scenes that any man, even those who lived through our Kaiser’s great efforts, would ever have imagined. But I will say no more. I will let you see for yourself. Lower the lights, please.”
There was total silence as the room submerged in darkness, the only sound that was heard was Herr Rabe’s nervous fiddling with the slide machine. Finally, it was working, Herr Rabe corrected his brown tie in order to breathe more freely, and the first slide appeared. It was a harmless photo of his place of work, then followed by scenic views of the city.
Herr Rabe then began to lecture on the history of the region, upon his journey and upon the great assistance provided by his staff. He praised their efforts, he praised their patriotism, and the great dignity with which they had faced hardships. But then he stopped, fell silent for a moment. His face was the only one visible in the room, hard light hit it from the side, making his worried wrinkles stand out while the rest of the room brooded like a uniform shadow in curious anticipation.
Then a new slide was loaded with a click resembling that of an automatic riffle: dead bodies on a road. There were coughs in the room. Herr Rabe said nothing, then loaded the next slide with military efficiency, close-ups of dead pregnant women. Then the next, children. The sight of the photos had brought back that surprising courage he had once displayed. Again he was back where it had all started. Slide after slide was loaded, it was all there: the torture, the corpses, the rapes, the blood-soaked cadavers, the screams and gazes he was unable to forget. There was something manic and automatic in the way that he loaded each slide, slowly and rhythmically as if to convince himself.
Then he sighed. It was done. They had seen what he had seen, and his mission was complete.
He asked for the lights, but had to shade his eyes as the audience re-emerged blackness. He now examined them one by one, searching for responses.
There was a young man on the front row who was on the verge of tears, but he stared to the floor. Herr Rabe did not want to embarrass him. There was a balled fat man in a white suit with a very worried look, but Herr Rabe was unable to tell what caused that worry. Then he saw the face of the industrialist, the manager himself, thin and neat and composed. A poker face, it was impossible to say what such men were thinking.
At first this annoyed Rabe a little, but then he thought about what sort of job the manager had. It was not possible for all men to wear their hearts on a sleeve. A manager was a political pawn, as well as a benefactor for workers in times of need. It was a pity that society produced his kind, but the world was what the world was.
«I now wish to tell you about various actions that I took in the name of our great Fuhrer to prevent these horrific events, and how I was partly successful. I can tell you that...
«But what did these mongols do to merit such punishment? You haven’t told us what they have done?»
«What do you mean? Done? These are women and children?»
«Some of the most cruelest people in history have been women, Herr Rabe?»
Herr Rabe moved closer to the edge of the stage, spying into the audience. There again was that same voice, penetrating and authoritative. It was clear what he was. But Herr Rabe had influence, he would not be harassed by nobodies. If some upstart of a policeman thought he could be crueler than a Japanese samurai, he was sadly mistaken.
«Are you sure you are not a socialist, Herr Rabe?» said the voice.
Herr Rabe now stepped off the stage, and moved up the aisle passing many young and nervous clerks.
Then he saw the man, tall, neat, well dressed, a mouth twisted in cynicism and a penetrating and intelligent stare.
«Are you a true German?» asked Herr Rabe. «Can nothing make an impression upon your soul»
«Soul? You are a sentimental dreamer, Herr Rabe. You must come with me, please».
He saw the man approaching with determined steps.
«Look here, I am a representative of Der Fuhrer. I am not just a nobody. You cannot treat me this way," he continued.
Before the man reached him two men who had been seated at the edges had grabbed his arms and were leading him towards the exit.
Herr Rabe struggled, and broke free. Then he straightened his suit.
«I will not stand for this!» he shouted. «I simply will not stand for it».
But then, as he turned, he glimpsed the massive cynic just behind him, and something hit his head with such a force that he blacked out.
When he woke, Herr Rabe was in the back of a moving van, and he heard city traffic. The man was treating his forehead with some cloth.
«You need not worry, Herr Rabe. You are important and the party is grateful for your service. But your information is not wanted. I had no choice but to put an end to your performance»
«Performance? Did you not see? Are not a patriot?»
«I am a liberated national from the Sudetenland, Herr Rabe. I was thrown in prison for that, I have no need to prove my patriotism, even to man such as yourself.»
«And my slides?
«What policemen, businessmen and politicians think is their own affair»
The man then leaned back against the side of the van, lit a cigarette and sighed. He didn’t even look at Herr Rabe as the van stopped and Herr Rabe was directed toward the interrogation room.
«Here our ways separate Herr Rabe,» the man said as they stopped by a gray door.
«May I have your name, I wish to report you.»
«My name is Schindler...Oscar Schindler. You may report me, if you wish.»
And then the man turned and quietly walked towards the exit.

Endret 24. mai av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

The Second World War had been raging for some years in Asia, when Germany invaded the Sudentenland. One of the great heroes of the struggle against the Japanese in China was a member of the nazi party who used his authority to establish a security zone during the Najing Massacre, saving thousands of lives. Upon his return to Germany in 1938, John Rabe held lectures for German men of industry trying to disclose the atrocties he had witnessed. In this video, Michael Henrik Wynn narrates his short story about one of Rabe’s lectures. While the lectures themselves are historical facts, this story is fiction.

[Michaelhe]

 

[Michaelhe]

 

[Michaelhe]

During the pandemic there was an unlimited number of ways in which the state could assert its power over the elderly.

[Michaelhe]

Live on Radio, by Michael Henrik Wynn (historyradio.org)

“We are now live at the scene of the terrible explosion that occurred just under an hour ago. With me now is the head of the building complex and owner of the penthouse apartment. Mr Peterson, what happened?”
“I actually don’t know. This is the honest truth. Very suddenly the derelict apartment block just blew up and the construction collapsed at 6,06 this evening!”
«Are you now certain that no one was injured?»
«Yes, because all the occupants had been given free tickets to the Rolling Stones concert»
«Oh, they were lucky. Who was their generous benefactor?»
«Eh, that was me. I am a huge fan of the Rolling Stones»
“But what about the surrounding neighborhood, they must have been shocked»
«Certainly it must have been quite a sight. Fortunately the circus tent shielded them from most of the dust.»
«Circus tent?»
«Yes, one of the performers, a most charming and very funny midget, asked me for a place to set up their tent temporarily while it was being cleaned. And so I allowed them to use the parking lot.»
«I see. But the tent must have been very tall, it is a four story block?»
«Yes, some of them are, and this tent was oddly vertical in its shape, more tall than wide. Very unusual. It is because of some matter relating to trapeze artists.»
«And how wide was it then?»
About 61,5 meters»
«And the height? About 84,8 meters.»
«And how wide was the apartment block?»
«About 58,5 meters»
«But wouldn’t the force of the explosion just sweep the tent on the public at the other side?”
«No, you see, due to its height, it was constructed of extra thick and resilient fabric in order to withstand wind. And it was also anchored to the ground by means of bolts averaging 20 inches in length at intervals of 1,6 meters.»
«How can you be so sure that no lives were lost. They haven’t been through the rubble yet».
«The insect people»
«Insect people?
«Yes, around 8,09 last Friday, we discovered several bugs that - if left to themselves – might damage the construction. So, they all did preliminary surveys while the occupants were out.»
«So no lives were lost?»
«Unfortunately, a parrot died. He was chained to his cage in his owner's absence»
«A parrot?»
«Yes, by the name Tim. He was red, and had feathers of a slightly silvery tone. He was very kind and you can imagine the grief of the owners.»
«EXCUSE ME!! Let me through!!»
“The listeners might hear a loud interruption. A large policeman is making his way through the crowd, and is approaching with determined steps.”
«I have heard enough of this. Mr Peterson you are hereby arrested!»
«Officer, does the police think that this man is implicated in the accident?»
«Most certainly not! As an official I cannot be too personal, but I am myself a minor stockholder in one of this man’s companies, and his integrity in matters of finance is beyond question.»
«Then why are you arresting him?»
«Animal cruelty. A parrot, you see, is a sentient being. It has a lifespan of almost 70 years on average. And this particular bird was imported from Sao Paulo on a special licence. In addition, they are loyal and affectionate to their owners. And they cost almost a month's salary! When I hear such blatant neglect from an owner of a building in which one of these elegant creatures is housed, the police are obliged to take immediate and determined action».

Endret 21. juni av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

Jeg har oversatt denne gamle novellen om valg av Mark Twain. Den sier alt om amerikansk politikk.

Mitt kandidatur ved guvernør-valget i 1870, av Mark Twain

For noen måneder siden ble jeg nominert til guvernør i den ærverdige delstaten New York, som uavhengig kandidat mot Herr Børei Nevnes og Herr D. Re Vet-Vem. Jeg trodde mitt gode navn og rykte ga meg en vesentlig fordel over de nevnte herrene. Om det noensinne har eksistert en anstendig presse, så er den tid forlengst en saga blott. De har blitt bekjent med de mest usle forbrytelsene som tenkes kan i de senere år, og har spesialisert seg på omtale av slike. Jeg skulle akkurat prise meg lykkelig og gledet meg over min egen fortreffelighet, da jeg ble overveldet av bange anelser. Fra nå av ville jeg bli nevnt i samme setning som tvilsomme mennesker. Jeg ble mer og mer engstelig, og til slutt skrev jeg til bestemor. Svaret kom raskt og kontant. I brevet sto det:

«Du har aldri gjort en eneste ting i hele ditt liv som du trenger skamme deg over - ikke en eneste. Les avisene – der ser du hva slags folk herrene Børei Nevnes og D. Re Vet-Vem er. Tenk deg om før du frivillig senker deg til deres nivå, og gir deg i kamp mot den slags offentlig.»

Det var som om hun hadde lest mine tanker! Den natten fikk jeg ikke en eneste blund.

Men til syvende og sist kunne jeg ikke trekke meg fra valget. Jeg hadde forpliktet meg, og måtte fortsette. En morgen bladde jeg likegyldig gjennom avisene ved frokostbordet, og kom så over følgende avsnitt. Jeg tror aldri jeg har vært mer forbløffet.

"MENEDSTALE - Nå som Herr Mark Twain stiller som kandidat til guvernør, vil han kanskje nedverdige seg til å forklare hvorfor han ble dømt for mened av trettifire vitner i Wakawak i Cochinchina i 1863, hvor han forsøkte å svindle en beskjeden bananplantasje fra en fattig enke og hennes hjelpeløse familie - deres eneste trøst i sorg og nød. Herr Twain skylder ikke bare seg selv, men også sine mange velgere å rydde opp i denne saken. Men vil han gjøre dette?

Verdt å merke.-- ikke overraskende har Herr Twain unnlatt å kommentere saken."

[Note.--Resten av valgkampen henviste denne publikasjonen konsekvent til meg som “den kjente menedsdømte forfatteren, Mark Twain."]

Så kom Gazette, med dette:

"ETTERLYSNING. - Vil den nye guvernør-kandidaten nedlate seg til å forklare de av hans medborgere som vurderer å stemme på ham, hva som egentlig hendte da han nylig oppholdt seg ved flere hytter i Montana, og hans kamerater stundom ble frastjålet små verdier. Finnes det en forklaring for hvorfor disse alltid ble gjenfunnet på hans egen person eller i hans sammenrullede aviser? Og hvorfor Herr Twain så fikk en tilskyndelse fra sine kamerater til sitt eget beste, hvorpå de rullet ham i tjære og fjær, og bar ham på en skinne ut av leiren; og deretter rådet ham til å forsvinne for godt. Er han i stand til å forklare dette?"

Kunne noe være mer bevisst ondsinnet enn dette? Jeg hadde aldri satt mine ben i Montana.

[Etter dette omtalte denne avisen vanligvis meg som "Montana-tyven Mark Twain".]

Fra nå av plukket jeg opp aviser med engstelse – det kan ligge en klapperslange under hvilken som helst trykksak. En dag oppdaget jeg denne:

"LØGN AVSLØRT. - Edsvorne vitnemål fra forsvarsadvokat Michael O'Flanagan, Five Points mest fremgangsrike bebeoer, og herrene Shanghai Hansen og Opium Nilsen fra havneområdet rundt Water Street, avkrefter Herr Mark Twains ondsinnede påstand om at den høyt elskede bestefaren til folkets fanebærer, D. Re Vet-Vem, ble hengt for landeveistyveri. Herr Twain har forfattet en rå og umotivert LØGN, uten noe som helst grunnlag i virkeligheten.

Anstendige mennesker blir nedslått av å se et politisk spill med slike skammelige midler, ærekrenkelser og angrep på gravlagte. Den smerten som uskyldige slektninger og venner av avdøde sitter igjen med kunne nesten drevet hver og en av oss til å sverge summarisk hevn over lovbryteren - uten rettslig grunnlag. Men nei! La ham heller bli sønderrevet av egen samvittighet (selv om raseriet kunne fått den beste av oss til å begå fysiske overtramp mot ærekrenkeren i affekt. Og gitt omstendighetene er det tvilsomt om noen jury eller domstol ville ha tilstrekkelig domsgrunnlag.)"

De siste snedige formuleringene gjorde brått slutt på min nattesøvn, og forårsaket en betimelig flukt via bakdøren da forargede og krenkede avislesere strømmet inn hovedinngangen, og knuste møbler og vinduer i berettiget indignasjon, før de forlot åstedet med flere av mine eiendeler. Og likevel sverger jeg til Vårherre på at jeg aldri har ærekrenket D. Re Vet-Vems bestefar. Og mer enn det: Jeg hadde aldri engang hørt eller snakket om ham før denne skjebnesvangre dagen.

[Jeg kan i forbifarten nevne at avisen jeg siterer over deretter alltid omtalte meg som "likskjenderen Mark Twain."]

Så ble jeg obs på enda avisartikkel:

"EN SYMPATISK KANDIDAT - Herr Mark Twain, som skulle holde en tordentale tale på massemøtet til de uavhengige i går kveld, møtte ikke når han skulle. Et telegram fra legen hans hevdet at han hadde blitt offer for løpske hester, og hadde brukket benet på to steder – var i store smerter, og så videre, og så videre, og mye mer vås av samme slag. Og uavhengige velgere prøvde så godt de kunne å svelge dette elendige påskuddet, og late som de ikke visste hvorfor det upopulære vesenet som de tror skal lede dem ikke var til stede. En viss død-drukken mann ble sett da han vaklet inn på Herr Twains hotell i går kveld. Er ikke de uavhengige velgerne nysgjerrige på om denne beduggede skikkelsen var Mark Twain? De sitter i klemma, ingen kan unnvike en slik sak. Dette er et folkekrav: "HVEM VAR DEN MANNEN?"

Det var utrolig, helt utrolig! Var det virkelig jeg som ble koblet til noe så skammelige? Jeg hadde ikke rørt verken øl, vin eller alkohol av noe slag på tre svært lange år.

[Jeg var allerede så nummen at jeg hevet knapt hevet et øyebryn da dette tidsskriftet med stor troverdighet kalte meg “Herr Delirium Tremens Twain" i neste utgave - til tross for at jeg visste at avisen fortsette å kalle meg slike ting til evig tid.]

På dette tidspunktet begynte anonyme brev å dukke opp i min postkasse. Formuleringer som dette var vanlig:

«Hva med den gamle tigger-kvinnen du sparket ut fra eiendommen din.
Vennlig hilsen Sladre-Magda»

"Det er ting som du har gjort som er ukjent for noen andre enn meg. Du skylder meg en forklaring, eller kanskje du heller vil kommunisere gjennom avisoppslag?
Vennlig hilsen en som har jobbet for deg."

Det hadde nå komme så langt at det nesten ble skreket etter et tilsvar fra meg. Jeg var nødt til å 'svare' på alle de forferdelige anklagene, sa de. Redaktører og mine egne partiledere mente tausheten ville bli et politisk selvmord. Neste dag dukker følgende artikkel opp i en avis, for å understreke alvoret:

"SE SANNHETEN I ØYNENE! - Den uavhengige kandidaten er fortsatt taus som graven. Fordi han ikke tør å snakke. Det finnes overveldende bevis for hver eneste anklage mot Mark Twain. Men gjennom sin taleføre taushet har Mark Twain også selv bekreftet alt - og for alltid dømt seg selv. Uavhengige velgere må se sin kandidat i øynene! Kast et blikk på den menedsdømte! På Montana-tyven! På likskjenderen! Reflekter så over hans Delirium Tremens! Skitten og korrupt som han er. Vil dere omfavnes av noe slikt? Vurder ham nøye - og si deretter om dere med hånden på hjertet kan stemme på en som - gjennom avskyelige handlinger - har akkumulert en dyster rekke av øke-navn, og som ikke åpner munnen for å benekte noen av dem!"

Det var umulig å komme seg ut av dette. Jeg begynte så fortvilt å forberede mine svar, for å møte en mengde grunnløse anklager og vanvittige løgner. Men jeg fikk aldri gjort dette, for allerede neste morgen gikk en ny avis i trykk med nytt oppkok, en blodfersk ondskap. De anklaget meg i fullt alvor for å ha brent ned et galehus med alle beboerne fordi det hindret utsikten fra huset mitt. Jeg ble grepet av en slags panikk. Så skrev de at jeg hadde forgiftet onkelen min for å arve eiendommen hans, og krevde at graven burde gjenåpnes. Jeg var nå nær en slags bunnløs fortvilelse. Deretter hevdet de at jeg hadde ansatt tannløse og senile slektninger til å lage mat for barnehjemmet da jeg var forstander. Jeg vaklet - vaklet. Og til slutt, som en passende avslutning på denne skamløse forfølgelsen fra det politiske etablissementet, stormet ni små hjemløse barn - med fjes i alle sjatteringer og stadier av elendighet - opp på plattformen under et offentlig møte, klynget seg rundt mine ben og ropte «FAR!»
Nå var det nok! Jeg kastet inn håndkleet. Jeg kunne ikke leve opp til de krav en guvernørkampanje i delstaten New York stilte, og trakk mitt kandidatur. Jeg signerte brevet bittert:

"Vennlig hilsen en mann som en gang ble regnet som anstendig, men som nå titulerer seg menedsdømt tyv og likskjender, Herr Delirium Tremens Twain, fraværende far til ni løsunger."

Endret 20. oktober av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

About the Gaza conflict

The Norwegian foreign secretary Eide has said many sensible things about the war in Gaza. The people who spread disease and death are the ones who physically block the entrances to hospitals, or who order it done. And we have also seen that this is a tacit and deliberate policy on the part of the Israelis, and that exactly the same things have occurred during previous conflicts. And we have also seen that there already are verdicts against Israeli expansion in international courts, focusing on just this issue. Such methods are used indiscriminately against both children and the elderly. And are therefor unfair. It is essential to protect the integrity of medical professionals working under difficult circumstances, and allow them to do their work. A doctor is after all not a soldier?

[Michaelhe]

[Michaelhe]

I made a new segment for my net radio. 

Endret 28. september av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

I also made this yeasterday

 

[Michaelhe]

This one I recorded today:

 

[Michaelhe]

Noen ganger blir jeg litt desillusjonert av amerikansk politikk. Så jeg oversatte en tekst av Mark Twain om nettopp dette, og leste den inn som lydbok.
NOTE: Let me add something odd about this audiobook I translated & recorded. Facebook would not let me promote it because it mentioned elections. It is by Mark Twain. It does not even take any side, it makes fun of the process.
https://ebok.no/lydboker/skjonnlitteratur/mitt-kandidatur-ved-guvernor-valget-av-mark-twain-michael-henrik-wynn-9788785262073/

[Michaelhe]

“Neither a lender nor..” a poem by Michael Henrik Wynn
When I was elected mayor
I borrowed my neighbor a liter of milk,
and now it is in the public interest that he is shot.

He runs a house of very ill repute,
but those thick walls and velvet curtains
shielded him
from being denounced from my pulpit.
Great sin flourished in the vicinity of our Savior
and not even my finely tuned organ,
accompanied by heavenly voices
of our Sisters of Mercy,
could penetrate his conscience.

Woe! Hear the great bell ring,
summoning the flock.

Woe to any sheep
with furtive smiles!

My congregation has mobilized,
and I have risen to office
on Easter Day,
amidst echoes of “Amen”.

As I now load my pistol,
it is knowing that my father too
has lent that man a liter of milk.

And if our Lord asks for
the morals of my life,
it is: “Neither a lender,
nor a borrower be.”

Endret 19. oktober av Michaelhe