Free Write-Knowledge

 

 This is where Mary Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein lived in Cologny, Switzerland

Rick's prompt was "How dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge?" asked by Mary Shelley. She lived in the next village to where we were writing. We passed the house on the way to our Tuesday Free Write.

Rick's Free Write

Is knowledge power?

Or does ignorance lead to power?

Perhaps both could be true.

The powerful exploit the ignorant.

So the danger of knowledge acquisition is that the powerful lose their hold over the no-longer ignorant.

Yet knowledge itself is not enough.

You might be able to win a trivia game show.

But can you overcome a powerful corrupt boss or politician?

The key is the knowledge of how to best apply your knowledge. How to play the system and the rules lawfully to maneuver the powerful into self-destruction.

What good is a Frankenstein without a brain to control it?

What good is protest if no one listens? If no one acts? If nothing changes?

If nothing changes, what value is the power of knowledge?

Would we be better off as ignorant sheep, oblivious?

Time to flip the switch.

 Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.

D-L's Free Write 

"How dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge?" Martha stood in front of her class of high school seniors, slumped in their seats sulking because she'd confiscated their mobiles.

 She didn't think these kids would ever be in danger. They seemed to treat learning like it was a disease.

They weren't bad kids. At least she hoped they weren't. She thought of old movies like To Sir With Love staring Sydney Poitier who turned almost delinquents into motivated students.

 "Come on. Someone say something."

Nothing.

"Jason?"

Nothing.

"Think if a husband finds out his wife has been cheating," Martha said.

"That's why my parents are divorced," Amy said. 

"Sounds like one of those stupid chick flicks," Adam said.

 For the rest of the class, they argued about chick flicks against guy flicks. 

When the bell rang the class erupted from the room.

Martha sat at her desk. Why bother, she wondered, but then decided she would not give up.

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. https://dlnelsonwriter.com Her 300 Unsung Women will be published this month.

JuIia's Free Write

She knew that she would have to be careful, but her whole being strived and longed to learn.

Never mind that she lived in a country where women were forbidden an education, prevented from even buying books.

For a while her mother and a couple of aunts had tried within private homes, but when one aunt disappeared, they became too afraid.

He had been born up in the hills, far from civilization – if one can call it that with all the daily killings – no books, no means of even obtaining pencil or paper.

He was taught by one elder who had been off the mountain – secretly, twig and sand serving as supports to learn letters.

They both managed to obtain a basic capacity to read and write, something which would eventually allow them to save their own histories for a time when learning might become accepted again.

“How dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge.”  A question posed by Mary Shelly. In both their cases they would have paid with their lives had it been known that they were acquiring knowledge.

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

 

 

DEI is like spaghetti

 

Diversity, Equity and Inclusion

DEI is like spaghetti. "Hun?" you say.

Think of it this way. You can cook pasta and throw a can of tomatoes on top and eat it.

Or you can sauté onions, garlic, green pepper in olive oil. Maybe even add aubergines or other veggies. Meats such as ground beef, pork, sausages may be cooked before adding the tomatoes and fresh basil, maybe some fresh or dried oregano. Different cooks vary the spices but they could include cinnamon, thyme and parsley. Some add sugar to counteract any acidity in the tomatoes. It's best when it is left to simmer for a few hours.

What has DEI got to do with spaghetti?

DEI eliminates any formal attempt to balance the make up of an organization, leaving white men in charge or just a can of tomatoes on pasta.  

The plain dish is limited, without imagination. The dish with many ingredients is rich and contains many more nutrients.

DEI implies that by considering women, minorities, other nationalities and those with disabilities, they have less to offer white males are discriminated against. Recently, the accomplishments of women have even been erased from public places. 

The government also wants schools and university to eliminate DEI programs which helps individual students succeed in their education no matter their background, language, race of disability, guaranteeing these kids have a harder time reaching their full potential throughout their lives.

What including those people categorized as DEI means is that their strengths and talents are not adding their talents and ideas to the sauce making it less rich and certainly less interesting.

Eliminating DEI is a waste of the spices that sit on the shelf and the fresh herbs that grow in the garden. Wasting resources at best is stupid.

DEI asks that an organization does not automatically eliminate anyone not white. In other words, look at them.

As a woman I benefited from DEI, although I was told, it was too bad I wasn't also a black, handicapped Latino so he could check off more boxes. And I was the most qualified among the applicants. Another boss said he preferred to hire women, because we worked harder for less money. As a manager I was encouraged to hire DEI applicants. I was able to because often they were the best candidate and brought their expertise and viewpoints to our organization.

Finding the best candidate for a job is not easy. There is a tendency to hire in one's own image which makes for a can of tomatoes on pasta type of organization. Eliminating DEI guarantees it.

Nobody is right if everyone's wrong

 

The paragraph below is not my writing, but when a friend wrote this and posted it on Facebook, she captured everything I feel. I have hard pressed to scream loudly enough I'm pro Palestinian without seeming antisemitic, even though Palestinians are a Semitic people. Semitic is one of those words whose meaning has been corrupted and limited.

Thank you Susan for capturing what I feel and letting me share it.

I am NOT antisemetic but I am against what the government of Israel is doing to Gaza and the Palestinian people. I am also against what Hamas did to the people of Israel on Oct 7 and the death and torture they administered to all of the hostages. Nobody's right if Everybody's wrong. The absolute hatred and cruelty is appalling and should be condemned by everyone in the world. We just had 30 young students face criminal charges at the University of Washington for protesting Israel's treatment of the Palestinian people. So, it would appear in the United States, we can't even object to this abject cruelty. No end in sight and everyone just sits around, reads the news, and talk about how happy they are it's not them. WELL FOLKS! This is American under the MAGA thugs. It is you! Right here! Right now!

Why read?

 

As a human I read for joy, comfort, knowledge and/or information, inspiration, procrastination, escapism and many other reasons. Sometimes, when I find a book tedious, I don't finish it, but if I have to find out how a story ends, I plug on. Reading adds dimension to my already rich life.

As a writer there are times when I'm reading that I see how another writer uses a certain technique such as where they show don't tell, lay the groundwork for the climax, interweave a philosophy into the story. Other times the characters, living or imaginary, take up resident along with the characters of whatever I am working on and talk to me when I'm doing dishes, taking a shower, playing with the dog, or riding in the car.

I have just started Barbara Kingslover's Unsheltered and already I'm living with Willa, Zeke and Tig. Describing a character's appearance has been overdone in many ways such as she looked in the mirror as she brushed her long red hair.

I read a paragraph where on page 26 in 85 words she described her husband, son, herself, her feelings about her marriage and their ethnic backgrounds.

"People remarked on his resemblance to his father, and superficially it was true: he has the height and shoulders, the trustworthy wide-set eyes. 'Molded in the image of his papa,' the Greek relatives gushed each time they saw Zeke. and Willa wouldn't argue--she loved the mold. The shape of her husband in a doorway could still bump her heart. But Zeke's ash-blond coloring was all Willa's, and so was everything inside: a handsome Greek mold with pale stuff of a duty bound maternal line."

Absolutely brilliant.

 

Mobiles can cut quality of life

One woman is checking her mobile. The other is day dreaming. I wonder if she feels the sea breeze and smells the salt air while she plans her next trip to Paris and thinks of the beautiful flowers she saw in the flower shop she passed on the way to the beach? Does her friend with the mobile notice any thing around her?

How often do you check your mobile? According to an article by  Trevor Wheelwright "The average American checks their phone 205 times a day, or almost once every five minutes while we’re awake."

That's far less than a BBC report which "found that adults in the US check their phones, on average, 344 times a day once every four minutes – and spend almost three hours a day on their devices in total."

I'm in the minority because I hate my mobile, which can do everything my laptop can and I don't need my laptop with me when I'm out of the house. 

Very few people have my number. They have other ways to reach me. Most of the time my phone is off so spam calls don't interrupt my day dreaming or observations of life all around me.

Today I was waiting in the driveway for a friend to pick me up. The blue sky against the green of a tree was spectacular. Birds were singing.  Flowers were beginning to bud in the rock garden. 

If I'd been looking at my phone I'd have missed all that. 

I consider myself a gold medalist day dreamer when I'm not observing everything around me. I can plan this or that, write my next chapter, a haiku, or a blog in my head. I can imagine a painting I love. I don't need to be reminded of the latest horrendous thing Trump did or whatever is happening in any of the current wars. I'll look at that stuff later.

To be fair to mobiles, in the Japanese restaurant, it was really handy to check the name of a person that neither of us could remember, but we weren't going to waste the precious time we have face-to-face on the phone.I've never understood why people who are together are looking at their phones. Mobiles are good when I'm meeting someone to tell them where I am or if I'll be late. They are good for emergencies, mine or those I witness, which is so seldom, it has never happened. Maybe that's why the Germans call mobiles Handy. 

My mobile was handy when I saw a straw nest on the way to the restaurant because I could take a photo. But, if I'd been engrossed in my mobile, would I have noticed it at all?

300 Unsung Women now Published

Often ignored, their significant contributions attributed to others or ignored, these 300 women fought against gender barriers to fulfill the potential they knew they had. Many suffered indignities in their quest such as the woman who won the right to teach IF she sat behind a barrier so the men wouldn't see her.

Inventors, activists, lawyers, doctors, scientists, historians and more these brief biographies highlight their struggles.

With the Trump administration removing women’s names from history, or trying to, it is especially important that they are not forgotten.

 The book is available at www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504

 

Eating/Stereotypes/Uneavesdropping

 

le Cottage - Geneva, Switzerland

Definition of stereotypes: generalized beliefs about the attributes, characteristics and behaviors of a group. One stereotype of overseas Americans by locals is that they speak louder than other nationalities.

We had a perfect example of the vocal activities of Americans yesterday when we ate at Le Cottage, a lovely little restaurant not far from Lake Léman. Rather than calm, the lake had white caps. It felt more like early March than May, certainly not a day to enjoy the terrace.

Inside the restaurant, the windowsill is lined with books. Drawings of people like Mao and Emily Dickinson hang on the walls. Windows look out on the mini park and the tomb of the Duke of Brunswick. It was a bit crowded. One table, ours, remained. I had reserved it for 2.5 people (Sherlock, our dog, my husband and me). 

The undercurrent of conversation was normal for any crowded restaurant with the exception of the two women seated next to us, whom we quickly identified as Americans by the volume with which they were talking. 

Geneva is a city where 43% of the population is from another country. We guessed the women were accompanying wives by their casual non-working clothing: quality slacks and sweaters. Accompanying wives are married to men who spend a few years assigned with a UN agency, NGOs or international corporation. These women often can't find work in Geneva and put their careers on hold and use the time to be a stay-at-home mom. Yes, we were stereotyping.

Our second clue they might be American was the insertion of the word "like" every few words. 

How do we know? 

We heard very word of their conversation at a level that made our own conversation difficult unless we lip read, which we don't do.

Thus we knew the woman next to me was divorced and wasn't unhappy about it. She had some kind of hearing coming up. I was tempted to ask more details but resisted. She would attend some 50th wedding anniversary celebration of a Japanese couple which she was looking forward to. If the waitress had not brought my Nordic salmon salad, I would have heard why she was thinking of bringing her mother over.

The woman next to my husband talked far less but she recounted "...like I drop Kevin off to like karate..." She spoke more about her kids. Her face was animated, and she used her hands a lot.

The women couldn't accuse us of eavesdropping because the only way we could have not heard would to have put in earplugs.  

They finished before we did and left smiling. It was more than a guess that they had a thoroughly enjoyable time, a good thing. They had been totally unaware of their volume and the couple next to them had an insight into their private lives. I don't know if the couple on the other side were anglophone or not and if they had the same insights we did.

My husband and I looked at each other. I wasn't sure if he was annoyed or not that any luncheon chitchat of our own was impossible. Then I said, "do I have a blog in this." We laughed, and ordered a cheesecake with a raspberry coulis and two forks for dessert which we ate as we chatted.

 

 

Free Write -- People on Stairs

The prompt for this week's Free Write was an old black and white photo. For the first time since January all three participants were in the same country. The immediacy of reading what each person wrote during the allotted ten minutes, rather than wait until they are all entered into this blog, adds another dimension.

 D-L's Free Write

Maggie sneezed several times triggered by the attic's dust. Her sneezes were almost glass breaking in force.

It wasn't her attic. She was helping her friend Deborah clean out her 97-year old aunt's house, not because she wanted to, but Deborah had helped her get rid of her mother's things when her mother had died. She owed her friend.

One more box. When she opened it, she found it filled with black and white photos. Many had edges that looked as if they were cut with pinking shears. 

She sneezed several more times.

"You okay?" Deborah poked her head through the trapdoor opening.

"Look at this," Maggie pointed to a large box.

"Wow."

***** 

The two women had removed the empty teapot and their empty mugs from the kitchen table and started to sort the photos.

There was one with 14 people sitting on the stairs of a wooden house.

Most of the other photos seemed to be of the same people through the ages based on clothing and cars: Model T, a woodie and one with fins. They put them into piles for each person.

"I'm guessing the man on the bottom stair, far right, was my great grandfather when he was young. I was eight when he died," Deborah said.

"Any one else you recognize?" 

"Maybe it was Auntie Agnes next to him."

When they finished sorting, Deborah had only been able to identify about half the people.

"What are you going to do with them?" Maggie asked.

"Give them to my brother."

"What will he do with them?"

"Plan to use them to write a family saga, I bet. Of course, he won't. They'll end up stashed away in his attic."

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. https://dlnelsonwriter.com Her 300 Unsung Women will be published this month.

Julia's Free Write

Wow June, how did you manage?

I can’t believe it!

All five brothers – I was sure that John and Jim would kill each other if they ever had to be together again.

And all the women smiling – what did you bribe cousin Agatha with? She almost looks like she won the lottery – oh wait, you didn’t pay her, did you?

And there is poor little Emil; he obviously simply couldn’t be separated from his favorite uncle.

However, I don’t recognize the location. Did you have to call them all together in neutral territory?

Whatever it took, you are to be applauded as your photo of the Smith family “in toto” will be the only one in existence: to be treasured not only by the current participants, but also by all generations to come.

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

Rick's Free Write

7 men, 6 women, and a young boy.

One house.

They had emigrated from the old country, one or two at a time, except for the child, the first one born in the new land.

By boat. Through Ellis Island.

The parents who brought them were now gone.

It had been their house originally, bought after years of sweat in the tannery, preparing leather for shoes.

Most likely the chemical fumes led to early graves.

But the offspring stayed together, grew up, married, started their own families.

Found better jobs, safer jobs as a vacuum salesman, a car dealer, a plumber, an electrician.

Antonio, they said, would be the first of the family to go to college. They had 12 years to save for that day.

In the summers they primarily lived on the porch, It was airy. There was always a breeze.

They could watch the neighborhood go by.

Friends would come to sit, have an espresso or a beer, depending on the time of day and gender.

It was the family home, and always would be.

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com    He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pinning Socks

 

Despite living together for a dozen years, my husband and I have had almost no major disagreements. If we do, we usually can talk them through to a solution. Compared to many couples our disagreements are minor.

• I'm a stronger disciplinarian with Sherlock, our dog. The dog benefits by playing my husband.
• A trash can didn't belong under the sink.
• The number of times the cuckoo clock strikes the hour.
• I'm a neat freak, he's not. 
• Pinning socks.

Yes, you read that right. Pinning socks.

Starting in the 70s, my housemate at the time pinned his socks together eliminating any jokes about the washing machine eating one. 

I started doing the same leaving the pin in one sock all the time. My husband refuses to do it citing the chance of the pin sticking him. I admit he has a point. It does happen. It happen to me three times in some 50 years. 

I compare that prick with the ease of pulling my socks out of the washer, attached rather than searching for mates. Mathematically, I'm under-wonderful. Still I figure at two or three washes a week with up to five pairs of socks, the time spent matching them, which could vary from seconds  to several minutes times 52 times 50 that totals a lot of wasted time. Never mind the frustration and the chance of never finding the runaway sock.

My husband and I do share chores. When it is my turn on laundry, I refuse to match his socks.

Sounds childish? Nope. In almost every other thing we do I will go along with his ideas. But a girl, okay, an old woman, has to take a stand some where. I didn't say, "I told you so, they should have been pinned" when he lost one special sock. The pair held a special memory of a special time with his daughter in London. I wanted to, though.

Not a day goes by that I don't appreciate how few problems, maybe not problems but mini glitches, my marriage has. Thus, I'll pin my socks and he wont, and we'll talk down the street hand in hand to our favorite café for a cuppa.

Ingolf Gabold 1942-2025

 

In the late 1990s and early 2000, I thought of Argelès as Copenhagen South in July/August because there were so many Danish television and entertainment industry people vacationing in my little French village.

Always standing out was Ingolf Gabold in his black clothes and hat as he sauntered through the village. He was one of those people that oozed charisma by breathing.

A bookstore owner friend had introduced me to him and his lovely wife Kikka, a doctor. She usually dressed in white.

The first couple of years they rented a house belonging to another Danish director across the street from me. Our street was just about a small-car wide with 300 to 400-year old houses on both sides. At the time most of the residents were Catalan or French and not too happy about the foreigners that took over the village. Ingolf and Kikke threw a street party and changed the ambiance of the street forever. Neighbors started talking to me and often asked when Ingolf would be back. They brought their daughters with whom become friends.

Later Ingolf and Kikke  rented a house that I had once owned and was then owned by another Danish producer. There were so many lovely apèros on the rooftop of the house that included French and Danish treats, often champagne and local wine.

Most of their friends were from the entertainment industry. They welcomed me and in deference to me spoke English and/or French so I wouldn't be left out.

English was the language Ingolf and I used. We discussed my writing, his writing. He read my books. I couldn't read his writing in Danish. 

He convinced me to go to Iceland where he'd done a lot of filming and why. He was right.

We talked about his children and my daughter, who had chatted with him in German. No subject was off limits. 

I learned his theories on drama, which he taught to others in the industry. What I didn't know was that he was knighted by the Danish Prince. For all his talent and accomplishments, he could be humble, almost as if he were surprised by his talent and success. He was an Emmy winner. Anglophones will know him for the series Killer, which was adapted for American television and Borgen, about a Danish woman  prime minister, which became a popular Netflix series. He never bragged. To anyone who met him, he was a man in black hat.

Easter, Christmas, summer, autumn we would hope Ingolf and Kikke would be visiting. 

After retirement Ingolf and Kikke spent more time in the studio they had found to rent long term. Whenever we saw them walking down the street on their first day back, it was a call for celebration. Our last evening together was for a dinner together in November. Two other neighbors joined us and it was, as always a wonderful evening.

Ingolf was born in Germany during WWII. He told me his mother moved to Denmark and warned him not to speak German. After his parents divorced he saw little of his father. 

A graduate of the Danish Royal Academy of Music, he was known as a composer and for his music.

A week ago, an Irish neighbor sent me a video of Ingolf, who was at a dinner that she had when we were in Switzerland so we missed it. He sang Opera.

He died 1May at age 83. Today during the marché as we sat at the tables behind l'Hostalet. People who knew him, talked about him with a mixture of sadness, memories, and the pleasure he brought us.

In this blog, which is not an obituary but is a personal reflection of what he meant to me. There is a heaviness, I feel that I will never again know the pleasure of walking by L'Hostalet and he will motion me over and we will talk as we share a glass of wine. We will never again share a meal. I'll never again have a new channel in my mind opened by what he has said.

I was happy to hear that Kikke, his adored wife of over 40 years, is planning to come to the village the summer with the children.

 Thank you for enriching my life, friend.

To read some of the press coverage of the death of this remarkable man, of remarkable talent and who led a remarkable life there are :

• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJM75yy_aXA (French)
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=at_9xLCnDjw (English)
  

I hate lying UPS Part II

The saga goes on. 

In the first part, I hate UPS https://theexpatwriter.blogspot.com/2025/04/i-hate-ups.html explained how a book we'd ordered from the UK had not been delivered despite three attempts and that no one was home, 

Lies: one, two, three...My husband and I work from home. It is a small flat facing a narrow street. The dog would have barked even if we were asleep, except we don't sleep during the day. Nothing was left in the mailbox. There is no way delivery could have been attempted.

We learned that the package was in Perpignan about 20 minutes from Argelés. They refused to take it to a delivery point in the village. The next delivery was said to be refused. No, that wasn't true. We never refused a mythical delivers.

After much work, we finally were told by a human that it would be delivered between 4 and 6. It wasn't. Then we were told it would be delivered by 7 pm. (19h). It wasn't. Lies five and six.

Thursday was a holiday. We didn't expect anything.

Friday, this morning. We are now told the package is in Montpellier. For American readers that's like they sent the package from Boston which was due to be delivered in Maine to New York. They proposed a Monday delivery. 

"No, no, no." We won't be here for another three weeks starting Sunday.

Despite telling them no, the program said it will be delivered the 26^th when we will be in another country.

They can't reroute to Switzerland. They can't leave it at a UPS office in the village or any other UPS location where we can pick it up.

I heard UPS is laying off 20,000 people. If this is their level of service, the people responsible for lying and lack of service are among them.  

Earlier in my career, I headed up the customer service department of a large financial institution. If a customer had a problem we would make it right. If I were working for UPS, I'd find the package and drive it to the customer. 

There is something terribly wrong with their system when logical solutions not only don't work, solutions offered are based on lies.