Prozess gegen Donald Trump in New York
Von Hansjürgen Mai
Im Schweigegeldverfahren gegen Ex-US-Präsident Trump gibt es die Eröffnungsplädoyers. Anklage und Verteidigung bieten gänzlich unterschiedliche Sichten.
Schwerpunkt: US-Präsidentschaftswahl 2024
#taz #tageszeitung #Donald #Trump #Stormy #Daniels #US-Justiz #New #York #City #Michael #Cohen #USA
Viel später ist wieder Struktur im Gewohnten hergestellt. Abendluft haucht durch den Flur, zupft an Pflanzen und lässt die Kerzenflammen zittern. Am anderen Ende des Tages schlafen die Fassaden bereits wieder, nur ein leiser Bass von hinter dem Parkplatz lässt die Gegenwart der Nachtwesen erahnen. Man sucht nicht, man findet auch nicht, nur das Jetzt ist genug unter dem unabschätzbaren Himmel und den schemenhaften Wolken. (Wünsche vor dem Traum. Traumwünsche vor dem Morgen.)
Irgendwann im Morgen, ungläubiger Blick auf Uhr und Kalender, in jenen merkwürdigen Minuten, in denen sich Geist und Sinne der Gegenwart und des Ortes gewahr werden und Realität mit Wahrnehmung synchronisieren. Kurzes Schwindelgefühl. Bad. Kaltes Wasser. Unten klappert Spielzeug in der Wanne, ein Flugzeug startet über dem Viertel, nebenan kräht ein Radio in den verregneten, grauen Sonnenaufgang. (Von der Herausforderung, frühen Stunden freundliche Lieder zu singen, wenn die Stimme noch kratzig, die Worte holprig, die Gefühle hart sind. Man sollte vor dem ersten Kaffee nicht zu viel erwarten. Man muss sich Möglichkeiten der Steigerung offenlassen, auch an Wochenenden. Habt es mild heute!)
Der Nachmittag kam und ging. In ihm war weites glattes Blau in endloser Höhe jenseits der Wolkenlinie, das Weißgrau federleichter Gebirge, das neue triste Grau eines Februarnovembers. In ihm war das Prellen eines Basketballs, widerhallend in den Wänden des Hofes, ein klein wenig außer Takt mit den Bässen der Musik von nebenan, was abwechselnd eine ruhige Harmonie und nervösen Stress verströmte. In ihm waren Sturmböen in Bäumen und Büschen und eine Ahnung von Donnergrollen und das vereinzelte Trommeln großer Regentropfen auf Bleche und Schindeln, laut und hart und trotzdem nur eine kurze Episode. Nun kommt die Nachbarschaft wieder zur Ruhe. Der Abend duftet und schmeckt weich und feucht, hat viel der trüben Härte verloren, und das rostrote Kunstlicht zieht immer seine ganz eigene Farbe ins Antlitz des alten Viertels. (Sich selbst bremsen. Sich selbst dabei beobachten. Und versuchen, mit zögernderen Schritten andere Bilder zu sehen.)
#outerworld #later_that_day_later_that_night #where_we_are_we_are #city_nights
#later that day later that night #where we are we are #city nights
Andernorts. Aus der Bahn ergießt sich eine Flut von Menschen auf die engen Bürgersteige, eingehüllt in Wolken von zu schwerem Parfum und zu viel Nähe. Schlangenlinie durch orientierungslose Touristen, wütende Radfahrer und verstellte Gassen. Die Traube uniform gekleideter Jugendlicher überholen, die am gegenwärtig wichtigsten Laden der Marktwirklichkeit auf ihre Bedienung wartet. Sich in der Frage verlieren, wann die Städte zum Parkett für distanzierte, kühle Selbstdarstellung wurden. Und ob manches leichter wäre, würde man selbst auch extrovertierter, rücksichtsloser die Aufmerksamkeit und den Raum einfordern, der einem ja immerhin zusteht. (Weiterrollen, als die Ampel schaltet. Über alte Brücken und einen ruhigen Fluss.)
(Wieder zu spät. In der Wohnung gegenüber ist der Bildschirm soeben erloschen. Unten klappern Schlüssel an der Haustür, die kurz darauf in ihren Angeln quietscht und schließlich dröhnend, hallend ins Schloss fällt. Hier, ferner: Nebenwirkungen des Digitalen. Das merkwürdige Gefühl, diesselbe Notiz in verschiedenen Fenstern geöffnet zu haben, in jedem ein anderer Stand, eine vergessene alte Version, die ihre Zeit überdauert hat. Zudem gilt es herauszufinden woher die Musik kommt, die Quelle für jetzt stummschalten. Und nachdenken, ob man sich erneut viel zu weit in die Nacht vorgewagt hat, noch schlaflos, müde und ohne genügend verbliebenes Licht?)
#outerworld #later_that_day #city_nights #where_we_are_what_we_became
On through a night that's growing colder. Sickle of the new moon, motionless suspended in a hazy sky. Celestial constellations, visible or just envisioned. Rational thoughts, archaic perceptions. Looking into a distance far older than oneself and far greater than ones understanding. (10pm and on. Mind lead astray for a while. Just a few steps from sleep.)
Late afternoon. Always in spring or summer. The challenge of being right here, right now. // 366skies
#366skies #outerworld #smartphonephotography #dresden #city_evening
#city evening
Früher Abend im Aprilsommer, schon wieder. Letzte Reste von Sonne hinter den Giebeln, Nachbarn in der Straße kehren nach Hause zurück, der Moment duftet nach Blüten, Wiese, Erde, erkaltendem Sandstein. Die Ruhe der Parzelle im Rücken, die wieder aufbrechende Hektik des Tages nochmal in aller Wahrnehmung. Lose Enden, die Handlung erfordern. Halboffene Verbindungen ohne angemessene Antwort. Und dazu das Ringen mit Infrastruktur, Konzentration, Prozessen und dem eigenen Selbst, das immer länger braucht, aus dem Schwung zu bremsen. (Mehr Superkräfte, die man dann und wann gern hätte.)
#outerworld #later_that_day_later_that_night #city_at_dusk #where_we_do_what_we_do
#later that day later that night #city at dusk #where we do what we do
Abendsterne. Immer zeitlich begrenzte Phänomene, die die Wahrnehmung kapern, kurzes gebanntes Staunen erzeugen, die Gedanken für atemlose Momente durch weite Leere führen - und dann zu beliebigen Lichtpunkten im Halbdunkel der Großstadtnacht werden. Mild blieb der Tag, trotz des Windes. Gegenüber raucht man auf dem Balkon, verrät sich durch glimmende Stummel und gelegentliche Wortfetzen. Einige Zimmer weiter malt ein Projektor schrille Sequenzen auf die Wände; Verlauf, Farbe, Schnitt lassen selbst in vorsichtigem Abstand ein unangenehmes, unruhiges Gefühl aufkommen. (Noch kein Traum. Dafür braucht es besser andere Bilder.)
Early night. Skies behind city windows. The clouds that are, the clouds that seem to be. // 366skies
#366skies #outerworld #dresden #smartphonephotography #city_nights
#city nights
With the Time Machine in Cologne! #cologne #köln #city #thenandnow #brid... https://youtube.com/shorts/VtgtvXwuS_M?si=NzpRIm6U1GKwLTLk
The #Submerged #City of #Krishna #DISCOVERED - #Dwarka Discover the enigmatic Lost City of Dwarka, an ancient submerged city off the coast of modern-day #Gujarat, #India. Revered in Hindu scriptures as the submerged city from the kingdom of Krishna, Dwarka's existence intertwines myth and #history. Recent underwater explorations have unearthed compelling archaeological evidence, bolstering claims of its historical reality. This legendary city, mentioned in the #Mahabharata, captivates historians and archaeologists. Its discovery offers insights into ancient Indian civilization and corroborates historical narratives. Dwarka's underwater ruins, with stone structures and artifacts, provide a fascinating glimpse into a lost Hindu civilization at the bottom of the sea of India. Explore the mystery and legacy of Dwarka, a pivotal site in India's rich history and mythology. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFmn5yyVRXo
Close to 5pm. The dust, settling. Literally, too. Watching clouds race by, or at least it feels just like that. Listening to a world behind dirty windows. (More items to fill long lists.) Too early for candles. Days that wear unfamiliar colours. Always close to rain.
#planter #cleaning #city #bus #stop #Myphoto
These are photographs from my story 'The Last Bus Ogden.' I live in a building next door to this Downtown, Salt Lake City planter. It was in front of a bus stop where I took buses, and also where a bus took me from Research Park where I worked, to this stop, right by my home. Many people waited for buses, and sat on the edge of the planter. It had been totally trashed. A horrible mess, neglected and abandoned by the property owners. I was disgusted to see it every day. I had called the property owners and asked that they clean it up. I learned that a water pipe in the planter no longer worked. I waited for them to clean it up. They never did. Cigarette butts were thrown in the planter - the planter would catch on fire from all the garbage. The Fire Department would arrive and put out the fires.
So, because I couldn't ignore the sight right in front to my eyes, I adopted the planter and cleaned it up myself. It took weeks. I worked on it after I got off from my job, at night, and on weekends. I wore gloves and a mask. I scrubbed the dirty concrete the best I could, and I also scrubbed off years of graffiti. The side walk in front of the planter was also a mess. I called the City about cleaning it up and they told me it was the responsibility of the property owners by the sidewalk. Well. I already knew nobody was going to be doing that. I cleaned the sidewalk myself. Because there wasn't any water to clean anything, I hauled water in a bucket back and forth from my apartment next door.
Of course people continued to throw their garbage in the planter, and I continued to clean up after them. That's just the way some people are. There could be a trash receptacle right in front of them, but they are too lazy to use it. The graffiti also continued, and I continued to scrub it off.
#ToWrite #flowers #planter #city
The Last Bus To Ogden
Last year I wrote “The angels were up in the night casting handfuls of pearls on neglected and forsaken ground…”
That time is here again, and I saw beautiful Morning Glories, also known as Moon Flowers, this morning while I was on a campus shuttle bus going to work. I said to myself,
“The angels were up in the night casting handfuls of pearls on neglected and forsaken ground.”
When I look at them, I can always hear sweet, high, little voices singing, like flowers in a beautiful Walt Disney cartoon-
“Good Morning! Good Morning! We love you. Have a wonderful day.”
As I looked at them, I remembered an old drunk man I met one night in front of a UTA bus stop, when I was working in the Social Hall planter in downtown Salt Lake City. I had adopted this forsaken planter. He rode up on his bicycle, huffed and puffed, and said it was a steep hill. He was wearing shorts, his legs were tanned, and he looked to be in good shape in spite of the fact that he was old, drunk as a skunk, and stinking to high Heaven. I thought if that’s what riding a bicycle can do for you, I should buy one and get my own self in shape. He sat on the edge of the concrete planter and was taken aback, and then delighted when by the light of a streetlight, he saw all the flowers I had planted in the planter. Thinking that he must be in the middle of some kind of alcohol induced delusion, he asked me what the names of the flowers and other plants were, and why was I out there late at night working in a flower garden? I told him the names of the flowers, and how I had adopted the abandoned Downtown planter, and it wasn’t my property. I explained that it was better, and easier to work at night when it was cooler, and there wasn’t a crowd of people around the planter waiting for their buses. He asked if he could help me, and plant a flower. I said he could, so he dug a hole in the dirt with his hands and planted a flower.
He enjoyed it all so much that I suggested that he should plant a garden where he lived. He explained that he once had a home and a wife, and back then he also had a garden that he tended. He said his wife slept during most of the day, and working in the garden was how he kept busy. But she died. He put his head down and was silent. Then, he told me that now he lived by a river in Ogden, and it wasn’t his property so he couldn’t plant anything. I got the feeling that he must live in some kind of tent, or lean-to. I pictured him being cold in the Winter.
The old man said all he had left was the VA Hospital he goes to, and that’s where he was earlier in the day. He had been in the Army in World War II. He showed me the battle and surgery scars on one knee, and said he lived in pain all the time. I thought perhaps his physical pain was one reason he had turned to heavy drinking. His doctor appointment was the reason he had traveled from Ogden to Salt Lake City on the bus. A trip that took an hour or longer. Now, he was waiting for the last bus to Ogden. That sounded like the name of a song to me, or a movie title. “The Last Bus To Ogden.” He asked if he could plant another flower and I told him no because he was much too drunk, and would accidentally damage them. He asked me why I was so mean. I could almost hear him gently saying those words to his deceased wife. I told him it was my job to care for the flowers. Understanding the responsibility of having a job to do, and the condition he was in, he shook his head “Yes” and didn’t argue with me about planting anything.
Then he said,
“… most people think of them as weeds, but I really liked them…they’re little, white, pretty flowers…”
"..Morning Glories?"
“Yes. That’s them. I really like them.”
“I like them too. Shall I plant some here for you?”
“…No…I used to work for the Forest Service for many years…wildflowers are the most beautiful…out there where they belong…in their own natural setting…it wouldn’t be right to have them here.”
He spoke in a sober, serious, intelligent Forest Ranger kind of way, deserving of respect, and not like an old, drunk man, on his way alone in the dark, to finally fall down beside a river and go to sleep.
The next day as I was walking with a co-worker to a Deli for lunch, I mentioned to him, because he knows about trees and gardens, that I really liked Morning Glories. I said I had been thinking about digging up a few plants from the nearby open field where we worked, and planting them in the Social Hall planter. He replied,
“No…you don’t want to do that. They’re weeds, and their roots go way, way down. You’d have a hard time digging up one. Why would you want to put weeds in a flower garden? They sell ornamental Morning Glories-they look good.”
My co-worker was correct. Ornamental Morning Glories are very pretty flowers, but somehow they remind me of a bowl of plastic apples, oranges, bananas and grapes that sat in the center of an aunt’s dining room table. Real-but not real. But maybe I’ll get over that one day, and plant some orientals in the Social Hall planter. It’s silly to keep an unreasonable thing in your mind. You know, get over it!
My co-worker was also correct about the wild Morning Glories having very deep roots. I did get out there in that dusty, dirty forsaken field, and dig up some plants, with their long vines, and the flowers that I loved so much. It took over an hour and it was hard work. I transported the wild Morning Glories home on a bus, in a large grocery store paper bag, with their roots wrapped up in wet paper towels. It was rather thrilling to have this treasure in my own personal possession-to be mine, to look at and enjoy to my heart’s content.
Once home, I put the wild Morning Glories in Mason jars and vases filled with water. I also filled up one side of my kitchen sink with water, and put more of them in the sink. They were all doing just fine, and I must have looked at them a hundred times.
I put the vines that were in jars and vases out on my second story window ledge of the Downtown building where I live. To see and touch this little bit of wild Nature was wonderful. When the Sun went down, the little Morning Glory flowers folded up and disappeared within the leaves of the vines!! I was thrilled! When my alarm went off the next morning, I raced to the kitchen to look at the Morning Glories I had in the sink filled with water. All the little white flowers were in full bloom.
“Good Morning! Good Morning! We love you. Have a wonderful day.”
Some had a slight touch of pink on them, and others had a touch of light blue. All-so beautiful to me. The flowers that were out on the window ledge were also in full bloom. I was very happy.
I kept the wild Morning Glories with me for over a week, and knew I would have to plant them soon or they would die. But in thinking about it, I had to agree with the old man, the Forest Ranger, that they were at their most beautiful in their own natural environment. It was selfish of me to have them. And, the Social Hall planter was no longer a neglected, forsaken piece of ground. It had me to love and care for it, so they really didn’t belong in the planter.
I transported the wild Morning Glories, “a heavenly gift to barren and forsaken places”, back to the barren field where I had dug them up. I planted them, and watered them every day until I was sure they would be alright. I looked at them when I was passing by, and a few times I walked out into the field for a closer look. Winter snow covered them, and then one Spring day, bulldozers were bulldozing the large, empty field-smoothing it all out. The Morning Glories were plowed under. I walked out there and asked one of the workmen what was happening. A new medical clinic was going to be built there. I thought of the old Forest Ranger, taking a bus from Ogden to go to a doctor appointment in Salt Lake City. Maybe one day his doctor would send him to the new clinic that was to be built? And as he sat in the waiting room, he would look at the clock on the wall, and think about making the…last bus to Ogden.
