THERE WAS A TIME, OH PILGRIM, WHEN THE STONES WERE NOT SO SMOOTH
THE END
07 01 2022
595 pp. 174,838 words
The Ghost of Kafka walks
(not stalks)
The streets
Of Prague.
Prague,
(The place he would/could
Never leave
Until the last
Half year of his life)
He described as:
“The little Mother has claws.”
Which she did.
For him.
He managed
(In the last half year of his life)
To escape to Berlin
During one of
The
Worst times
Anyone could live
In Berlin
Until the end of the
Second World War.
But
That was years
Away.
But he escaped
With a young
Lover,
Which made things
So much
Better.
But his Ghost only
Walks
The streets of
Prague
Whereas
Kafka’s Ghost
Stalks
The rest of
The World.
~ D. E. BA U.E.
I have noted some folk looking at this post from a couple of years ago. I had put it up because of the success of the television series, A Handmaid’s Tale.
Now, Ms. Atwood has produced a new novel, The Testaments, [which, by the way, has a brilliant front and back cover] with an international launch from London, England. I can humbly state that my part in her literary life remains the same.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was not my intent to piss off Margaret Atwood.
The opposite, in fact. I wanted her to know she was an inspiration.
She was giving a reading at the University of New Brunswick in my student days. I attended, but there was quite the gathering and she was whisked away at the end. However, I overheard there was a ‘gathering’ in her honour. Invitation only, of course. Academia and literati.
I crashed the party (that was the term used by the professor who clapped his sturdy hand upon my shoulder but – happily – did not thrust me into the night).
But Ms. Atwood was kept deep in many a learned conversation and I had no opportunity to converse. I did, however, overhear where she would be spending next afternoon – the historic University Observatory.
Next day I knocked upon the Observatory door.
It was not a cheerful Margaret Atwood who answered, and answered with alacrity.
She asked my name.
She asked my business.
And she asked how the hell I knew where she was. She had stolen the day to do some writing. Some ‘real’ writing, in this window-of-opportunity grudgingly offered on the book tour.
At least I was there to praise Atwood and not to bury her with some essay question.
Nor had I a manuscript to hand to her.
I might not have garnered a smile, but her curt thank you was reward enough.
For me, at least.
In my novel, The Rags Of Time, travel to the outer edges of Earth’s solar system has been accomplished. But the Moon still holds its sway – literally.
To celebrate Moon Day, here is a segment from my written ascent through the heavens. My crew are returning from their trip to the outer reaches of our solar system. and something goes awry. There is no Huston to contact, but there is a problem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is a navigator’s moon.
That is how Eric the Red thinks of it, as his space craft enters Earth’s solar system. He is called Eric the Red for his facial hair, and his ancestry. But behind his back, his romantic notions of the ancient ways is more the reason for his name.
Even when they fly past it, Earth’s moon generates little influence upon their return. A minor compensation of the thrusters, and its only effect on the ship, is the ritualistic kiss which crew members bestow against the aft window for the man in the moon. However, as soon as his gravity sensors register the distant presence of Pluto, Eric the Red enhances their output to catch the faintest twinge of the Earth’s moon.
His navigator’s moon.
Tomorrow, Eric will alter course to sweep past Pluto’s satellite, Charon. He plans to use the combined gravity as a sling to amplify his own trajectory, although he will lose some directional control to achieve speed.
Opportunities to observe this unknown planet are still scarce, and he makes adjustments to confront the dual gravity. He decides to attempt the `Film Technique’, which met with success among the moons of Jupiter. The Technique is named after the way film had been threaded in the antique movie projectors of the Twentieth Century.
He plans to wind through the gravities of the various moons, in such a manner that each helps accelerate his ship around the next. There are many factors to consider which affect the interplay of gravities between solar bodies. And they will, in turn, exert their control over his vessel. At times like this Eric wonders how much really has been learned since the existence of gravity was acknowledged.
**************************************************************************************
Eric the Red decides to get back to business. He keys the delay coordinates for the radioscope, and checks his map.
“Follow through on your consoles.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll admit, Malcolm, the surprises of Pluto will be inconvenient to experience. Until the surface is accurately defined, I agree it’s too dangerous for a landing.”
“Transfer at fifty percent, sir.”
“Acknowledged.” The captain glances at the various instruments. “As you know, our probes to Pluto can not be retrieved.”
“That might not be due to the surface, sir.”
“True. There seems to be an electro-gravitational bind.” Eric the Red looks intently at his view screen. “Reason enough to keep our distance.” He magnifies the image in front of him. “Personally, I feel as uncomfortable attempting a landing on Pluto, as I would setting out to explore Eris.”
“The mysterious tenth planet.” Malcolm whistles softly into his microphone. “That might be for our children, sir. The scientists don’t even understand the orbital path of Eris. I don’t imagine I’ll ever get to look at its surface.”
“You sound interested.”
“Eris is intriguing. During its centuries of orbit, it has penetrated space far more deeply than we ever have.”
*************************************************************************************
The Captain turns to again look at Pluto.
“If it’s not internal, then it must be external.”
He shifts the image of Pluto to a larger screen.
“Although, quite frankly, that concept isn’t much better than its alternative.”
He tries to sharpen the focus on the large screen. After a minute of adjusting the controls, he shrugs his shoulders in failure.
“That indistinct picture is not due to our sensors. Have the other stations turn their view screens to Pluto. See if they get the same results.”
“Yes, sir.”
While Malcolm checks with the other observation officers, Eric the Red again runs a sweep of his instruments. As he thoroughly goes over each one, he pays attention to the responses received by his first officer. It is quickly apparent the same fuzzy image appears over the whole ship.
“Any ideas, Number One?”
“I think our movement is being disrupted.” Malcolm looks at the same sequence of instruments. “I’d guess there’s agitation in our centrifugal rotation.” He peers closely at the view screen. “It can’t be much. Our artificial gravity doesn’t seem affected.”
“You don’t look in danger of floating away.” The captain smiles. “So I doubt this explains my `light-headedness’.”
“No, sir.” Malcolm can not tell how serious the older man is. “The rotation alteration is minimal. It is just enough to make our cameras waver.” He taps the view screen. “Considering how sensitive they are, I would judge this force to be weak.”
“Any guess what it is?”
“No data suggests a malfunction within the ship.” Malcolm moves a dial a millimetre. “Which leaves an outside cause.”
“Well.” The captain leans so close his nose touches the view screen. “I think we’re being influenced by the mysterious Tenth.”
“Eris?”
“Yes.” He turns back to his first officer. “With Pluto and Charon positioned the way they are, and our attempt to execute the Hohmann-ellipse to take advantage of the Film Technique, we may have added the weight of Iris to our backs.”
“The alignment shouldn’t be intense enough to – ”
“Iris is so perversely inconsistent, it doesn’t have to fit into our ideas of alignment to make itself felt.” The captain makes some inclusions into the library computer. “After all, we’re the ones entering its sphere of influence.”
“It is a minor influence.” The first officer makes some quick calculations in his head. “We could accept a reduction of our artificial gravity for the duration of the manoeuvre.”
“That’s a viable option.” Eric the Red looks up co-ordinates to enter into the computer. “But we can negate the problem without weakening our reserves.” He inserts a bar of information into the computer. “Run an evaluation of our solar cells.”
“Yes, sir.”
Malcolm walks to the banks of light-activated monitors surrounding the doorway. He takes a laser probe from his instrument pouch, and traces it across a screen. As the figures appear, he reads them aloud. Most are at full capacity.
“Do you see what I’m getting at, Number One?”
“Yes, sir. We use some of this power to counter the effect of Eris.”
“Exactly.” The captain smiles. “We don’t touch our reserve fuel, and we replenish the solar storage during our last month of earth approach.”
The captain pauses to read a number off his computer screens. He performs some equations on his hand-calculator, then turns to look at his first officer.
“If the Film Technique is successful, we’ll save nine to fourteen days.”
Eric takes a binder from under his work station, and flips through its pages. He enters data into both his computer and his calculator, and talks over his shoulder.
“If we use solar packs A7, A12, A17, K12, K13, O2, O5, S37, then form a Perpetual Loop between the GOT Terminal and the S37 Positive Outtake, we’ll only exhaust 252 of the solar cells. The depletion will be uniform, and restricted to known sectors.”
Malcolm is also doing calculations from the laser screens. He doesn’t look up as he speaks.
“That will give us more excess power than necessary to confront the drag from Iris.”
“Yes.” The captain closes the binder. “But with the Loop, we have the option of creating a surge to replenish some used cells, instead of venting the surplus.” He swivels around in his chair. “We should begin the manoeuvre at the first opportune time.”
“That will be five hours and thirty-seven minutes.” Malcolm crosses the floor to stand beside the captain.
“Advise the crew, and have them double monitor until we correct the interference of our rotation.”
03 July is Kafka’s birthday. Celebrations are running rampant in the world.
Hearty renditions of “Hip hip hooray” with an exuberant “Huzzah!”, echo through every major city, and each quiet hamlet.
And this year, I will dive (and then delve) into the new book containing all of Kafka’s various drawings. Some are a tad odd.
I have written Franz the following letter (as yet, unanswered).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Present / Your Future
Still in this World
A Life Away
Dear F:
You would find it perverse to be wished a “Happy” birthday, but your response would be gracious. Such is the reality you understand, and how you deal with it. I have found that your reality is actually real.
Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.
Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies which run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held their sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.
Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better. You have thrown up your hands to ward off the snake. Sometimes – some few times – it loosens its grip.
Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.
Sex is highly over rated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be had. Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.
There is no castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.
Except the grave, of course.
Except the grave.
Yours,
D
~~~~~~~~~~~
And, 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.
Let us contemplate
The EARTH we walk upon
For a day,
And a lifetime.
And hope that
That lifetime
Will be ours
And not the EARTH.
For the EARTH
After centuries,
And millennia,
And the speck
From which it sprang,,
Whether through Genesis,
Or the Big BANG,
(Both of which are
eerily similar)
Is
– let’s face it –
Getting pissed off!
From the molten lava
Heaving into the heavens,
To the storms at sea
And one on EARTH.
All giving us
Fair warning
Of
Just who
Is in charge.
DE
What are they going to do when I get into the finer details?
So – this happened.
I answered the phone yesterday. There was a five second delay which (really) lets you know you are in a queue. Suspicion created.
A garbled voice ( I honestly couldn’t tell if I was experiencing an accent different from mine, or if they were in a large room with lots of speakers – I suspect both at the same time) inquired about my book, using the correct title. Gotta admit, that did catch my attention.
Was I the author?
Yes?
Did I want to sell a lot of books?
Yes.
They could do it!
Then, what I assume was a company name, was mentioned. I never did hear the name distinctly enough to know what it was, though mentioned four or five times. It was never clear what its function would be.
But – you know – they mentioned the title -correctly- a number of times. And, in all truth, I figure I should be making more money.
So, I asked questions. Not very deep questions, but I should know something.
They seemed to know next-to-nothing about the publishing world. They did concentrate on “promotion”, which would, I readily admit, help.
World-wide promotion. Somehow.
So, knowing that they had a stellar product to sell, I just went to the end result. I would consider their proposals for the up-front price of $100,000. A nice round figure. Easy to remember. I could picture the cheque.
This seemed to confuse them.
A few more entreaties were made. An additional publishing term or two. Alas, it was still all garbled. I pointed out that I could still not fully understand them.
I noted they made no counter-offer (not that it would have done any good). $100,000 SVP.
So, I was told to wait until I could speak with a supervisor.
The supervisor did not seem to have an individual office. Same garble and/or background noise.
How could he help?
$!00.000 please. I was tempted to add (and I’m all yours). But I did not (though surely it was implied).
The call ended.
Since there seemed to be no knowledge of traditional publishing (which is how my book is published) I assume this con is directed to Indie authors. Beware, y’alls.
DE
The stage
Is as bare as my lady’s ass
In his lordship’s bedchamber.
Rough-hewn
In the most knockabout way,
Leaving splinters
In the palace lawns of the imagination.
There’s many a dip ‘twixt the trap and the lip.
It fares little better
Than hastily strewn boards
Covering parched ground,
With barely enough elevation
To keep the understanding masses at bay.
Were one fool enough
To come from out the wings,
And at centre front
Begin a soliloquy about the beauty
Of the wretched arena on which he stands,
To fight the resulting
And justified
Spontaneous combustion,
There would not be found one drop of piss
From any a Thespian’s hose.
For who,
Could allow
This sacrilege to be spoken?
Even the flag atop the pole knows
The magic is not yet arrived.
A stage without commercial trappings:
without solid doors and thick drapes;
uncluttered by pillars and arches,
tables and chairs,
windows and fireplaces;
sans orchestra,
sans balcony,
sans pit.
A stage revealing all its secrets.
Profound as emptiness.
A stage in wait.
For in this world writ small
– as in the globe around –
the audience has nothing to know,
nothing to learn,
until the actor makes an entrance,
prepares to fight past our eyes
to battle with those thoughts
and fears
which lurk in sheltered halls.
What’s Hecuba to him?
Why – nothing.
Merely a name in a script,
A cue at which to turn his profile thus.
It is what Hecuba becomes to we who wait,
that turns the key upon the heavy gate.
~DE BA. UE
Of course, it is the 21st of March.
To fuss about with the restrictions of time and space and equatorial crossings is as pointless (and heartless) as using AI whilst writing about the First Day of Spring.
Someone please break into a chorus of “TRADITION”!
DE
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as the Ides of March
With one white mitten,
Has a green ribbon
Tied around his neck,
As we stand on the dock
And welcome the arrival of Sister Darling,
Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)
On this Saint Patrick’s Day,
She steps off the fishing boat,
And unceremoniously hands me
A hefty cauldron,
As she scoops up Paw
And holds him close, the way
(I trust)
She will eventually hold me.
“Irish stew,” says she.
But I didn’t even have to guess,
For I can recite, by smell,
The ingredients.
Lamb on the bone
Carrots/celery
onions/leeks/garlic
Bay leaf/sea salt/black pepper
Lots of potatoes
And two (I hope) pints of ale.
“You are right,” she says
As Paw snuggles into her hair,
“And you will get
A Reward.”
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2026/ A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as a sky night
With one white mitten,
Was up yesterday morning
And saw the waxing gibbous moon.
The moon – of course – affects Paw,
As it does all the animals
(Including us).
But Paw,
A persnickety little bugger
At the best of times,
Seems to take umbrage
With the moon,
Or
At the moon,
When it grows (and glows)
To its full height and size.
Paw,
Being a cat,
Does not howl at the moon,
But he spits,
And hisses,
And growls,
And goes “Itititititititit”,
And makes himself quite a nuisance.
He will get the crazies,
And dash back and forth
From window, to door,
To window.
I’d let him out (I swear, just to be quit of him),
But I have no guarantee
– None at all –
That he would come back,
And I’d miss the little bugger.
[That’s the truth]
I bundle him firmly
(So I won’t get lacerated),
And carry him up
To the lantern room
At the top of the lighthouse.
I let him loose.
I’ll find him in the morning,
Finally asleep,
But still, occasionally,
Muttering “Itititititititit” to himself,
While he dreams.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2026 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
kafkaestblog 