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It is a whirlwind in here

The Ghost Of Kafka Walks

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.

Featured post

Margaret Atwood Travels Further Than Ever – Blessed Be!

the-testaments_margaret-atwood_3

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.

Featured post

Death And Satan Are So Often Holding Hands

Even though my current novel is a picaresque, and *relatively* care-free. it goes to other places, as all life must. So, with Alison Alexandra about to go a round with Old Nick, I resurrect this following segment from There Has Been A Sighting, my first Satan novel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mr. S. unexpectedly takes her arm, and begins to lead her along a winding, flagstone path. She has never seen such large pieces of the stone, and they glisten as if polished. 
      The path skirts a small stand of black spruce before it continues to the river. He stops her at the mouth of a gravel walkway leading through the trees.
      “Let’s pop in here.”
      “Your little acre of the Black Forest?”
      “Hardly an acre.”
      “Precision.” Breeze laughs. “Whatever would my father think of you?”
      “Does any father think well of any man when his daughter is concerned?”
      “Probably not.”
      “No,” agrees Mr. S. “So not to worry.”
      “He would think even less of someone leading his daughter down the garden path,” observes Breeze.
      “That would be before he saw what I am about to show you.” 
      Mr. S. holds her arm tightly, and guides her onto the gravel walk. It leads directly to the base of a tree, then makes an abrupt curve between the largest of the spruce. 
      One of the boughs is so low Breeze ducks her head. She has the sensation of being in the midst of a forest, for the heavy branches obscure the surroundings.
      “If I may be permitted a moment of drama.” 
      Mr. S. covers her eyes and speaks softly. 
      “Will you turn to your right, and take a few steps?”
      Even though he had asked, Breeze is startled as he gently eases her forward, and she feels a slight urge to resist him. Her steps are more cautious than the gravel walkway demands, and the press of his body is noticeable. She counts her footsteps under her breath. She is surprised when they stop at half a dozen, and he quickly removes his hand.
      “She’s beautiful.” Breeze stares, open-mouthed.
      “Yes.” Mr. S. is pleased. “I think so, too.”
      “An angel in the woods.”
      “The angel of peace.” Mr. S. walks her around the statue. “Not at all bad for a knockoff.” He pauses behind the wings.
      “A knockoff?”
      “A reproduction.” He puts his foot on the pedestal, and leans forward. “I don’t really know how old it is. Certainly last century – possibly before.” He points to the blue folds. “I’ve had the paint cleaned and touched up. Is it too garish?”
      “It … it stands out.” Breeze hunts for a word. “Let’s call it vibrant.”
      “They said it was probably close to the original colour.” Mr. S. walks around the statue and again halts beside Breeze. “Since she stands in so much shade, it’s for the best she stands with lots of colour.”
      “Do you believe in angels?”
      “I’ve just had a night-long fight with Satan. I have to believe in angels.”
      “Does she have a name?” Breeze leans forward to inspect the angel’s outstretched hand.
      “I’ve never given her one.”
      “That’s one of your suspicious half answers.” Breeze grins.
      “When Mother Ursula spoke to her, she called her `Pet’.”
      “Pet?”
      “`How are we today, Pet?’ `You got a soaking last night, 
Pet’.” Mr. S. glances at the statue’s face. “That sort of thing.”
      “Oh.” Breeze also decides to look at the angel’s face. “It’s not what you’d call a Christian name.”
      “Ursula would get a laugh out of that.” Mr. S. smiles slightly. “And so would the angel.” He turns toward Breeze. “And so do I.” He takes her hand. “Which is probably your intent, so I won’t again slip into the past tense when talking about Ursula.”
      “She’s not dead yet.”
      “Her living will gives the machines seventy-two hours.” Mr. S. looks at the angel. “I suspect it’s a wry Christian reference.”
      “So if she rises on the third day, we won’t be surprised.”
      “You have more optimism than even the Sisters.” He glances at her. “And they tend the machines.”
      “Machines have their place.”
      “Yes.” Mr. S. releases her hand. “But so does death.”

{Image} https://pictures.abebooks.com/LAWBOOKEXC/30356379021_3.jpg

Looking In The Mirror And Out

large-ornate-silver-wall-floor-mirror-90cm-x-168cm_mm28335

The image in the mirror is my hero.

Who can blame me?

Were it not for his outstanding modesty

which leads the list of attributes,

I would first say it is his erudite demeanour,

and suave sophistication,

which make the most impression.

A stellar raconteur and bon vivant,

he sweeps others in his path,

where they are happy to follow.

Genius is a word too oft tossed about,

but it is a pale word to describe

the breadth,

and depth,

of his knowledge and creativity.

The man in the mirror

pulsates with understanding,

and the ability to make connections

between the most diverse

(and sometimes divergent)

of ideas.

His observations are a breath of fresh air in the firmament.

I have learned so much

from the man in the mirror,

and desire so

to bask in his consummate revelations

of life and art,

that I strive to be in his presence.

My ears ache to hear the pearls of wisdom he is oft to toss.

To be in the same room with him is life itself.

The man in the mirror is indeed a hero to emulate.

How many of us can say that about anyone?

~ DE BA.UE

Alison Alexandra Ponders Whilst Under The English Channel

The London platform is abustle, though, in reality, she is boarding a train to take her to a train waiting in Calais. Still, it is under the umbrella of the Venice-Simplon-Orient-Express, and she is happy to board and take a very cushy seat.

Two hours and fifteen minutes to Paris. Nice scenery at either end. A glass of Bellini, in a champagne flute, before the actual undersea part. Nothing could be finer.

Alison Alexandra assumes that a quaff of peach infused Prosecco sparkling wine is to ease the anxiety of anyone going not only underground but also undersea. She appreciates the glass of – expectedly – high-toned champagne regardless, but she does not need a drink to assuage any fears, for she has none.

She has always enjoyed the thought of actually moving under streets and buildings and cars and people and parks and dogs and folk in restaurants spooning soup while other folk high up in business towers give power point presentations about the fluidity of market shares or the expert way to niggle a wire into an explicate brain to stop one form of behaviour or to restart another. Thousands of snips of humanity and civilisation wending their way over her head as she wends her way from one underground station to another.

And then – to add the volume of the sea – well, what now floats overhead? How many fish and how much plankton and seaweed and eels and lobsters and oysters and snails and perhaps even whales swimming and eating and probably eating each other in the liquid beauty which is the water which is the ocean which is the sea that slaps against the cliffs that she watches from her prow-of-a-ship windows when she is on the other side.

And the ocean that slaps the rocks at the base of her cliff is full of fish gurgle and whale song and lobster clatter and crab scuttle and perhaps even the mermaids singing. And then there is the screw screw screw of all the propellers of all the ships carrying crew and passengers and cargo of all sorts and conditions, from cases of the champagne she is drinking to the host of automobiles like the Black Ghost that Gabriella drove when she shared some champagne delivered by ship and not aged on the delivery truck two cities over.

And other cargo, floating and steaming over her head, food and drink and oil and bourbon and stiletto-heeled shoes and prayer books and cotton and smart phones and insulin and jet engines and books and railway ties and sheep dip and textiles and spices from the Far east and tongue dispensers and sugar and steel beams for steel bridges and fishhooks and guided missiles and holy missals and buttons and bows and those tiny umbrellas for fruit punch cocktails and things that Alison Alexandra doesn’t even know exists but she has her suspicions.

All over her head and moving the waves and making whales sing their cautionary songs to warn other whales to get the hell out of the way or they will get bumped on their noggin. And they do. Get out of the way.

Alison Alexandra finishes her underwater pilgrimage and pops above ground in France. And although Alison Alexandra has been somewhat offended by having to take an actual bus shuttle under the actual English Channel, she still shouts “Alors!”

(Image) http://www.jpellegrino.com/img/eliot-mermaidssinging.jpg

Our Fearful Trip Is Done

So

– just to be clear –

the ignorant,
spiteful,
untruthful,
selfish
bombastic

representative of

the United States

is removed.


 Part

of the
*vast* celebrations

is a

youthful

and brilliant

poet

A pretty good balance.


Biden and Harris have earned
their night’s sleep.


I’ll take the future for its weight in gold, Alex.

~ DE BA. UE

(Image) https://cdn.cnn.com/cnnnext/dam/assets/200812180303-13-biden-harris-event-0812-super-tease.jpg

Trump And MAGA Walk Into A Bar For The Last Time

donald-trump-maga-hat-off-ap

~ So, how you good old boys doing?


~ There’s a problem, Mr. President.


~ Some of you boys did me proud – Har-de-Har.


~ We’d say it’s a big problem.


~ ‘Big’ problem?


~ A hugely problem – Har-de-Har.


~  Now, I’m kinda busy.


~ Taking the silverware?


~ And the china.


~ Well, there’s a start – about China.


~ They started the killer flu.


~ And that’s another thing.


~ Eating bats – do you know they eat bats?


~  You’ve killed 400,000 from the flu.


~  That’s just that Fake News.


~ We’re burying our families. It ain’t fake.


~ Everyone catches the flu.


~ You said you’d do right by us.


~ Blame Biden, he stole the election.


~ Then he didn’t have time to kill Americans.


~ Well  , , , give him time.


~ We gave you time – look where it got us.


~ I’ll be back. 2024! 2024!


~ How often do you think you can fool us?


~  And Ivanka can follow me. 2028!


~ Donald, you’re a dumb prick in a stupid tie.


~ Clean your mouth. I’m the president.


~ Not no more. “No more years!”

~ Dumb pussies – I’ve got a plane to catch.

~ After we get our hat back.

[IMAGE] media.breitbart.com/media/2017/08/donald-trump-maga-hat-off-ap.jpg

Trump And Kim Jong-un Walk Into A Bar In North Korea

~ Kimmy – thanks for having me.
~ I know I extended an invitation, but …
~ And the family.
~ It was just for a visit . . .
~ And my closest sycophants.
~ But that was when you were somebody.
~ We just need a place to stay – for a few years.
~ Melania’s already heading back to Slovenia.
~ Not my darling!
~ She says she has family – real family.
~ Who will iron my shorts?
~ Oh, your job comes with an iron.
~Job?
~ As door man at our finest hotel.
~ Job!
~ We understand you have hotel experience.
~ I own . . .
~ Owned – all property of our citizens belong to our State.
~ That sounds like Communism.
~ And, as for the kids – they’re leaving with mommy.
~ She’s not their real mummy.
~ Funny – she says you’re not their real daddy.
~ But who’ll be left to listen to my stories?
~ That’s what happens when all your stories are lies.
~ But I’m the most powerful man in the world.
~ Must I be the one to tell you?
~ What?
~ You’ve been fired.

[Image] https://media.pri.org/s3fs-public/styles/story_main/public/images/2018/06/20180612-trump-kim-summit_01.jpg?itok=ex9WKxdR

This Is A Test, Isn’t It?

This is a test.
 
Isn’t the answer always to be 32?
 
Or is that 97?
 
I’d prefer 69
 
But that’s naughty
 
(or can be).
 
And there are other answers
 
That should always work.
 
Antidisestablishmentarianism
 
Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
 
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysilio
 
These three should answer any question to any test.
 
Because,
 
This is a test, isn’t it?
 
Life is a wonderful answer,
 
As is the middle of ‘life’
 
If
 
Some think Trump is the answer
 
To every test
 
Others thought Hitler was the answer
 
To the question
 
Of the test.
 
Seems they are wrong.
 
Personally, I think
 
Franz Kafka is the answer
 
And,
 
Leonard Cohen has all the answers.
 
To the test.
 
But
 
(sigh)
 
I must accept
 
That the answer
 
To the test
 
Is
 
Maybe
[Image] www. parentmap.com/images/article/7805/Test_sign.jpg

Trump And Hitler Walk Into A Bar

 

~ Dolf – may I call you Dolf?
 
~ All my friends do.
 
~ Dolf!
 
~ What can I do for you, Don?
 
~ I am gefooked!
 
~ That you are.
 
~Any advice?
 
~ A weekend at Camp David.
 
~ That will help?
 
~ Pretend it’s The Wolf’s Lair.
 
~ Liar?
 
~ Close enough.
 
~ How do I get out of this?
 
~ Well – I killed myself.
 
~ That’s what my other friends say.
 
~ My friends died with me – you know, the real ones.
 
~ Fat chance of that.
 
~ Well, you went out with a whimper – not a bang.
 
~ I thought they’d rise up – take the country.
 
~ You never gave them anything – not even a Wall.
 
~ There was never any money in it.
 
~ At least I gave my people the Volkswagen.
 
~ Is that how you made your money?
 
~ No, I got all my money from the book I wrote.
 
~ Best seller?
 
~ Ja! Every household had to have one.
 
~ Maybe I can …
 
~ Nein – it’s no good for you.
 
~ Why?
 
~ Your followers can’t read.
 
 
[IMAGE] cdn.history.com/sites/2/2017/02/GettyImages-50379983-H.jpeg

A List Of The Ways We Broke The Bed

hi414335246

We were having a fencing match with turkey drumsticks
We were attempting to make a tent with the bedclothes using an experimental pole
We were trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel
We were wondering if there was anyone else under the covers
We were playing ‘scissor / rock / paper’ with our feet
We wondered as we wandered just a little to far
We attempted to prove the angle of an isosceles triangle
One of us was the boat, the other an outboard motor
We were trying to checkmate each other
We were trying to take a cork out of a wine bottle
We were practising the cancan
We had an unfortunate incident with a hot pizza
We were trying to count to a thousand on our toes
We were lip syncing to Bohemian Rhapsody
 
We were laughing our darn fool heads off at knock knock jokes
We attempted to ride the stallion
We tried that one again
~ DE BA. UE
(image) https: //edge.media.datahc.com/HI414335246.jpg

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