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.
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}
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in missing entries of his actual diaries. There are many days to fill, as he either did not write during these days, or he destroyed the record.
I do give him a brief recognition of Friday 13th. Kafka was not a superstitious person, and such things weighed on him lightly.
In reality, memories of the Swiss Girl he mentions (a teen he met and probably “embraced”) haunted him all his life. But pleasantly – oh, so pleasantly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
13 April 1917
I almost wrote down the year as 1913. That was the year I met the Swiss girl. And I remember her joking about Friday the thirteenth, and how we had missed it by just a day. She was superstitious – Christians seem to be. I wonder what precautions she is taking today. It will be three years and seven months since I saw her. Yet some of the things we did could have happened last week. I think that memory must be made of rubber. You can sometimes pull it toward yourself – and sometimes it snaps away like a shot. Causing as much pain.
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