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.
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 that 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
And prepares
To fight through our eyes and ears
To battle with those thoughts and fears
that lurk in sheltered halls.
What’s Hecuba to him?
Why – nothing!
Merely a name on a page of 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.
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as good-bye,
With one white mitten,
Has disappeared.
I sent a note,
By boat,
To Sister Darling of
The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)
To come and help me search
Partridge Island.
She arrived with a
Boatful of Evangelists to assist.
Now, put their proselytizing beliefs aside,
And you can’t do better than
A boatful of Evangelists
To get a job done.
They packed seventeen adherents of
The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)
Onto a fishing boat,
And faster than you can say Holy Roller,
A search of Partridge Island began.
They – like me – first started at the Lighthouse,
But to no avail.
Nor any luck at my Lighthouse Keepers House.
So,
They broke into three groups,
One up each side and shore of the island,
And the biggest group up through the centre.
It’s not a big island,
But – Jesus –
It’s big enough.
Sister Darling and I
Moved from group to group.
Five and one half hours and four minutes later,
There was a yell,
From the direction of the left shore.
“Come!” “COME!”
Sister Darling and I ran.
I stumbled, and she pulled me up.
And we ran again.
When we got to the searchers,
They just gaped and pointed.
I hesitated, but Sister Darling
Pulled me again.
And when we reached the place
I gaped myself.
That miserable, cantankerous, intransigent cat.
That insistent insistent insistent animal,
Was guarding a brood of baby rabbits,
Their pecked and ravaged mother at their side.
Paw had become a feral protector.
And would let nothing near.
Until Sister Darling spoke, and cooed his name.
When she touched him, he almost fell over from fatigue.
Those Blessed Evangelists picked up each baby,
And snuggled them carefully into a pocket.
Sister Darling handed Paw to me and
– Sweet Jesus, I confess it –
I was crying.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
I did NOT go up in the Rapture, even though I waited around for some time. However it was a darkling event, and well- worth my effort. Not total, so things did not disappear, nor did birds and other animals go off the deep end. The crows, upon occasion, cawed bloody murder. But they often do that anyway.
However, the Eclipse was nifty. One couple gave me a pair of “Resting Eyewear AAS Approved” from Moonviewers .com to wear. And another chap gave me a printed photo of the Eclipse.
So, a good time was had by all. Except – you know – I did not ascend into Heaven.
DE BA UEL
My father saw a total eclipse. He only describes his age as a child, so I make the guess it was in the 19teens. His one comment about the effects of the darkness was that the cows started mooing, and began heading back to the barn.
My last total eclipse was in 1972. How time and the sun flys. And the moon.
I was at an archaeological dig at Bartibog Bridge, about fifteen kilometers north of Miramichi in New Brunswick. The archeologist in charge of the dig obviously knew of the eclipse (I know I didn’t) and had brought a professional, tripod telescope with him. He had attached a screen over the lens, and everyone was given a chance to take a look. My memories about the whole event are almost as succinct as my father – and at least he talked about the actual event itself. My biggest memory of that day is that I found a bone that might have been human. But – yes – it did indeed get dark, and it could have been three in the morning. I did not find it spooky or otherworldly.
But I did find out something kinda spooky this morning. The local radio show had an interview with someone who was at the centre of the eclipse in 1972. It was at Arisaig, Nova Scotia, and it was such a favoured location that scientists came from across North America to see it. The fellow who was interviewed, remembered cars and trucks filling the parking lot and the fields around the harbour. Some of the scientists had large pieces of equipment and even larger telescopes (and cameras) on tripods. Hundreds of private cars were parked along the roads. The harbour and the pastures surrounding it offered unrestricted views.
Also, during the Eclipse story, mention was made of the Carly Simon song You’re So Vain, with the famous refrain:
Well I hear you went up to Saratoga
And your horse naturally won
Then you flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia
To see the total eclipse of the sun
Carly Simon was actually interviewed about this, and revealed she used those verses because she wanted a rhyme with the word “Saratoga” and the word “won”. Which, as a writer, pleased me to no end.
The oddity (to me) is that Arisaig is (at least as the sun shines) just up the coast, on The Northumberland Strait, from Bartibog Bridge. And, decades later, Arisaig Harbour became one of the most enjoyable places I would ever visit. And have done so often.
And – of course – I wondered at the time if I might get famous enough for Carly Simon to sing about me.
And now, just after I post this, I am going to walk up a hill with barely a tree on it, and await this eclipse. And see what happens. I should reveal that I have been awaiting the rapture for years.
DE BA UEL
It’s a “kick in the arse” day,
On windswept Partridge Island.
The sun rose with enough red sky
To make even Paw, my Cat/Kitten,
Black as the dwindling night,
With one white mitten,
Shield his eyes.
But then
– Oh, then –
The sky tumbled full of
Dark, hellish clouds,
And then
– Oh, then –
The snow started
To fall
Like there was no tomorrow.
The Almanac tells ya
“Spring has arrived.”
I’ll let Paw tell them
What he thinks.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
What slides through the Fog?
Or hides in the fog?
Or lies in the fog
In wait?
These are the questions of,
The Lighthouse Keeper of Partridge Island,
Feeling his way from Keeper’s House
To Lighthouse,
In this fourth day
Of fog
To consume the Island.
It is a futile chore to maintain
The Light,
Which remains unseen from
Shore to ship.
Yet, I do.
From treacherous day,
To treacherous day,
Proving
– I think –
Some sort of Faith.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
08 April 1917
I seem to end in the most absurd situations. This afternoon, before Sunday dinner, Ottla took me away for some gardening. Rooting around in the earth, with the frost barely gone. Only Ottla could find such a plot of ground in Prague, or expect me to grub about in it like some hungry animal.
It was obviously some sort of communal land – such places are popular during this war. There were even families at work. Children also. One small boy was caught between his interest in the garden, and his desire to be a small boy. And what a dilemma it was. He’d work in the ground for awhile, following the example of his mother, then suddenly race around, exploring like a small boy. He came over to Ottla and me, and hunkered down beside us. He shook his head with a sigh of exasperation, and reached over to put his hands on mine. “Mummy says that’s wrong,” and with great patience and determination, began to show me how to prepare the earth. I thought there could be no better proof to Ottla of how inept I was.
I followed the movements of his hands, and between us, we dug quite a hole. At last the little fellow stood, obviously satisfied. “I go now,” he said, and ran away to see some other entertaining oddity. Ottla hadn’t laughed for fear of offending the boy, but she didn’t show such restraint when we were finally alone.
It fell to me to find the flowers.
Such things prove God’s sense of humour, for I have no interest or understanding for flowers. There was a fellow at university who could talk about flowers for hours. Otherwise, he was quite pleasant to be with. So it seems a joke that I would find them, between a pile of rubble and the wall of a house.
I had been exploring, much as the little fellow had done. In fact, he was running past when I found them, so I showed him also. They were white, with frail leaves close to the ground. Quite nondescript. But the boy was fascinated. He put his face close, although he didn’t touch them.
“Can I tell Mummy?” He obviously thought they were my flowers. “Yes,” I said, and he ran to get her. She followed him as he chattered all the way, and then she too hesitated, looking at me cautiously. “Perhaps your wife would like to see them,” she suggested. It took a moment to realize she was referring to Ottla. The flowers had become my possession. “Yes,” I said, “And tell anyone you like.” “The first flowers of Spring,” she said, and she went to tell the others, taking care to stop at Ottla first.
Tiny white flowers.
I can still not believe the looks upon their faces, as they crowded around. Even the children were silent.
The relief they showed.
I almost dropped Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as blood pudding
With one white mitten,
When Sister Darling, of
The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed),
Stepped onto the dock
Of the Partridge Island Lighthouse.
She wore an emerald green gown
On this Saint Patrick’s Day,
Which fit her form
In a very alluring fashion.
She was bringing
A feast for myself, and Paw.
A hamper filled with (I sniffed it out)
Colcannon
Shepherd’s Pie
Corned Beef
Black-and-Tan Pork
Lime Poke Cake
And the clink of bottles
promising many Half and Halfs
which she knows how to pour
to perfection.
We exchanged hamper and cat.
Paw went directly to burrow
Into her long hair,
Which I, myself, will do
When the time for slumber
Arrives.
Then we began our walk
Up to The Lighthouse Keeper’s House,
Which I have festooned with
As many green doodads as
I could find.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
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