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It is a whirlwind in here

Month

August 2021

Kafka Leaves A Home He Never Owned

In my Kafka In The Castle I fill in all the diary entries that Kafka leaves bare (or destroyed),. For about a year, he used the tiny house his sister rented up in the Prague Castle on The Golden Lane. She rented it solely to have trysts with her lover. Kafka never actually stayed the night, but he went there often, and wrote a whole book of short stories while he was there. But, on this late summer night, I imagine how he left it for the last time

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

30 August 1917

I’ll just leave the newspapers. They will no doubt be appreciated as fuel for the next winter. My manuscripts though – regardless of the temptation – I’ll take. The pile on the table, looming behind the lamp, I’ll take tonight. The rest tomorrow. Max has offered to carry things – no doubt thinking that what he carries, I can not burn – and has arranged to be here shortly.

What I most want to take away with me, I can’t. The comfort. The view of the Stag Moat. The Castle walls. The world held suspended beyond the massive gates. The silence. Perhaps peace – which can be many things – can also be nothing more than silence. And here is Max at my open door. His worried smile precedes him into my peaceful room.

31 August 1917

The last night of the month. My last night in this tiny house. My last trek along the Alchemist’s Lane as someone who belongs. And soon, my last walk down the Castle steps. Which Max so dutifully counted. And after Max conveys me to the specialist, I imagine I’ll embark on the last part of my life. The power of the Alchemist’s Lane is far from spent, if one truly sees what I have turned into. There could have been no substance so base as myself to put beneath the test of smoking acid. Burning with precision into my lungs.

Since Max helped last night, there is not much for me to carry away. I might indeed be taking as little as I brought that first day. Technically, I must leave by mid-night, and I plan to walk out the door at that precise minute, turning the key in the lock at the last strokes of the cathedral bell. Of course, I don’t have to do this – no one will appear to check on me. But, I enjoy technicalities. I skirt through life on both the vaguest, and the most precise, of technicalities. After all, I am a well-trained lawyer. Like a weasel well-versed in the ways of the earth.

But sadly, this burrow must be vacated. And by its exposed front entrance, for I never had the luxury of a back escape route. But then – is that what is now being offered me? Opened for me? Not the Alchemist’s Lane, which will lead me to the city. Between the walls, through the courtyards, down the steps, and beyond the many gates. But the Tuberculous Lane, which may meander in many directions, stop at many doors, but finally – eventually – lead to the deep decent into a darkened pit. The only thing of me remaining above to be my name, carved in stone. The Herr Doktor. Not an unexpected fate. But not a fate I wish to happen too soon.

Not, at any rate, as soon as my fate to walk out that door, my few parcels and papers in hand. A lingering look upon the table, the lamp, the stove. I think I will say good bye. I think I may even say thank-you. And then, I will take a great deal of time to find my key. It will be in the last pocket I search. And I’ll close the door slowly. With care. And the key in the lock will make a noise I shall never forget.

Sailors With Heads Of Stone And Bloodshot Eyes Leave Port

Just as these sailors,


On A Friday night,


Were overjoyed when they


Entered the port,

Sailing past my Lighthouse


With smiles and cheers,


For a weekend where they


Could


– And would –


Let loose


In all those ways


That sailors do.


Now they return to the sea

,
With full days of


Hard and harsh work


To test their mettle.


No smiles now.


They barely look my way.


Nary a cheer,


Nary a wave,


And I,


The lighthouse keeper


Of the Lighthouse


On Partridge Island,


Bow solemnly


At their passage.


I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

The Inviting Lights Glow On A Friday Night In A Distant Port

Except the port is


Not that distant.


I don’t even need


My spyglass


To see the street lamps


Well-lit,


Especially the Three Sisters Lamp,


Lined up straight with


The steeple of Trinity Church


To give the captains


Of the ships


Somewhere to aim.


For they all aim,


Past me,


In my lighthouse


At the mouth


Of the harbour.

.
And they all


Go past me


To safe haven

,
And Friday night


Deviltry and celebration,


And rum galore!


Whilst I can


Only watch


From a distance.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL

W.C Fields, Moses, And A Chicken (Check Your Bible If You Must)

My day (perhaps the week – and I do realize it is only Tuesday) has made me think of this, so I will re-post for the delectation of others who are having ‘my’ day.

  My little Chick-a-dee

    So it has come to this.

    A mindless voice with mindless tune

    Singing softly in the dark.

    My friend, I promise 

    On such a night

    Even the sages are locked

    Babbling in their rooms.

    On such a night

     The pineapple juice

     Turns into

     Pineapple juice.

    You think me mad?

     Well, my boyze. 

     I had a hen who

     Could lay a Golden Calf.

    And this weird guy

   – Mozaz was his name –

     Yass, this Mozaz     

     Threw these stone tablets

    – Threw, I say –

      These stone tablets on my hen,

      And killed her.

      Feathers everywhere.

      And I asked him

      – I said to him – 

      “Mozaz, why did you flatten my hen

      And make the feathers

      Fly?”

     And he said to me 

     (can you believe this)

     He said to me: `

    “W. C.

    “I was damn hungry.”.

     And then I knew,

     My little chick-a- dee,

     My little bottom-soft dumpling,

     I knew from that moment

     The man was not sincere. 

Am I On A List? Is This A Test?

Yesterday morning I had a robot call me and ask inappropriate and intrusive questions about my plans for voting in the upcoming Federal Election. After a few questions, I hung up.


This morning, an early morning call (too early) informed me that whilst I was at innocent slumber between the sheets,  someone had made two BIG purchases using my credit card. These two BIG purchases exceeded my limit (which I assumed could not happen in the first place).  This time an actual human voice wanted to “assist” me before the charges went through and I ended up paying for everything. I was left in NO doubt I’d end up paying for EVERYTHING. I was in deep shit. Warning as clear as a bell.


But first, the actual human voice wanted some information.


Go and get your card, I was instructed.

No, said I.

You will pay BIG, said he. Get your card and give us your account information.


I did not point out, though I was tempted to do so, that they must already have all my information, since they called me with this DIRE warning. Perhaps, I pondered to myself, they themselves could cancel the card. Wipe out the BIG debt. Chase the perpetrator across hill and, er, dale , and throw them in the clink.


Get your card. Get your card. Give me the numbers.

No.


Then he hung up on me.

I’ve Been Around The Block A Number Of Times Yet I Still Seem Innocent (If Not Young)

I answered my phone this morning – too early for a Sunday –  and had a voice who (I’ll swear upon any religious tome) sounded like Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, informing me that I was being contacted by a Survey/Research company.

The topic was the upcoming Federal election.


The company had a name I recognized, which has the reputation of being legit and reliable.


But there was that “Prime Minister voice”. Such a thing can not be random, and if it was random, then the outfit is inept.


So I was talking to a Robot.


The first three or so questions were about where I live. Now, I figure even a robot, if it already has my phone number, should know where I live. But I was willing to tap the numbers on the phone keyboard to let them figure out where I was. Had they asked my postal code, I would have balked.

I was then asked, if I wanted to have the process they go through to form their opinions, explained to me. I declined. In for a penny, in for a pound.


THEN, I was asked to tell them which party I was planning to vote for.

Gotta say, expecting to tell how a citizen votes is a violation of the rights of the citizen of that country. I was surprised. But I went through the “Press number if” list, so I could decline. There was no avenue given to decline.


Rude or not, I hung up on the Robot.

Is The Ocean Playing Silly Buggers With A Hurricane?

I was roused from among
My quilts and linens

In my narrow –
Though comfortable –

Bed

In my lightkeeper’s house

Near the Lighthouse

On Partridge Island,

By a smell.


The smell of the ocean.
Which I smell every day,

Except – not like this.


This smell was rich,

And solid,

And fresh,

And churned-up.


So I went out

In the early early dawn,

I walked carefully

Along the rock face,

And smelled 
An ocean,

Churning hundreds of miles

From the south,

And knew that

A hurricane

Is on its way.


There are preparations

To be made!

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL

Sandpipers Love To Hover And Soar And Take Over The World

I was roused from my bed

Tangled in the quilts of the bed

In my lighthouse keeper;s house

Close to my lighthouse

On Partridge Island

In the Bay of Fundy

By wingbeat

A storm of wingbeats

Thousands of wings

Beat beat beating

From thousands of birds

Sandpipers

Twisting in large circles

Around my lighthouse

Hiding my lighthouse

Whirl

Whirl

A  “bind” of sandpipers

A “contradiction” of sandpipers

A “fling” of sandpipers

A “hill” of sandpipers

A “time-step” of sandpipers.

That’s the best

“Time-step”

Because

With every twist

And tun

That flock makes,

They step

They SOAR

Out of time.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021/ A lot of stuff have I seen/A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

Hell Opens A Door In Afghanistan

There are so many horrors to point to. And there will be so many horrors yet to come.

What is so startling is the terrible incompetence of the attempt to have the American military leave the country. The experts seem to know nothing. The Intelligence Community knew nothing about the real state of affairs.The US Military were being withdrawn BEFORE the Afghan citizens they were suppose to re-locate were removed from the country.

Planning – what planning?

A dire situation – for the USA was eventually going to leave regardless – was turned into a disaster.

Afghanistan, historically known as the Graveyard of Empires, took another one

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