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It is a whirlwind in here

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January 2022

A Howling Winter Storm And Franz Kafka Collide Into Each Other

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. 

Franz was a back-to-Nature man, and enjoyed the outdoors, taking many trips to Nature Spas. But even he should have taken refuge from the storm.

**********************

04 December 1917

I imagine the weather experts will howl about today’s storm the way it still howls around our ears.

Their complaints will ring with vindication. Racing unchecked across field and pasture, it strikes with a force I am unaccustomed to in Prague. Ottla was hesitant to let me out into it, but she bundled me into my winter gear, with a scarf just below my eyes.

It was too violent for me to venture far, so I just wandered around the village. I’m sure that if anyone did see me, fingers made circles as they pointed to their heads.

“The Herr Doktor,” they would warn their children. “Do not go after an education like that.”

Franz Kafka Has A Dream And Then Ponders His Life

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.
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15 January 1917

Dreamed that I never dream.

“That can’t be true,” said AB, dropping the papers she held. “Everybody dreams.”

 “It never happens to me,” I insisted. “And what’s more, I don’t really believe that anyone else dreams, either.”

“Of course people dream,” said AB, dropping bunches and pots of flowers on the floor. “I dream all the time. I’m full of dreams every night.”

“Even tonight?” I asked, excited, because I had some power, some type of knowledge, although I didn’t know what it was. “Tonight,” she repeated. “Especially tonight,” she said, dropping bowls of snow on the floor. “It is right now, right here.” Her voice was also full of excitement. “I am dreaming about you.”

“Me?” I said. “You can’t be dreaming about me. I’m right here – I’m not in your dream.”

“Not only are you in my dream,” she said, dropping automobiles and tram cars on the floor, “but you’re talking in your usual obstinate way. You’re cross, and you’re silly, and you’re shaking your hands at me.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” I said, wringing my hands and starting to yell.

“You’ve taken your absurd thoughts,” she said, dropping pieces of Prague on the floor, “and you’re forcing me to be part of them.”

“Even if it’s true – all true,” I said, trying to sweep Prague into the river, “it still isn’t me. You’re the one having the dream.”

AB snatched the broom out of my hand, and dropped it to the floor. “Then try to wake me,” she said.

16 January 1917

I have the feeling, that what I really am doing at the office, is committing suicide. And doing a good job.

Sea Smoke On The Water And A Cat On The Land

Too much excitement,
And confusion,
For Paw
My cat/kitten,
Black as last night

With one white mitten.

Down by the water.
I had to grab him
By
The scruff of his neck
(Just like a mother cat),
And haul him back
As he batted at,
And reached for,
The fog on the water.
Mind you,

I held him over it,
And let him kick

His darn fool legs
In every direction
At the white mist.
He growled
But they were,
Contented growls.

(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

A Novel That Took Five Years To Write

THERE WAS A TIME, OH PILGRIM, WHEN THE STONES WERE NOT SO SMOOTH

                                   THE END

                                 07 01 2022

595 pp. 174,838 words

Featured post

Kafka Slips Out Of Love As He Wends His Way Through January

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.

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

10 January 1917

This lull with Felice. We have not experienced such a calm for the past four years.

But there isn’t passion, such as when I walked the streets of Prague just to be near the site of our first brief encounter.

Or, when I awoke filled with the hope of just receiving her letters.

But now, in addition to knowing that she would not like this tiny house, I find that I do not even want her present.

Oh, the tortures we have gone through, the incrimination and the tears. J’accuse. But nowadays, we write to each other so sensibly, and discuss the type of furniture which will fill our rooms.

A Right Howlin’ Nor’easter Aims To Kill On Land And Sea

It’s a right howlin’ Nor’easter
That covers,

And

Engulfs,
The sea and
Partridge Island.


Paw, the cat/kitten

Black as a void
With one white mitten,
Would not even leave
His comfy, blanket-filled
Butter box in front
Of the fire,
To sniff at the door.

I, too, could have refrained
From going out,
For no ship could
Possibly see the Lighthouse
Light

From any distance.
But that’s not why
I take the Monarch’s

Shilling.

Today I looped a rope
To myself
And to the rope
To the Lighthouse.

I trudged,
Bent over
In both directions,
On a walk that took
An extra hour
Each way.

Hand in front of face?
You can’t even see
Moving fingers.

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

High Winds And Seas And Whitecaps Smashing On Shore Keeps A Cat At Home

Paw,
The cat/kitten,
Black as storm clouds
With one white mitten,
Made no objection
When I kept him in
Today.
I had put him
In his cage,
And took him
To the door,
Which I opened.
But he hissed,
And looked at me
As if to say,
“Are you nuts?”
So I walked to
The Lighthouse
On my own,
Holding for dear life
To the rope secured
Between both houses.
I marvelled at

The height of the waves,
Attempting to tear
The island
Limb from limb.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

Franz Kafka Remembers A Young Love In The New Year

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.

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

03 January 1917

I still have fantasies about the Swiss girl – although not the type one might suppose.

(My father says I already have too many fantasies, and that I deal with them “too long, and too often” – he is certainly right.)

I make a mixture of what I shared with the Swiss girl, and what I imagine we would be like today. This is certainly more fantasy than not, for what would being together have done to us?

Done to her?

But in this tiny house – could she not join me? Be here by the window, as I write this?

But she was so young, and such a girl, where I fear that I was never such a boy.

Kafka Starts The New Year With His Father And A Cloud

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.

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

01 January 1917

There was a cloud caught in the branches of a tree today, outside my parents home.

Or so it appeared.

I got up from the cot and went to tell Ottla, but she was clearing the kitchen, tending to the dishes. So I was radical, unthinking – driven by haste – and told the only one not consumed by labour. I told my father.

“In the trees?” he asked.

I propelled him from his chair, thrusting the papers aside. He followed me, and I could see the surprise on his face.

“Where?” he asked; and I pointed out the window. “But I see nothing.”

“Oh, you have to lie on the cot.”

“On the cot?”

“And with your head just so.” I pushed him onto it, and he lay, looking sideways.

“But you are right,” he said.

I thought because of the holiday he might be humouring me, but then I saw that his jaw hung open, and his face was astonished.

Does the boy never grow, that he can feel so good to be vindicated by his father?

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