THERE WAS A TIME, OH PILGRIM, WHEN THE STONES WERE NOT SO SMOOTH
THE END
07 01 2022
595 pp. 174,838 words
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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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.
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}
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}
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.
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?
The New Year rolled in
With the fog this morning.
Can’t see the sea,
Or the hand
In front of my face.
I stay in place.
And I grip
The rope
That connects my Keeper’s house,
To the Lighthouse.
And I keep my cat/kitten,
So black he’d be
Lost in the fog,
Inside.
He makes no complaint.
And neither do I.
A state, I hope
That continues,
When the fog
Of the New Year
Clears.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
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