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September 2023

20 September 1917 – Kafka Has A Dream of Dreams

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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20 September 1917

                Dreamed a mixture. I walked – a desolate figure trudging the vast Steppes. Yet I rode wildly – a madman with my forehead pressed against the compartment window. And I saw myself as the train raced by, outlined by the yellow light of the coach; and then a slender body turning to stare at the racing train. We both hollered, but noise and distance obscured our voice. The vast Steppes turned into a castle, but the castle was displayed in the photos of a magazine, which I held on my lap in the flickering light of the compartment, as the train became engulfed by the large buildings on either side of the tracks. In the magazine there was a railway at the base of the castle, and as I looked out the window the stone walls filled the frame, each giant block wedged securely to the others, their facing protruding and rough. It was as if the train had entered a tunnel, except there was still light from the distant sky.

     I turned a page, and had to squint to see the pictures. Along the whole bottom of the magazine pages, a train obscured part of the castle wall, almost becoming a part of the stones. Black and white, light and shade, blending into a sepia which smudged all the details. Was there a figure in the window?

DE

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Birthday Bash Fit For A Pirate 19/09

My day of birth has been usurped by “Talk Like A Pirate Day” Who ya gonna call? Who do I sue? Pirates are already beyond the law. What would I do? Make them walk the plank?

But – anyway and regardless – (or should I throw all propriety to the winds and say “irregardless?) I will tout my own birth (it couldn’t have happened without me) and describe a birthday celebration I wrote some years ago.

Still waiting on that suckling pig.

There will be scampi on a plate with breakfast for my birthday.

Quarts of wild strawberries will float in flagons of cold Rhenish wine. Blueberries will be hidden by thick cream, and golden honey shall trickle from plates of buttered toast. Braces of quail and brown roasted turkey will be surrounded by steaming heaps of new potatoes and tender ears of corn. Joints of beef and lightly curried lamb will stand between bottles of red Anjou wine and jugs of red Italian fire.

A smoking, suckling pig will have bowls of dry, yellow squash at its feet and stacks of cheeses at its head. Pastry and pies and a foot high chocolate cake will stand among jars of brandied fruit. A cask of aged port will remain, to do justice at the end.

Then I shall settle back to patiently await my dinner.

DE

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Hurricane Of My Youth

Place seems to be an important part of my memories. So, when I was seven or eight, I was on the lawn leading to the woods beside our house. This was the third house I had lived in. 

It was small, one-story, and the “front door” led directly to the woods. It was a rarely used door. The door from the kitchen was the main entrance, leading to a deck, and a flight of stairs to the driveway. No one coming to the house would think of using the “front” door.

So, I don’t know why I used it that day. Perhaps the wind was exciting the trees. It was exciting me. I apparently have always liked the wind – the more and the faster the better. Still do, though – maybe – I don’t appreciate a great, rushing wind the way I used to. It can probably knock me over far more easily than in those days of my youth.

But, out in the rushing wind I was. I know it was strong enough to make me stumble, though not fall. The trees were wild. Leaves and branches and missile-any raced through the air. I pondered if I might fly along with it.

I don’t know how long I was in it. I suspect two or three minutes  (every one of which I enjoyed thoroughly). Ready to fly. However, the unused front door burst open, my father dashed out, grabbed me up, and carried me into the house.

He said I was in a hurricane. He told me it was dangerous. He said not to do it again. I suspect he might have wanted to ask if I was crazy.

I generally obeyed my father, but must confess – today I did not. Nor have I done so many times in my life. I always try to get out into a hurricane. Sometimes unwisely, but generally with more attention to being careful, than I ever did going out that front door. 

Just did it this morning, going out for my ten minutes in Hurricane Lee. It really is as exciting as ever.

DE

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HURRICANE

I knew,
By the way 

The hair on the 
Back of my neck
Stood up,
While facing into

The wind from the ocean,
That a hurricane
Was on its way.  

So, I didn’t need
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as a storm

With one white mitten,
To be caterwauling,
And racing around
The lee of the lighthouse,

At my feet.
He was not happy!
And maybe none of us,
Will be,
This time tomorrow.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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My Nanosecond In The Star Trek Universe On Star Trek Day

Can I use the word eons when talking of Star Trek?

Considering the time travel that often enveloped them, why – yes, I can.

So, eons ago, I wrote a script for Star Trek, The Next Generation. Memory says (and I’ve been told my memory is not up to light speed), this was the only television series that asked for, and actively used, scripts from writers outside their own stable. They used one script per season from these submissions.

So I submitted.

I had a response from Lolita Fatjo.  I believe she was classed under “Pre-production”. I also thought she had a real nifty name.

I note she currently still has dealings with Star Trek, helping to facilitate Star Trek Fan conferences and arranging appearances by some of the Star Trek stars. I did not have an abundance of communication with Ms. Fatjo. I think I got a package of information about the type of thing they wanted for a script. Memory says there was a desire to have a main plot line concentrating on just two or three of the main characters. There was to be one additional sub plot. There were arcs to accommodate the commercials. I believe they hoped for some humour. And timing, of course, all was timed to the exact minute.

I followed directions and wrote a script and put it into the format and sent it off. I had two further dealings with Mz Fatjo. One told me they had received the script. The other – so deliciously close to the end of the season – was to tell me they would not be using it.

The script was called The Minstrel. In it, an alien had a musical instrument (I think a horn, but it might have been strings) that would play tunes attuned to whoever he was talking to. It had other properties, but I think I’ll keep them tucked away. You never know.

Anyway, the Minstrel would interact (per act) with the Star Trek characters. Revelations were forthcoming. Not too many special effects (which was something else requested). I received no cheques, nor writing credits, from this foray into television land.

But not all was lost.

I was writing my script in tandem with a friend who was writing her own script. News of our endeavours made the local writing circuit, and we were interviewed on regional radio. From that we were asked to speak to a couple of writing classes, and even invited to an alternate world fan club to give a reading.

We boldly went!

DE

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