I owe my life to Hitler, though I never met the man. My father was paid to stop Hitler, so there is no conflict of interest. I was given a thunk on the back o' the head by God when I was fifteen, and within a week began to write. I haven't stopped. My first novel was accepted 'over the transom'. My first editor/author luncheon in New York included a naked man with roller skates at the next table. For the sake of research I have lain on Kafka's grave, but I did not weep. I wish upon my own gravestone the phrase "Thank God He Didn't Die A Virgin". There is truth in every truth - so watch out.
My published novels include the popular fantasy A Lost Tale and the thriller The Bonner Deception. I also have two editions of humorous and spiritual short stories, The Elephant Talks to God, which are appreciated by both young and old.
My manuscripts range from stories about unicorns and druids in the 'Passing Through Trilogy' to the 9/11 destruction of New York. I have filled in the missing diaries of Franz Kafka; recounted the first person dementia of a serial killer; explored the outrageous lifestyle of the famous; and listened in while an elephant and God converse. I currently switch my attention between the saga of a family of onion farmers, from Fourth century Italy to the present day, and a contemporary NATO thriller.
I live in Canada and make Nova Scotia my home.
I prefer to travel by train, but embrace the computer age with passion. I am always on the hunt for unique onion recipes.
Q: To be or not to be? A: Who asketh the query? Q: Bond – James Bond. A: Sound and fury, it seems to me. Q: They say you’re a talker – is that true? A: More of a thinker. Q: Then a doer? A: I put many acts in play. Q: The power behind the throne? A: When the throne is rotten. Q: So, do you dither? A: Whilst thou hither. Q: What is your wish? A: To whisper in your ear. Q: To tell me what? A: Fear not, it won’t be poisonous. Q: Will it be a secret? A: More likely than not. Q: In my line of work, secrets are Death. A: You deal with Kings and Queens? Q: I’m on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. A: A double life is a double sword is a double bind. Q: How do you know that? A: I write plays. Q: And tell the truth? A: My word is my bond.
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. *********************************
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.
If my cat/kitten, Black as coal, With one white mitten, (I call him Paw)
Was not black as coal, He’d be lost to me, And to the ages, In these drifts of snow Covering Partridge Island, After the storm, From down the coast,
That left us so white. I kept him in while It raged, Which he took to kindly. But I let him loose, The next afternoon, Because a cat/kitten Got to learn the
Ways of the world. He took to the huge drifts, Like a fish to water. And when he tried to Chase a rabbit, I laughed myself silly. And, (I bet), So did the rabbit.
(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report} DE BA. UEL
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the lost diary entries that he either ignored, or destroyed.
Kafka made this walk hundreds of times (and I managed a few, myself).
The following is the entry I made of Kafka crossing the Bridge, and what he pondered.
Excerpt From Kafka in the Castle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
29 August 1917
I strolled the Charles Bridge a long time tonight, before coming on to the castle. I have the feeling that the river air helps my lungs.
I also like the city lights reflecting from the racing water. And the occasional boat, lanterns stern and bow.
I have once or twice steered my own boat through the dark, the flickering light dripping through the gloom before me. If I could have reached the sea while it was still dark, I would have tried to do so. But I was younger then. And could breathe deeply.
Fantasy fuelled this escape, from my Moldau island and then along the Elbe, through Dresden, Magdeburg and Hamburg, to the freedom of Helgoland Bay. Further into the North Sea, if I wanted. Perhaps to Iceland, where I could become lost in the snow and white.
All this, from my perch upon the Charles Bridge, as I strolled from side to side, and one end to the other. My last smile reserved for the statues staring down on me.
Their stony expressions etched upon their faces, as is mine to me.
Perhaps – if just once – some grubby commercial venture offered to pay me for their questionable goods, I would relent. But it ain’t happened, so it’s delete delete delete. Sore (yet soaring) finger.
kafkaestblog 