Not only is 03 June the day that Kafka died, but it is the day that Billy Joe jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge. So, how unfortunate is that?
https://youtube.com/watch?v=HaRacIzZSPoTo
Die As Kafka Did Is Not Easy https://daleestey.com/2020/06/03/to-die-as-kafka-did-is-not-easy/
Franz Kafka inches toward being dead for 100 years.He died on this day, 03 June, in 1924. he did not go gently into that good night, though he probably was just as happy to be gone. It was difficult to satisfy Kafka,
I wonder what Kafka would think about the worldwide communication and information of today. He was a rigid fixture of the staid (he hated using the telephone). He also was a keen observer of the world around him (he wrote the first newspaper report about aeroplanes, and he invented the safety helmet). It was more this deep divide in his personality which caused him his problems, about which he so famously wrote.
He did not fit into his personal world, yet he fit into the real world perfectly. He was adored by his friends and by many ladies. He was respected at his work and rose to a position of power. His stories were published to acclaim in his lifetime.
Kafka lived a Kafkaesque life. He died a Kafkaesque death (he caught tuberculosis because he drank “pure” unpasteurised cow’s milk). He was rigid in his personal beliefs (until proved wrong), yet he was a beacon of compassion to others.
Kafka was always on a tightrope. He looked at things with such accuracy that his comments can seem bizarre. Supposedly his last words were: “Kill me, or you are a murderer.” They were to his doctor, as Kafka beseeches for an overdose of morphine.
I have written much about Kafka. I will share but two.
This is the diary entry I had him write in my fictional novel “Kafka In The Castle”:
03 July 1917
The anniversary of my birth. In honour of the day, I do not make it my last.
And this is a short story.
The old Rabbi moved slightly on his bed, and the young man raced over.
“Yes, Rebbe?”
The old Rabbi opened his eyes, showing the cast of death which had almost consumed him. “Ka … ” he groaned.
The young man had been told the dying Rabbi would never regain his senses, and he did not know what to do. He was scared, almost horrified, but he leaned closer.
“What is it? What do you want?”
The old Rabbi struggled for breath. “Ka … Kaf …”
The young man gazed at the face, saw its pallid features and the clouded eyes. He touched a shrunken cheek, raised his voice to a shout. “What is it? What can I do?” He could hear wheezing, the struggle for air. He put his ear directly over the gaping mouth.
“Ka … Ka …” One last ragged breath, a low hollow whisper. “Kafka died for your sins.”
The Commander – in – Chief decided that it would be a grand day to become Admiral of the Fleet – Lord High Admiral if he chose the hat with cockade and plume.
Nodding jauntily in the air, the plume put on an impressive display, as he either agreed, or disapproved, with a toss, or a shake, of his head. The dancing ostrich feathers would add a dashing air as he boarded his flagship and, with just the right mixture of stringent authority and well- tempered geniality, moved in imperious sweeps among the ranks of ratings on the aft deck.
He would, of course, be extra careful about the pitfalls awaiting a man with ornate dress sword and scabbard, among the steep steps and narrow companionways.
*******
Wednesday was khaki day for the Commander – in – Chief.
It was the day set aside to remind him of the loyalty he must always retain from his men, for what was a leader without his troops? And as a treat – for really, the dull brown did not make for a very striking appearance – the would chose the tank commander’s uniform.
With its wide web belt and shiny black holster on the hip, flap unsnapped to reveal the butt of a wicked forty-five. And of course the black leather gloves, as befits a man at the controls of so much power, and the steel helmet polished to a mirror-shine.
The riding crop? Ah, the riding crop was debatable.
*****
Today there would be a parade. Massed men at attention with stiffly held rifles and fixed bayonets.
The Commander – in – Chief would have to chose carefully to represent his awesome power and responsibility. Cavalry boots are a must, raising half-way up the calf and resounding with silver spurs, steel-tipped toes and heels.
Then would come crisp black trousers, billowing majestically around the thighs, and kept up with a wide leather belt. He took care that each red stripe reaching the length of each leg was as straight as an arrow.
His blue tunic, he decided, would have only muted decorations and the minimum of gold braid entwined about his shoulders. He was – after all – a fighting general.
A civic reception is the time when the Commander – in – Chief would be on close display.
He believes he is at his most effective when draped completely in white, save – of course – for his highly polished black dress shoes (and, in truth, he favoured white even here, but feared such footwear was a trifle effeminate). White is striking by itself, but well he knew it made the perfect background for his medals and decorations.
He has trouble deciding upon which color sash to wear across his chest, but finally chooses the emerald green – the reception is in the public gardens. He dons his silver-visored cap, and graces his bosom with the blue Clustered Palm of Valour; the diamond centred Star of Courage; the gold Pyramid of the Oaken Grove; and seven rows of bars and campaign medals.
There are no visiting Heads of State, so he need not be too brilliant.
Fog drops
From the trees
To make the grass,
And chairs,
Wet.
Three birds,
Already the white of seagulls,
Have a flight plan
That makes them
Enter, and
Disappear,
In the fog.
Easy to do as
The Fog
Swallows
Everything.
There are ships at sea
(If you care to believe).
For I have not seen
One
For
Five
Days.
Nor seen them
At night,
Because
The fog also
Swallows
Their lights.
Really
In the fog
You cannot
Believe
Your eyes.
So, let’s see if a blog that is really a ‘test’ of a new format is really of worth.
I just did something, and colo[u]r settings came up. Well, that’s something. Except I can’t seem to get rid of the colo[u]r.
And I can’t seem to find any way to attach an image. OK -FOUND ONE!!
(And a different colo[u]r.)
Soooooo – I can’t say I find this an improvement (and I hope I’ll just be able to use the old way). U know – the way that has worked just fine for years.
Now – to see what happens when I click to publish.
He is not a man for grand gestures.
The gift came as a surprise, the kiss a shock. He was embarrassed by the first and aroused by the second. Time, always a constant worry – not the futile minutes, hours, days, the whirlwind passage of months, but the disappearance of the now into the past -had again taken a bite out of his life before he had realized it was gone.
“I thought you would like it.” she said, a gift somehow made more important because it was not planned, an obvious display of spontaneity. A chance meeting in a store on a Saturday afternoon. “I’m leaving soon, in two weeks I’ll be in France.” Eyes taking in his every reaction, her voice tinged with reproach. “Do you like it?”
And of course he did, but there were too many memories laced with half smiles jamming into his head, not painful in themselves but adding now to finality. The party where he met her, surely that was just last week, at the most a month ago. Surely it did not stretch back to soft Autumn nights.
“Well, here,” she writes something. “It’s for you, you know.”
A look of puzzlement crosses her face as the gift changes hands, the too brief touch of her fingers. he clutches it carefully, looks back to her eyes and imagines he sees a twinge of that nonexistent past. or does she only reflect what is in his own face?
And then the kiss. So unexpected that he almost jumps back.
The touch of lips and warm breath, the smell of fresh, soft hair against his cheek. His own mouth open in surprise, her farewell brush of lips turned partially into passion. And then she is out the door, onto the street, and he is standing by a counter feeling very old, his heart an icy moon of Jupiter.
Ah, Christiane. Salut.
(image) https://apod.nasa.gov/apod/image/9805/callistoplus_gal.jpg
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