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10/24/2025
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure (even in metric).
I experienced over two months of writer’s block many years ago.
I literally sat at my desk for hours.
To this day I can accurately describe that desk. Its vision is before/behind my eyes as I key. It had a red leather top.
I have devised a scheme which I find is 90% successful in combating writer’s block.
Do not complete your thought on page or screen.
Make sure it is solidly in your mind (make notes if necessary).
But, do not write it down.
If it is a description – don’t finish it.
If it is dialogue – don’t complete it.
If it is a line of poetry – don’t end it.
The next day, read the preceding page.
Then slide into the phrase you would have ended with yesterday.
Put in those final words.
The odds are excellent you will continue on your way.
Dear F:
I have found your reality is actually real.
Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.
1. Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies which run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.
2. Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better.
3. Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.
4. Sex is highly overrated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly ” ’tis a consummation devoutly to be had”. Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.
5. There is no Castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.
6. Except the grave, of course.
7. Except the grave.
Yours,
D.
This is a Test
(But not “the” Test)
For,
If it were the real
Test,
It would need an
Answer,
Or two,
Or even
Multiple choice.
But
It is not that test.
It is just a
Test
To announce
Something
Or
To warn about
Something
Or
It is a test to warn
About
A warning.
A Test
Basically
To say,
*IF*
This was
A Test
Get
Your shit together
Or
Bend over and
Kiss your ass
Good-bye.
That is all.
It is*That*
Type of test.
DE BA UEL
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
30 August 1917
I’ll just leave the newspapers. They will no doubt be appreciated as fuel for the next winter. My manuscripts though – regardless of the temptation – I’ll take. The pile on the table, looming behind the lamp, I’ll take tonight. The rest tomorrow. Max has offered to carry things – no doubt thinking that what he carries, I can not burn – and has arranged to be here shortly.
What I most want to take away with me, I can’t. The comfort. The view of the Stag Moat. The Castle walls. The world held suspended beyond the massive gates. The silence. Perhaps peace – which can be many things – can also be nothing more than silence. And here is Max at my open door. His worried smile precedes him into my peaceful room.
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.
24 August 1917
When change comes into life, it never seems to come alone. Are we pawns in this, or are we the hand moving the pieces across the board? Max arranges for me to see a specialist, where there will be more probing, more questions, and more X-Rays. I find it repulsive – though admittedly fascinating – to see my own interior. And when the word tuberculosis is finally spoken – even by Max – then I can go on to some rest. Some release. Escape for a time from the Institute – perhaps be allowed to resign. And then – a trip out of Prague, to the mountains or to the see. Maybe stay with Ottla for a few weeks.
Autumn in the country can be very nice; I could even help her with the harvest. Give worth to my freedom. And while I am leaping from my past life, I’ll mail another letter to Felice. What is the use of an engagement now?
I was sitting on my porch
Humble enough,
At my Lighthouse Keeper’s house,
When Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as a raven
With one white mitten,
Started playing with a flock
Of little birds.
They were in the bushes,
Flitting from branch to branch
Up and down and over.
He tried to catch one
And then another
And then an another
And then –
He succeeded.
He stood over the bird
Pushed it with his paw,
Sniffed at it,
Then came tearing over to me.
He snagged my pant leg
And pulled.
“Come come come” was in his meows,
So, I did.
The sea breeze ruffled the bird’s feathers
But
There was more movement than that.
I picked up the tiny bird,
Touched its breast,
Felt the trembling heart,
Saw its beak open and close,
And just held it closer to the sun.
It stirred, and stood, and wobbled
And gasped open its eyes
And started to fly
Before it stood.
Right back to the other li’l birds.
Paw slept by my feet
The rest of the day.
{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
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as the Ides of March
With one white mitten,
Has a green ribbon
Tied around his neck,
As we stand on the dock
And welcome the arrival of Sister Darling,
Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)
On this Saint Patrick’s Day,
She steps off the fishing boat,
And unceremoniously hands me
A hefty cauldron,
As she scoops up Paw
And holds him close, the way
(I trust)
She will eventually hold me.
“Irish stew,” says she.
But I didn’t even have to guess,
For I can recite, by smell,
The ingredients.
Lamb on the bone
Carrots/celery
onions/leeks/garlic
Bay leaf/sea salt/black pepper
Lots of potatoes
And two (I hope) pints of ale.
“You are right,” she says
As Paw snuggles into her hair,
“And you will get
A Reward.”
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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