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Kafka Travels In His Dreams

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Franz Kafka recorded many dreams in his diaries. Thus, I gave him many dreams in my novel, Kafka In The Castle. The novel ‘fills in’ all the days where there are no entries in his actual diaries.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

04 April 1917

Dreamed I was to take a train journey.

I tried to find my travel papers, but all the drawers were jammed shut. The cupboard doors refused to open. My wallet was stuffed with money – colourful bills worth thousands of marks – yet no passport, no police clearance.

I could find no proof of who I was, and no permission to cross borders. I feared I was going to be late, so I put on an overcoat, grabbed a small bag off the bed, and hurried from the room.

The door led directly to the station platform, and I was quickly caught in lines of people. A man in uniform  harshly requested to see our tickets, but when I explained I had been unable to find any of my documents, he pointed to my case.

Inside were passports and papers from every country in Europe. I handed him one, but over my name was a photo of hog. Another had a picture of a donkey. A third showed sheep. Rodents, insects, and finally an ape, all appearing over my name and signature.

“You are Doktor Kafka?” he demanded.

“Yes,” I answered. I was terrified – what face did I have now?

“You are the veterinarian,” he said, finally satisfied. “Down to the end of the train.” He pointed the way, and I hurried along.

I walked and walked, but the train just became longer. Box cars and cattle cars were filled with the most terrible animal clamour, and reeking of filth. And I wondered, as I searched in vain for the end of this endless train, where would my destination finally be?

[Image] https://farm1.staticflickr.com/145/424520905_d05592a972_z.jpg

Kafka Dreams A Dream In Place of A Dream

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A dream of dreams
Is a dream confused.
 
Do you wake up
Into another?
 
Do you blend
Into reality?
 
Do you pick up
Where you left off?
 
Or leave off
Where you joined?
 
If it’s not making sense,
Is there sense to be made?
 
Did Kafka have the answer.
Or was Kafka the question?
(Image)www.npennydreams.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/Franz-Kafka-statue-Prague.jpg

Kafka Has A Dream About The Dead And Decay

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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. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

21 March 1917

Dreamed I was standing in a galleria with him. In a town in Northern Italy. We could see across the rooftops, to a plain slipping gently toward the foothills of the mountains. The day was clear – a cool spring morning – and the touch of sun was welcome on our skin.

He pointed to a laden waggon passing beneath us. A curtain of dust rose from its wheels as it squeezed through a narrow lane. We watched it for awhile, then he turned to me, his body a silhouette against the vivid sky.

“I enjoyed my funeral. I wish we could have talked about it after – it was one of those things to share.”

“We did share it,” I pointed out. “I was there.”

“But I was not,” he said.

Then he eased himself over the balcony, and without effort, we were sitting in the back of the waggon, perched upon boxes and equipment. We rattled out of the village toward the countryside.

“I loved the outdoors,” he said. “I still remember my last walk in the fields.”

We moved slowly through the country side, the waggon rarely being jostled along the rutted road. The teamster must have been an expert, but he never turned his face to us. Intent upon his business, I suppose.

“You forget that I am dead; for which I thank you.”

“Sometimes I do,” I replied.

“It is at those times, I sometimes think I’m still alive.”

He occasionally pointed to things behind me. Once there was a rabbit. The countryside spread endlessly, without another person in sight. I mentioned this, and he nodded.

“It will be crowded at our destination. But I’ll want to meet my wife.” He then leaned toward me, across the waggon. “You helped me, you know – in our final dance.” He smiled, then sighed, then pointed beneath me.   “My destination is close, I must return.”

I looked down, and saw I was sitting on a coffin – the polished brown one of his funeral. I moved, then bent over, prepared to open it. His fingers touched the wood beneath my hand.

“No. Do not look. You would not like what you found.” His smile seemed forced, there were more teeth showing than usual. “I embrace my new world. But for you, I am well and truly dead.”

Kafka Dreams Of God & Fate from “Kafka In The Castle”

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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. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

04 March 1917

I dreamed I was a prophet. The prophet Amshel, which is my Jewish name. And, I could talk to God.

And I was looking at myself in the mirror. And I was looking back at me. I mean, Franz was in the mirror, looking back at me – the me of Amshel – who was looking in the mirror. Except, I was as much me looking out, as I was me looking in.

The wall behind the prophet was painted red, while the one behind Franz was of brown wood. They both could raise their fists at each other, and sometimes did. In unison, of course. That was the law.

“Certainly, you may speak to God,” said Franz. “What is there in that? Everyone speaks to God – in sentences, in actions, with their lives. No one is more talked-to in the Universe than God. But what a prophet needs, is to have God speak back.”

And then God spoke, from somewhere behind the mirror, but He did not speak to Amshel. He spoke to Franz.

“You are on the wrong side,” said God. “Speak to me,” said Amshel. “Wrong side of what?” asked Franz. “Of the mirror,” answered God. “Don’t speak to him,” shouted Amshel. “He is from the world of vipers.” And Amshel raised his fist, but Franz had to hold up his fist in turn. “I am not the prophet you seek,” said Franz, and pointed his finger at the mirror. “There is your prophet.”

And Amshel was also pointing toward the glass. “Not him – you don’t want him.” He then turned his hand toward himself. “I’m the one you want.” But Franz was just as vehement, as his thumb arched toward his own chest. “Not me.” For emphasis, he placed his hand over his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”

And his words echoed those of Amshel, who also had his hand upon his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.” And the two faces stared at one another, their fingers clutching at the garments they wore.

But God was silent.

Kafka Dreams Of God from “Kafka In The Castle”

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(Image) i.huffpost.com/gen/1961945/images/o-ANGEL-GOD-facebook.jpg

17 May 1918

Dreamed I met God. Quite unexpectedly. Without any introduction or preparation. Much as it’s supposed to be. In the twinkling of an eye.

I was in an office building much like the Institute. Though I knew it wasn’t the Institute, for I was a visitor. I had business to conduct, yet I wasn’t a petitioner. I was not after benefits, or some other type of assistance. I was not apprehensive, or intimidated by the building, as can often happen in dreams. But I was unsure of where to go, so I wandered from office to office, one floor to the other. Though I do not remember what it was, I obviously had a definite goal, for I knew without asking when I was in the wrong office.

I was confident that my chore could be completed. I walked up flights of stairs, and strolled along corridors. If the doors to offices were closed, I simply entered without announcing myself. Sometimes the offices were empty, save for desks and chairs, the occasional typewriter, the odd telephone.

Sometimes there were people present, usually seated at desks, but they were vague and unknown to me. A brief nod of acknowledgement, and I was on my way. And so it went, without interruption. When one corridor of offices was completed, I would go up a flight of stairs and start the procedure all over. I had no sense of urgency, and no sense of frustration. I was as patient as the Sphinx. I would have (it seems – quite happily) continued in this manner forever.

It was a seemingly endless, time-consuming task, much as is my life at the Institute. The only thing I found strange – though not enough to bother me – was that I did not recognize any of the people. They had the stifled stamp of bureaucrats, but that was all. So it was with total surprise that I opened one door, and found a group of people standing near a window, listening intently to a man in their midst. He was reciting orders, and assigning duties for the day. The others were hurriedly taking notes, all in deep concentration. But the voice abruptly stopped, and the faces turned in my direction.

The man giving orders was of slight build, pale and with thinning hair. His suit was of a fine cut, though somehow dated. His eyes were subdued, yet immediately commanded everything they saw. I knew within an instant that this was God.

“Yes.” The voice was sharp. “What do you want?”

“I’ve been sent to see you.” I realized that it must be true, for this was no place to tell a lie.

“You’re Kafka.”

“Yes. Doktor Kafka.”   I replied again. “Yes,”

I was gratified at such immediate recognition. Then God turned to one of the people surrounding him, his voice impatient.

“Give me the list.”

He hurriedly flipped through the pages handed to him.

“No.” His voice was again abrupt.

“You’re not here. Come back later.”

And I was dismissed.

 

DE

Jesus And Naked Women On The Bus

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~~ Bernardino LuiniNursing Madonna

Sometimes, when you read a novel, you come across a described incident you know just has to be true, because even the most inventive author could not make it up.

I will now describe an encounter I had on a five hour bus trip one weekend. It was a fairly full bus. I assumed my tenure of being able to sit by myself would not last the whole time.

In this I proved correct.

At a ten minutes stop, which allowed me to get off and stretch my legs, I returned to find a fellow in the seat beside me.

Early twenties, a tall, thin, white male with a head of blond dreadlocks. He was also dressed totally in white, and expressed surprise my seat was taken (though I had left my knapsack upon it).

Three minutes after the bus leaves, even before we are out of town and on the highway, he asks:

Are you a Christian?”

This – generally – is not a positive ice-breaker.

I replied ‘more-or-less’, which set him aback.

Asking me what I meant, I said that many people classing themselves as Christians do not follow the teachings of Christ as I understand them, so one man’s Christian can be another man’s Antichrist.

He – surprisingly – agreed.

I confess to being monosyllabic in my responses to his religious-oriented questions, which he spread out over the next hour. He might have had an evangelical intent, but he was not insistent. He did, during his disjointed discourse, relate that he was an ‘art student’. He had some of his drawings in his backpack – might I want to see them?

I demurred.

He expressed no displeasure.

He did ask some other routine questions among his religious comments.

Finding I was a writer he (of course) relayed a dream which would “…make a great story or book.” He planned to write it some day.

He asked after my books. I expected some unwanted enthusiasm when I mentioned The Elephant Talks To God. However, after ascertaining they were ‘short stories’ and that the title was ‘To God’ and not ‘With God’ (which I now ponder might have been a more accurate title) he did not pursue the point, other than to find out if he could purchase the book.

I assured him that he could, over the internet and on Kindle. He did not know what Kindle was.

While sitting beside me he had discussions (I interpreted) with God of his own. He did engage in heated (though muted) conversations with no one visibly present. Indeed, upon occasion, he seemed surprised at some of the comments he ‘heard’.

It was in the midst of this type of behaviour, and related to nothing I said, that he turned to me to relate this brief tale. A tale no author can make up.

He described how once he was staying with his girlfriend in Montreal. An apartment he bet he could still find if given the time.

One afternoon, God instructed him to draw a picture of Christ upon a wall. The only pigment he had was his girlfriend’s nail polish. And, upon the wall (guided, you must accept, by God’s hand) he drew The Christ with the head of Alvin-the-Chipmunk. And wearing an Alvin-the-Chipmunk red tunic, which was often (he said) the colour of the clothes that medieval painters gave Christ.

About ten minutes before we came into the stop where we would part company, he started to engage two ladies across the aisle in conversation.

He used much the same patter (though no Christian talk) that he had used with me. It turned out they were interested in seeing his drawings. He began to unroll a tight wad of papers (about the length of a roll of paper towels), ready to reach them across the aisle.

I glanced.

They were of nude women.

Not poorly done, neither.

DE

(image)https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/60/69/79/606979adceefe25101617d5567b0d894.jpg

The Dream On The Night Train

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The troubled night carries too many warnings of mortality to be ignored.

There are horses kept unfed in refrigerators, clambering to get free.

Some will be found emaciated.

Punishment will be meted in an ingenious and terrifying manner.

Flowers will turn to doorknobs.

Stooping to smell will reveal the pungent scent of fingerprints.

Dreams to befuddle Satan.

Fears not be wished upon a hated enemy.

The steps are steep.

The rooms without walls.

Pictures hang and grin with howling mouths.

What would be the fruit of seed tilled in these fields?

If that hunted figure, racing so slowly after the final train, is you,

Whose eyes watch the train?

DE

(image)http://previews.123rf.com/images/jerryb7/jerryb71111/jerryb7111100134/11458140-Railroad-Track-Switch-Stock-Photo-railway-tracks-train.jpg

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