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?
(As ghosts are wont to do)
When they go to wander,
In those places,
They used to play.
The Ghost wanted
(As ghosts are wont to do)
When all full of revenge,
To pull the living
To the Other side.
The Ghost hated
(As ghosts are wont to do)
Those who had been mean,
And hateful, and cruel,
And so so selfish.
The Ghost tugged
(As ghosts are wont to do)
With bony hands and fingers,
Hooked into both
Memory and conscience.
The Ghost succeeded
(As ghosts are wont to do)
Tenfold times ten again,
Turning troubled dream
Into shrieking nightmare.
The Ghost retreated
(As ghosts are wont to do)
At the blush of dawn.
Slipped behind the drape,
Waiting ever patiently.
[Image of Kafka by Kafka]
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the lost (or destroyed) diary entries of Franz Kafka. He recorded many of his dreams. So do I.
**************
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.
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.
Of the people described in this entry: Max is Kafka’s best friend; F. is his fiancee; The Swiss Girl was a first love; Ottla is his sister.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
07 March 1918
Dreamed I had another life. At the same time I had this one.
My additional life may not have always been what I chose, but it was always better than what I have.
At the Sunday dinner, Max was my father, and Ottla was my mother – although our ages remained the same. Sometimes my wife was the Swiss girl, sometimes it was F’s best friend. And sometimes it was Ottla.
I would still see my father in this other life, but only when I went into his store to make some purchase. He was as mean and gruff as ever.
I always shortchanged him.
[IMAGE} https://byronsmuse.wordpress.com/2018/12/20/fashion-inspiration-please-consider-me-a-dream/
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
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.”
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.
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