Search

kafkaestblog

It is a whirlwind in here

Open Search
Category

history

Kafka Hauls Ass Out Of Vienna, A City He Had A Deep Hate For

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline. On these July days in 1917, in reality, he travelled to Vienna. He filled in no diary entries, but I have him express opinions he mentioned elsewhere.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

17 July 1917

            Vienna – a city which I hate. The forced gaiety of the people is as cloying to me as the rich desserts which gag my mouth. They live on the borderline with death, and their sweat reeks of terror. It drips onto their ghastly cakes as they peer across the table to see what their companions have. “Shit in; shit out,” as my father would say.

18 July 1917

           I took a night train from Vienna. Not only was it the quickest conveyance available, but I did not have to look at the wretched city in the dark. It’s not a place of dreams, but of nightmares. But, perhaps it was foolish to flee, since my destination is a nightmare.

0

Where Do You Go When You’re Lost In The Fog?

Paw, the cat/kitten

Black as being blind

With one foggy mitten,

Is lost,
And coughing,

In the fog.

He lets me know

Of his displeasure,

Which I can hear from him
Even if I can’t see.

It is a Friday of fog,

Which has followed a
Week of fog,

From the Monday last.

It has made Partridge Island

Disappear into the sea.

The Lighthouse light

Is so smothered, even I

Can not see it from its base.


Paw blames me for this,

And also blames me for 

The incessant foghorn that

– I hope –

Penetrates the gloom to

Ships at sea.

I sit

And knit

Paw, my protesting cat,


A woolen cap

To stop up his ears.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

0

Casting A Prayer Onto The Sea For Summer Solstice

Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church Of The World (Reformed),

Is not a selfish gal

Except – perhaps –
On the business of the Lord.

So, when she transported herself

Through the kind intervention

Of a fishing boat,

To Partridge Island,

In this sweltering heat,

To celebrate the Summer Solstice,

I don’t believe it was just

To be cool,

Even though the Island

Is the coolest place you could be,

Surrounded by water, and ocean breezes,

As it is.

She scooped up Paw, The Cat/Kitten

Black as Agate

With one white mitten,

(He never minds being part

Of her adventures)

And off we went, at a quick clip.

From the Lighthouse we aimed for

The very tip of the Island.

Jutting into the sea.

She put down Paw.

Hauled out a timepiece and chain,

(It had been her fathers)

And flicked open the lid.

“Four minutes,” she said.

And when that time had passed

She intoned a Celtic prayer:

“O mother ocean, welcome me in your arms,
bathe me in your waves,
and keep me safe
so that I may return to land once more.”

“Is that not a Heretic prayer?” I asked.

“Don’t be so narrow – it is All the same God.”

She didn’t open her eyes,

But pointed directly at Paw,

And the crazy little bugger

Nodded his head.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

0

Will Kafka Have Some Success on Father’s Day?

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. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 

On this day from Kafka In The Castle, Kafka spent the afternoon with his father – an unusual event. And he even had a beer – he was not much of a drinker. But his estranged sister, Ottla, was coming to visit. Her parting with her father months before had been vicious. Kafka hopes to make her visit passable.

***************************************

25 June 2017

We are rarely alone with each other, and the strain was palpable. I wanted to act as normally as possible, but since my usual conversation is what generally infuriates him, that seemed unwise. 

We read the newspapers, and I managed enough comments about the articles, and elicited his tiresome opinions about the war, and didn’t argue with him too much, that the afternoon – although slow – passed with little rancour. 

I even had a beer with him, and he showed his surprise. And, I even enjoyed it – but then, I had earned it.

In fact, it may have been the unaccustomed alcohol which lessened the shock of seeing Ottla enter the apartment with mother. Father stood from his chair, the newspapers falling at his feet. “Ottla has an hour before she must catch her train,” said Mother. “I have asked her in for some tea.” Father glared at her for an excessively long minute without speaking, managing however to give me an occasional menacing glance. He then abruptly sat again, gathering his papers and holding them in front of his face. “Don’t give her too much,” came his voice from behind the pages. “Too much tea can make a long journey uncomfortable.” I knew that he had already read the pages he held, and I wondered what he was thinking.

About ten minutes passed, and then mother came back and asked if we would like any tea. “Yes,” my father answered, but instead of waiting for it to be brought to him, as is his usual practice, he followed mother into the dining room. 

And I followed him. 

Ottla didn’t look up, but he did manage to ask some questions about the farm, and she delivered some cautious replies. She stayed another twenty minutes, then I walked her to the station. It had been mother’s idea to come home, and Ottla had not strongly resisted. I know that she and father will never apologize to each other, but at least they now speak. 

Once we were out of sight of the house, she gripped my hand and held it until we reached the train. 

“How can I love that monster?” she asked from the train as it pulled away. 

“How can you not?” I replied. I hope the noise from the wheels drowned out my words.

26 June 1917

Fight and you die. Surrender and you die.

27 June 1917

Live and you die.

0

When The Fog Is A Shroud For Death, Do The Mermaids Still Sing?

It’s illegal, of course

What Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed)

Wants me to do:

But who am I,

Belated sinner, and open to

Any supernatural suggestion,

Going to do?

Acquiesce, of course.

Submit, of course.

As is (I am sure) God’s will.

So she has transported her beloved aunt,

Dead these past three days,

On a boat to Partridge Island.

Captained by a cousin and

A crew member who will ask no

Questions,

So they will not have


To give any answers 


– If asked –

As to what might have been

In their coffin-shaped cargo.


Sister Darling’s beloved aunt

Wished – implored – to be buried

On Partridge Island as,


Over a half century ago,

It was the place of her birth.

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black himself as Death,

With one white mitten,

Tolls a tiny bell which

Sister Darling has affixed

Around his neck.

The grave (of course)

I have already dug,

And Sister Darling is

(Of course)

Full of the appropriate prayers.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

0

Since Kafka Writes So Many Letters, Does He Become A Bore?

   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.

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

10 June 1917

           I find I am writing the same letters. Saying the same things. Even using the same words. Perhaps to prove that they are the same thoughts. Over and over like a child hawking his newspapers on the street. Yet, he has more success, for I can not sell. I can not even give away.

0

If Kafka Were To Die, What Would He Think?

   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.

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

  

07 June 1917

I wonder what my final thought will be – just before I die. I was moments away from death this afternoon, as I stepped unheeding onto the tram tracks. The motorman’s frantic bell made me leap. Had I been too slow, my last thoughts would have concerned where and when to take my vacation. Not very glorious last thoughts to possess.

     But, had I the time granted to me, what would I chose to think about? Perhaps F. Perhaps the writing – I’d like to finish the novel. Would I torture myself thinking about father? Would I accept that my past – now that it was ending – was finally settled. Or would I instead – and this is what I really expect – be wondering what I was going to miss tomorrow?

0

Why Does Kafka Ponder His Fine Dining At The Sanatorium Frankenstein?

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.

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

02 June 1918

           I took an evening train back to Prague, so I was able to have Sunday dinner at the Sanatorium Frankenstein. Much more restful than at my father’s table. The officials – and the officious – knew of my opinions. And know that I will be back on other trips for the Institute. Changes will be made, and those changes will be kept. With all these understandings in place, the meal was reasonably cordial.

     I chose to sit with the patients. There was, of course, unspoken control here – those whom they can’t control eat in other rooms. My wish-granting colonel was not to be seen, let alone heard. And if staff questions were not answered, then “Do you like the meals?” became “Tell Doktor Kafka if you like the meals.” I did hear one bandaged patient respond; “Why, is he the cook?” I chose – like everyone else – to ignore the comment. The food, if somewhat scant and overdone, was decent enough country fare. Better than many Prague cafes. There was no need for any fond good byes – I will be back.

     I paced the station platform for awhile, thinking of the places I’ve been, and the sights I’ve seen. The people I have met. I occasionally, in Prague, go just to watch the trains arrive and depart. All that hectic bustle, noise and confusion, and then – emptiness. It is at such times that I am tempted to think that the meaning of life is movement. And, eventually, my train came, and I was the one in motion.

0

If The Flag Can’t Fly, Do We Still Salute?

HMS Styx, Her Majesty’s Sloop-of-War,

Steam engine and paddle driven,

Six guns on deck,

Paused on its way into harbour,

To deliver a package

From the good Queen herself.

It is a snapping-new


Union Jack,

To be hoisted from

The top of the Lighthouse.

The idea was that,

It would be seen for miles.

So, I opened the package

Opened the package

Opened the package

And, when finally,

The package was open.

Her Majesty’s flag could be

Wrapped around the Lighthouse

Twice.

It can’t be hung

By man nor beast.

I won’t even try

To guess

The way our masters think.

But – at least –


I will not have to teach

A patriotic salute

To Paw, my Cat/kitten,

Black as a Jolly Roger

With one white mitten.

Which will be a relief

To us both.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

0

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑