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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
20 September 1917
Dreamed a mixture. I walked – a desolate figure trudging the vast Steppes. Yet I rode wildly – a madman with my forehead pressed against the compartment window. And I saw myself as the train raced by, outlined by the yellow light of the coach; and then a slender body turning to stare at the racing train. We both hollered, but noise and distance obscured our voice. The vast Steppes turned into a castle, but the castle was displayed in the photos of a magazine, which I held on my lap in the flickering light of the compartment, as the train became engulfed by the large buildings on either side of the tracks. In the magazine there was a railway at the base of the castle, and as I looked out the window the stone walls filled the frame, each giant block wedged securely to the others, their facing protruding and rough. It was as if the train had entered a tunnel, except there was still light from the distant sky.
I turned a page, and had to squint to see the pictures. Along the whole bottom of the magazine pages, a train obscured part of the castle wall, almost becoming a part of the stones. Black and white, light and shade, blending into a sepia which smudged all the details. Was there a figure in the window?
DE
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?
Perhaps it is circular, but this observation, from an admittedly unreliable observer in one of my short stories, has been continuously popular over the last few years. It has even surpassed interest in Kafka. Wot the Franz?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Circles are the answer.
“Just look at any circle and you’ll see what I mean. Of course, no one else is to know about the circles. They must be very stupid if they can’t see something so obvious.
“Yet, you get hints, don’t you – all the time out there. And in your own life – the way things happen so you never get anywhere. Never change.
“The earth, of course, and the sun – well, that’s something you can see. Either way you look at it, the one goes around the other in a big circle that takes in the whole sky. And the earth and the sun and the moon are round – all circles in their own right. So you have circles which are going around in circles, if you get my meaning.
“And if you look further – reach out into the universe as far as you can go – they tell us that everything is going around everything else. Smaller circles and elongated circles which take in such large distances that numbers become forgotten.
“Now, this means that everything, eventually, comes back upon itself. The beginning is really the end. That’s what most people would think – and that’s where they make their mistake.
“You see, things don’t start by beginning – they start by ending. It’s the end which comes first in a circle, so, instead of going back to where it started, it comes back to its end.
“That explains it.”
It is one of those strange skies.
Strange morning light,
Not silver,
Not copper.
But both at once.
And the morning started so sunny,
Promising a fine fine day.
But now,
Even Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as a midnight sky,
With one white mitten,
Is backing up
With a hiss.
Is the ocean going to throw,
And pound,
Our island and our lighthouse,
With storm and waves,
Wrack and ruin?
Or will it pass us by,
Like ghostly ships in the night?
I’m going to take Paw in
And give him meat.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
(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.
An Excerpt from my Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of his missing diary entries. Kafka never avoided life – if anything, he perhaps plunged too deeply into it. But I think he never felt he was a part of what went on around him. He understood reality too well.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
01 June 1917
I have been on the outside, looking in – the darkness of the night behind me, the fog resting close upon the harbour.
I’ve watched diners at their ease, the fire colourful through the grate, the rich hue of the glass raised to the lips. And my own face, peering back at me as I look in, reflecting like a ghost’s shadow from the window.
And the very next night, I have been on the inside, looking out – seated at the very table I had previously observed.
The fireplace at my back, its warmth more than welcome. And I glanced out at the harbour, its fog higher than the previous evening, but not yet obscuring the lights of the ships. Their portholes wavering.
And, as I brought the red liquid to my lips, I saw my own face dimly doing the same in the window, imposed and distant between me and the fog. And I felt as alone as I did the night before.
Whether I was sitting or standing; whether in the warmth, or in the fog – I was still me.
Always K.
Always observing.
An Excerpt from my Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of his missing diary entries. Perhaps because the summer heat is getting to him, his patience is thin with those whose hope outstrip the realities of life and – particularly – death.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
17 June 1917
I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day.
Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday.
There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so.
When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.
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