love

What Goes Around Does NOT Necessarily Come Around On Friday 13th

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the missing entries of his actual diaries. There are many days to fill, as he either did not write during these days, or he destroyed the record.

Kafka did have occasion to ponder Friday 13th. The date was connected to “The Swiss Girl”, whom he met at a resort. She was eighteen and he was thirty-four. It is unclear how intimate their relationship became.

Twice, I give him a brief recognition of Friday 13th. In reality, The Swiss Girl haunted him (pleasantly) all his life.

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

13 April 1917

I almost wrote down the year as 1913. That was the year I met the Swiss girl. And I remember her joking about, and how we had missed it by just a day. She was superstitious – Christians seem to be. I wonder what precautions she is taking today. It will be three years and seven months since I saw her. Yet some of the things we did could have happened last week. I think that memory must be made of rubber. You can sometimes pull it toward yourself – and sometimes it snaps away like a shot. Causing as much pain.

13 July 1917

Friday the 13th again. What better time to think of the Swiss girl, than with F. I don’t know if such memories help sustain me, or if they revel how intolerable the future can sometimes be. I can not imagine the Swiss girl’s face across the table from me, nor her voice singing one of her quiet songs. If I must be trapped, then why can’t I be trapped in the past?

[The Swiss Girl ~ Gerti Wasner] p8.storage.canalblog.com/89/52/207513/106933578_o.gif

06/13/2025 0

A Valentine’s Day Feast Awaits Sister Darling On Partridge Island

Sister Darling, of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed),

Steps upon the dock of the Partridge Island Lighthouse.

My humble self (the Lighthouse keeper) awaits her,

As does Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as Liquorice candy

With one white mitten.

I pondered tying a red riband

Around his neck, in celebration

Of the day.

But our cat/kitten is not as young

As he used to be,

And took umbrage at my attempt.

Still, he is young enough

– And spry enough –

And has memories enough,

To jump upon Sister Darling’s shoulder

And nestle in her hair.

And thus, we three climbed our way

To my Lighthouse Keepers house.

I have prepared a most wonderous fish stew,

Bubbling on the hob

(It even has lobster),

And, I have baked a pan of biscuits,

For her edification.

Sister Darling presents me with

A red envelope, wherein resides

(If I don’t miss my guess)

An embossed card to celebrate the day.

But,

Before I can open it,

She shoos Paw from her locks,

Opens wide her winter cloak,

And

“Oh, My!”

Our repast is threatened

To be delayed.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

02/14/2025 0

There Are No Small Gifts On Christmas Day On Partridge Island

Christmas Day is like
Any other day at
The Partridge Island Lighthouse.

Ya gotta trim the wicks,
And renew the oil.
So, I went about my business
At the usual time, only noting that
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as soot

With one white mitten,
Had abandoned me.
‘Mice’, thought I.

For there are always mice
On Partridge Island.
But, I found out

(After my chores were done),
That wily Paw had used stealth
– and his sensitive hearing –
To scurry to my Lighthouse-keepers house.

When I returned, as darkness settled,
I saw twinkling lights
Through the windows,
And smelled the delightful warmth

Of roasted fowl, and sweetened baking,
As I walked through the door.

Sister Darling, of

The Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Had hired a fishing boat to
Bring her to the Island, whilst I

Was occupied in the tower.

She had put her pre-baked goods
Into the oven, and
Stoked the fire.

A bottle of red wine, and
A bottle of white,
Sat upon the kitchen table.
And

Paw, the cat/kitten
Had a red red riband tied

Around his neck,
With a key attached.
I took it.
When I turned,
Sister Darling removed a small casket.
And handed it to me.

I used the key
To open a tiny lock.

I Opened it,
And looked inside.
Oh, My!
Oh, My!!
It GLOWED.

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

12/25/2024 0

If Kafka Had Not Retreated From Love

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.

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

05 June 1917

Had I not retreated, I would have given up myself. This is what is expected from love. My thoughts and emotions would be continually extracted. I have no way to replenish them, so I would eventually be hollowed out. And I would collapse.

06/05/2024 0

Kafka In Love (From “Kafka In The Castle”)

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

04 June 1917

Sometimes – with F – a kiss could make me feel l was becoming part of her.

And she into me.

I retreated.

06/04/2024 0

Where Do You Find The Ghost Of Kafka?

The Ghost of Kafka walks

– not stalks –

The streets

Of Prague.

Prague,

The city he would/could

Never leave

Until the last

Year of his life.

He described Prague as:
“The little Mother has claws.”

Which she did.

For him.

He managed

To escape to Berlin,

During one of

The worst times

Anyone could live

In Berlin,

Until the end of the

Second World War.

But

The Second World War

Was years away.

He escaped with a young

Lover – Dora Diamant.

She made things

So much better.

However, his Ghost only

Walks the streets of Prague.

Whereas

Kafka’s Ghost

Stalks

The rest of

The World.

05/28/2024 0

A Feast (Oh, Such A Feast) For Saint Patrick’s Day

I almost dropped Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as blood pudding

With one white mitten,

When Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed),

Stepped onto the dock

Of the Partridge Island Lighthouse.

She wore an emerald green gown

On this Saint Patrick’s Day,

Which fit her form

In a very alluring fashion.

She was bringing

A feast for myself, and Paw.

A hamper filled with (I sniffed it out)

Colcannon

Shepherd’s Pie

Corned Beef

Black-and-Tan Pork

Lime Poke Cake

And the clink of bottles

promising many Half and Halfs

which she knows how to pour

to perfection.

We exchanged hamper and cat.

Paw went directly to burrow

Into her long hair,

Which I, myself, will do

When the time for slumber

Arrives.

Then we began our walk

Up to The Lighthouse Keeper’s House,

Which I have festooned with

As many green doodads as

I could find.

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

DE BA. UEL

03/17/2024 0

A Feast Nor’ By Nor’west To Satisfy Partridge Island

Yesterday, a departing fishing boat
Left a letter on my dock,
At Partridge Island.
The letter told me to be standing here,
On this beach, looking toward shore
At exactly 2:30.
And to bring my telescope.
Which I have done.
Dutiful as I am.
And . . .

Well . . .
I’m sure glad there is no fog.
After opening my telescope
And putting it to my eye,
And focusing,
I spy
With my little eye,
Sister Darling of the
Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)
Wearing a long cloak
To her ankles.
And, upon opening it,
Revealing that she
Had decided
To wear nothing else.
Oh! Hallelujah! Yes!

{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

08/10/2023 0

Franz Kafka & Sweet Love For Valentine’s Day

Contrary to popular belief, Kafka had a very full love life. He was rarely without a lady friend during any part of his life. When one left, another soon took her place.

The following is a part of a letter he wrote to Felice, the woman he was engaged to – twice. It is fair to say that she was long-suffering. The sentiments Kafka expresses might have given her second thoughts. Perhaps that is partly why there were two engagements.

Think what one will about Kafka’s romantic abilities, he was a chick magnet. Right to the end. After his funeral, his last lover had to be restrained from leaping into his grave to be with him.

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

11 November, 1912

Fräulein Felice!

I am now going to ask you a favor which sounds quite crazy, and which I should regard as such, were I the one to receive the letter. It is also the very greatest test that even the kindest person could be put to. Well, this is it:

Write to me only once a week, so that your letter arrives on Sunday — for I cannot endure your daily letters, I am incapable of enduring them. For instance, I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough. But for this very reason I don’t want to know what you are wearing; it confuses me so much that I cannot deal with life; and that’s why I don’t want to know that you are fond of me. If I did, how could I, fool that I am, go on sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with you? … Franz

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

While Kafka was in the first year of his ‘love-of-a-lifetime’ affair with Felice Bauer, he met “The Swiss Girl”. In his diaries, she was only referred to as W. or G. W. They were together for ten days in a spa on Lake Garda.

She was a Christian. He was thirty, she was eighteen. However, the relationship (apparently sexually consummated) made a great impression on him for the rest of his life.

Research over the years finally revealed her name is Gerti Wasner. However, very little else (as far as I can find) is known about her.

Where did her life lead after an encounter with Kafka?

Here are some of Kafka’s actual diary entries about the incident.

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

20 October 1913

I would gladly write fairy tales (why do I hate the word so?) that could please W. and that she might sometimes keep under the table at meals, read between courses, and blush f

22 October 1913.

Too late. The sweetness of sorrow and of love. To be smiled at by her in the boat. That was most beautiful of all. Always only the desire to die and the not-yet-yielding; this alone is love.

Translated by Joseph Kresh

02/14/2023 0

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