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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}

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Kafka Goes On The Road To See Death

18 February 1917

               A drive to the country, to see the dying.

A man from my childhood. We could have been porters in the station, with other people’s luggage, so little did he care.

There was no pretence at conversation, he did not even feign an interest. He had gone into himself, and death patiently awaited his return.

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03 July Is Kafka’s Birthday Celebrations Run Rampant

Hearty renditions of “Hip Hip Hooray” echo through every major city and quiet hamlet.

I have written Franz the following letter. As yet, it is unanswered.

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

My Present / Your Future

Still in this World

A Life Away

Dear F:

You would find it perverse to be wished a “Happy” birthday, but your response would be gracious. Such is the reality you understand, and how you deal with it. I have found that your reality is actually real.

Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.

Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies that run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held their sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.

Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better. You have thrown up your hands to ward off the snake. Sometimes – some few times – it loosens its grip.

Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.

Sex is highly overrated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be had. Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.

There is no castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.

Except the grave, of course.

Except the grave.

Yours,

D

~~~~~~~~~~~

And, in my novel about him, Kafka In The Castle, I gave him this diary entry.

03 July 1918

The anniversary of my birth.

In celebration of the day, I did not make it my last.

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How Will Kafka Fill In The TIME 01 July 1917

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. 

Here Franz contemplates his long days to fill, after his beloved sister, Ottla, fled their parents house in Prague for a farm in a village.

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

01 July 1917

           A weekend which stretched endlessly. Long walks, but without Ottla. I would like to avoid the places where we went – but there would be little walking left to me. Instead I take a long walk into the country, and am at least a few kilometres closer to her.

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How Will Kafka Fill In The TIME?

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. 

Here Franz contemplates his long days to fill, after his beloved sister, Ottla, fled their parents house in Prague for a farm in a village.

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

01 July 1917

           A weekend which stretched endlessly. Long walks, but without Ottla. I would like to avoid the places where we went – but there would be little walking left to me. Instead I take a long walk into the country, and am at least a few kilometres closer to her.

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Will Kafka Save His Sister From Their Father?

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. 

In this entry, Franz’s father, after vicious opposition to his daughter moving out of the family house, asks Franz to help coax her back.

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

29 June 1917

           Felice is insistent. The heat is intolerable. The Institute drags me in like a bad novel, and smothers me in verbiage. 

          Max threatens to walk out on his wife. Of course, it is to me he gives this threat – I doubt he would ever tell her. 

          Father, with time to think about it, has declared Ottla is too thin and weakened. He was right, he says, the farm work is too much for her. We must all band together to get her back into Prague. “Isn’t that right, Franz?” No `Herr Son’ when he wants something. 

          Bring her back to Prague? After she has escaped? No and never. 

          I would attempt to free the vilest creature crawling in the sewers of Prague.  

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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}

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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.

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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}

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