kafkaestblog

Dignity Is A Cheap Suit Of Clothes

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.

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24 May 1917

Even with all the shortages of the war, I’m told no one wants to move into the house next to me. I’m just as pleased if it remains vacant, but I do wonder at the qualms of other people. Death is nothing but a liberator. It gives a blessing.

There may be no dignity in the type of death my neighbour chose, but dignity is a cheap suit of clothes. It is of no importance as you undress for Eternity.

But maybe this hesitation of moving next door is not from disgust. Maybe the fear is that it can happen again – that the house has taken on such powers of persuasion.

The door of the evil eye.

If I could believe such a thing, I would move in before the night was out. But I fear I don’t believe in anything which is not inside of me.

05/25/2024 0

So I’m Told

Old.

And cold.

And not so bold.

Broke the mold.

There is no gold.

It’s time to fold.

Nothing to hold.

Bought and sold.

05/24/2024 0

Will Kafka Slip/Slide His Way Through May?

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22 May 1917

There was even some snow.

They spoke of it at the office. Further down the river some snow and thunder together.

Hysteria traced the words of one man, who claimed he had good information – which he could not reveal – that the enemy has a great machine which can control the weather. That is how they are going to win the war. Freeze us in May, and destroy all our crops.

“And where are these giant weather engines?” somebody asked.

“In France,” was his reply, but he said it with such hesitancy that I knew it was a guess.

“No machine could cause us trouble from that far away,” said another, and there was laughter before work resumed.

Laughter without a touch of mirth.

05/22/2024 0

When Three Loons Dive, Do They Slice Through The Water?

The surface of the lake is so smooth that the flow of the differing currents can be clearly seen as shimmering streaks reflecting the sunshine. Breaking through these jewelled bands, like shadows over unrecognized borders, are three loons – two Arctic and one black-capped Common. They stray apart, become lost in shafts of sparkling water, and as unexpectedly re-appear further along the shore.

The Common keeps a slight distance from the other two, is usually the first to dive. Dive and disappear so cleanly that only the barest ripple betrays it. The other two quickly go without a sound, a liquid dive which leaves the water empty, save for the dancing sunshine.

And then a head.

And then two more bodies break the surface, far from where

they went under, moving away with an ease which makes them seem part of the water. One of them wallows slightly on its side, and reaches far down its breast to preen. After a few nibbles, it rights itself and joins its companions. They become a distant trio of sleek shapes, and disappear in the haze of horizon and glinting sun.

~DE

05/21/2024 0

Why Do Butterflies Die?

Adapted from “The Elephant Talks To God” ~ Dale Estey

“God, can I ask you a question?”

“Everyone else does,” said God. “What have you got for me this time?”

“It’s about the butterflies.”

“Yes?”

“How come they live for just a season?” The elephant looked down to the ground, then back to the cloud. “They’re so beautiful and so light . . . and friendly. And they do a great job of taking pollen everywhere and helping the flowers and plants. Why, they’re even making sure there is going to be food for me, isn’t that right?”

That’s right,” answered the cloud. “From the butterfly to you with a few extra stages thrown in.”

“So why do they die so soon?”

“Butterflies don’t live a season,” said God. “They live a life.”

“But they’re gone when . . .”

“They’re gone when it’s their time,” answered the cloud. “To a butterfly the season is their life. They expect nothing more and fulfill their existence. To the trees, your life is brief.”

“You mean the butterfly thinks of its season like I think of my years?”

“Seconds or hours, long shadows or short, it’s all the same kind of time,’ said God. “The butterfly feels he has as long a life as you.”

“Really?” asked the elephant.

“Yes,” said God.

“I’m glad,” said the elephant.

And then God spoke to the elephant, and called him by his name, and filled his heart full of his beloved butterflies, and they soared through his blood, wing tip to wing tip, until he understood the power of their life.

05/20/2024 0

What Happens When Kafka And Trump Walk Into A Bar (Though Neither Drink)?

~ Frank. Welcome to your world.

~ Thanks, DT. I’ve been living it all my life.

~ I’ve taken some pages out of your books, Frank.

~ I did try to get them burned.

~ You didn’t try too hard.

~ Well – no.

~ You know – neither did I.

~ I know. They all ran to your tune.

~ They did.

~ You were the Pied Piper of Havoc.

~ Worked like a charm, Frank.

~ Yes, DT – yes, it did.

~ They thought I was a bug.

~ Yes.

~ But I turned them into bugs.

~That you did, DT. And turned them against each other.

~ Yes.

~ And stood back, and watched.

~ Pretty well.

~ To the victor goes the spoils.

~ I was astounded – believe me.

~ And they keep making the same mistakes.

~ I know, Frank. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so funny.

~ The one-eyed man is King in the land of the Blind.

~ Yes, Frank – yes. But you know what?

~ What?

~ I’ve got great vision in both eyes.

05/19/2024 0

Am I Looking Back To Sea?

I had the dream again.
Not a bad dream,
But an odd dream.
I have it often.
I’m on shore, and looking at
The Lighthouse
On Partridge Island.
And
As I sit there,
I wonder what I am doing
On the Island.
(You’d think I could have
Dreamed up a spyglass).
However, now awake,
I plan to turn my dream
Into reality.
I made everything right

At the Lighthouse.
And I made sure Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as night

With one white mitten,
Was played with, and fed.
I walked him to my dorey
So he’d know I would be away,
And
Away I went.

It’s a peaceful row,
The sea is calm,
The distance isn’t great.
The biggest chore

Is climbing up
From the rocky shore,
To settle into the comfort
Of the trees.
But, I did,
And I did.
I sat upon
A grassy perch
And looked back
With my spyglass.
What did I expect to see?
What revelation did I hope?

Well – yes – I wanted to see

Paw, my cat/kitten.

And he did not disappoint,
Though he revealed no secrets,

He did the same damn fool
Leaps, and bounds, and rushes
From place to place.
I spied no secret trysts.
I was, however, myself
Taken by surprise,
When Michael, the Mi’kmaq Indian,
Approached my seating place.
He used no stealth,

For I would have never heard him.
He asked no questions.
I handed him my spyglass.
He adjusted it, and peered.
Many minutes passed.
He handed it back to me.
“Wild cat,” he said,
“Got Glooscap in him.”

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

05/17/2024 0

Franz Kafka And May Day

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30 April 1918

If one can love and loathe the same thing, I do so with travel. Even as short a trip as the afternoon train to Prague. Regardless of the destination. And I don’t really mind so much, once I’m on the conveyance and moving. It’s having to get ready. It’s having to think about it.

Ottla – of course – had all my things together and in the waggon before breakfast. I took a last walk around the village, as unobtrusively as possible, for I had said any `good-byes’ I wished to make the day before. And to Farmer L. the day before that. I was tempted to go past Fraulein G’s door – to be able to look at her one last time. She will fade in my mind. Faces and bodies always fade. But I did not.

I went along the road which leads to Oberklee, and sat beneath my favourite tree for a short while. But, as is my habit, I became late, and had to hurry back to Ottla’s. Before the past and future started to mingle as I stared across fields and hills. O. insisted I have lunch, and then the hired hand drove us to the station. There were a few waves and farewells from people, which I had to return. My fingers to my hat.

The wait at the station was not long, since the train was on time and we nearly were not. And the ride was uneventful. The day was clear and crisp, and I looked at the farms and countryside with new understanding. New curiosity. I saw where a field had just been started, and could guess which meal the farmer might have tonight. The condition of his boots. The gratitude for this Tuesday sunshine.

And such things kept me thinking of Prague. Until it was in the distance. Until the landscape changed. Until the outskirts surrounded us. Until Prague filled the windows, swallowed the train whole, scraped us from the living earth. Then I was home.

01 May 1918

It is like the day after the funeral.

05/01/2024 0

Shakespeare Birth Date + Shakespeare Death Date = A Couplet

The stage is as bare as my lady’s ass

In his lordship’s bedchamber.

Rough-hewn in the most knockabout way,

Leaving splinters in the palace lawns

Of the imagination.

There’s many a dip

‘twixt the trap and the lip.

It fares little better than hastily strewn boards

Covering parched ground,

With barely enough elevation

To keep the understanding masses at bay.

Were one fool enough

To come from out the wings,

And at centre front begin a soliloquy

About the beauty of the wretched arena

On which he stands,

To fight the resulting and justified spontaneous combustion,

There would not be found one drop of piss

From any a Thespian’s hose.

For who could allow this sacrilege to be spoken?

Even the flag atop the pole

Knows that the magic is not yet arrived.

A stage without commercial trappings:

Without solid doors and thick drapes,

Uncluttered by pillars,

And arches,

Tables and chairs,

Windows and fireplaces;

Sans orchestra, sans balcony, sans pit.

A stage revealing all its secrets.

Profound as emptiness.

A stage in wait.

For in this world writ small

(As in the globe around)

The audience

Has nothing to know/ nothing to learn,

Until the actor makes an entrance

And prepares

To fight through our eyes and ears

To battle with those thoughts and fears

that lurk in sheltered halls.

What’s Hecuba to him?

Why – nothing!

Merely a name on a page of script.

A cue at which to turn his profile thus.

It is what Hecuba becomes

To we who wait,

That turns the key

Upon the heavy gate.

04/23/2024 0