Where the Elephant meets God on Christmas Day. Praised by Orson Scott Card. The author guarantees it makes a wonderful gift.
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.
In these entries, the chill of winter begins to settle over the chill of his life.
10 December 1916
My father is so suspicious, he rarely suspects what is really going on around him. He has no idea that Ottla has rented this house, or that I come here like a thief in the night. He would think that it is another plot against him. And, he is right about the plots – but he’ll never realize they are done solely for defensive purposes. Which is a shame, for he fully appreciates self-preservation.
Of course, even I do not fully know Ottla’s reasons for renting this tiny house. I suspect a young man is involved, but I will keep my queries to myself. It is not the place to bring Felice – but is nice enough to set out on new adventures. I’ve had adventures in less suitable surroundings. The shop girls. The hotels with their chilly rooms.
12 December 1916
Max wants me to publish more. He may even wish upon me the horror of his own proliferation. His novels, and stories, and all his comments and reviews about the “arts”. I do not tell him this, for I think he would be greatly offended, but much of the time my opinions do not even interest me.
14 December 1916
Overheard a woman talking to Max today – complained of being lonely. But what it sounded like to me was that she was only tired. She had children at home, family in the neighbourhood, and friends (obviously) whom she could talk to. Yet, she chooses to feel lonely. Yes, her husband is in the war, but a partial loss does not make one lonely. Perhaps alone – but that is entirely different. Being lonely is waking from a nightmare, and realizing there is no one to wake you.
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
It was not my intent to piss off Margaret Atwood.
The opposite, in fact. I wanted her to know she was an inspiration.
She was giving a reading at the University of New Brunswick in my student days. I attended, but there was quite the gathering and she was whisked away at the end. However, I overheard there was a ‘gathering’ in her honour. Invitation only, of course. Academia and literati.
I crashed the party (that was the term used by the professor who clapped his sturdy hand upon my shoulder but – happily – did not thrust me into the night).
But Ms. Atwood was kept deep in many a learned conversation and I had no opportunity to converse. I did, however, overhear where she would be spending next afternoon – the historic University Observatory.
Next day I knocked upon the Observatory door.
It was not a cheerful Margaret Atwood who answered, and answered with alacrity.
She asked my name.
She asked my business.
And she asked how the hell I knew where she was. She had stolen the day to do some writing. Some ‘real’ writing, in this window-of-opportunity grudgingly offered on the book tour.
At least I was there to praise Atwood and not to bury her with some essay question.
Nor had I a manuscript to hand to her.
I might not have garnered a smile, but her curt thank you was reward enough.
For me, at least.
DE
The major Remembrance Day Service is held in a hockey arena. Which I don’t like. So we found – in walking distance – a service at a small naval memorial/park with a Cenotaph. The park was in honour of the naval ship, The Jervis Bay.
I’ll stab at 400 – 500 folk there. Cars parked as far as ten minutes away. Raggle-taggle group of cadets. Trumpet player who had no trouble with the high notes.
Two good ole boys near us who looked as if they had been hauled from a brawl at the local tavern – but they had their poppies.
Sweet li’l kidlets.
MC who made old, old jokes and had to be corrected a few times about the Order of Service. And had to ask if anyone was present who might lay the wreath of the government or city or …
He chuckled over the one guy who volunteered a number of times: “We’re puttin’ ya to work today.”
A train whistle in the distance that gave a loooong blast for 11:00 (though it was a couple of minutes out of sync).
And TOTAL silence for the two minutes of silence.
Then home we went to watch the Service from Ottawa, with the Governor General, Prime Minister, Silver Cross Mother, Military Pipes & Drums, marching Military Contingent, and interviews with two sharp-as-tacks Veterans in their late nineties.
Best of both worlds.
DE
Our good and gracious Queen was on the #7 bus tonight.
At least, it was the spitting image of HM. Charles III himself would have given her a second look.
She was well dressed and well coiffed.
Her only unusual feature was her scowl. Nary one look of good cheer did she exhibit the whole of the ride.
Perhaps, that is because she was carrying (as best she could) a three-step foot stool, encased in plastic, and a five foot curtain rod, also encased in plastic.
And, I guessed, there was no maid nor footman awaiting her at home to help with her chore.
DE
Paw,My cat/kitten
Black as gunpowder
With one white mitten,
Is having the time
Of his
Life.
We are in the Lighthouse,
On this Guy Fawkes Night,
Searching down the gunpowder
The dastardly villain
Has planted.
This has been part,
Of my traditions
For years.
Straight from
My Father.
“Remember Remember The Fifth of November.”
And though I tell Paw,
The cat/kitten,
To run wild
And
Search everywhere,
In truth,
He doesn’t want to
Stray too far
From my side,
Which is fine.
For,
In truth,
The Lighthouse is
A strange
And peculiar
Place.
So he stays near
To the glow of my
Lantern,
As I go through
My ritual.
We are both pleased.
And,
Will both
Have a
Fine Fish Feast,
When Guy Fawkes is
(As he inevitably is)
Brought low.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report
DE BA. UEL
I knew this was going to happen.
I know the old ways,
From the old Days.
Halloween, All Hallows,
The Ghosts and Witches and maybe
Demons
Take offence when
They are thwarted.
This All Hallows
They are thwarted by the
Full of the moon,
Which starts to fade before
Their night of freedom.
They want the light to see
The damnable deviltry
They let loose,
Upon the Living and the Dead.
Paw, my cat/kitten
Black as sin
With one white mitten.
Knows it also.
He refuses to accompany me
On my last tending of the Lighthouse light.
So I asked Sister Darling,
Of The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)
To accompany me.
It is the very reason
I have implored her,
To visit me on Partridge Island
This usurped night of Samhain.
As well she knows, since she has
Given me warnings in words,
The way Paw has in deeds,
To tend to these eldrich going-ons
Brought in by the ocean tides.
We are quick to my business
And hear the rustle of the curtain
Between this life and the next,
Every time the Lighthouse light
Blinks off.
{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
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