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It is a whirlwind in here

What Is Hecuba To Him – To Us – As We Gaze Upon The Theatre Stage?

 

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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, and 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 past our eyes to battle with those thoughts and fears which 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.

DE

(image) https://media.timeout.com/images/101695099/image.jpg

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Kafka Encounters The Storm And Weather Of Spring

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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. This is how I imagined he spent the beginning of Spring a hundred years ago. He was staying with his sister on a farm in a small village a train trip from Prague

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20 March 1918

Tomorrow is the first day of spring. But today it is cold, and raining in torrents. “Welcome to a Bohemian spring.” was the greeting – and the sympathy – of the hired hand. “You may wish you were back in Prague, Herr Doktor.” But then, he doesn’t know Prague.

As usual, Ottla saw to it that her ill and elderly brother was taken care of as much as possible. She encountered me in the shed with an armful of paraphernalia. The winds preclude the use of an umbrella (which sight might be too strange for Zurau anyway), so I was offered either a cape to put over my winter coat, or a long, seemingly oiled garment, to replace the coat. An odd, peaked cap was affixed to my head, which supposedly channelled the water to fall behind me. There was a walking stick (which I rather fancied) to help me probe the depth of puddles and streams. And finally a pair of thick and uncomfortable boots, which came to just below my knees. Into which I had to carefully tuck my trousers. After all this was accomplished, Ottla pointed to my person and said “But I’ve forgotten to get … ” However, I did not wait for further entanglement. Prepared, as even Noah was for his own deluge, I fled into the afternoon.

 

21 March 1918

Colder than it has been for the past couple of weeks. Around here called a “cold snap”. Enough to return ice to the puddles. Otherwise it is a glorious and sunny day. When it is said that someone can change their mind like the weather, this is what they must mean. It was joy to go into it (no hour of preparation from Ottla), and I went for a longer than usual walk. The warmth of the sun upon my face. The wind – fortunately – at my back when I returned. Content as the dumbest of animals.

(image)http://www.davidfirth.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/winter-to-spring2.jpg

Kafka With A Father’s Knife In His Back On The Ides of March

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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.

Franz Kafka had his famous conflict with his father. He wrote a book about it.   For The Ides of March,  I imagine how Kafka pictured the will and actions of his father.

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15 March 1917

Had I been born into a different family  – with other parents – I would be a different person. I was doomed from my first breath to have the father I have. My life is shaped beyond the reach of my choice.

I have lived so much of my life defending myself, that I marvel I have advanced at all. It is difficult to have achievements while continually looking over your shoulder for a knife in the back. Harder still, when you have to stop periodically, reach awkwardly around, and pull out the blades embedded there from childhood.

Cut and bloodied fingers make it painful to pick up the life spread before you.

But, my father is not always content to stand behind. From any alley – indeed, from any room, across any table – my father can charge at me with an outstretched lance, or a sword held high to come chopping down across my neck, with the full intent of severing my head from my body.

That he often strikes blindly makes his attack no less destructive.

(Image) cdn.history.com/sites/2/2017/03/1Eid_Mar.jpg

Ottla Kafka Defies Her Father And Enters The World

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Franz Kafka had his famous conflict with his father. He wrote a book about it. His sister had the same problems – perhaps worse because she was a “girl”.  In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the missing entries of his actual diaries.  On this day, I show an imagined encounter that depicts the reason for Ottla’s actual departure from the family.

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15 April 1917

I’ve just come from the train station. Seeing Ottla off to Zurau. She didn’t take much with her – I had little to carry. Very little help to give. She had not planned to go for another couple of weeks, but father took her to task at today’s dinner. He was vile even by his standards. I like to think he was really trying to stop her. You can stop someone by destroying them. Perhaps that is always his strategy.

She didn’t get to finish her meal – although, I suppose, throwing it across the table is one way of finishing it. A plate of soup which splattered against his chest, turning the shirt dark.

“There you see it.”  He bellowed as he stood up from the table.  “Yes, yes. There it is.”  His voice growled, and spittle was on his lips. The rest of us were immobile. Even mother did not bustle forward to try to clean the mess, or make her usual noises to calm him down. His face flushed red, and his hands trembled in front of him, but for once he made no reference to his heart, or the other ailments he claims. Ottla did not look in his direction, but glanced at her sisters. and then at me.

I had the greatest desire to continue eating my soup. I wished some words of reason could come out of my mouth; that things could be made right, and we would go on to the next course of this ghastly meal. I wished these things all the while I looked up to father – and smiled.

“There! There!”  This time he did step back from the table. “There is the Herr Son. At last the true villain bares his teeth. The old cur teaching the bitch her new tricks. This educated misfit who knows nothing of children and families. Who never even knew how to be a proper child.”

I am sure the only reason father did not throw his food at me was because he did not think of it.

“The Herr Doktor who does not have a wife – who can not please a woman enough to make her stay. This has turned my family against me. I should rip him apart like a fish.” He made tearing motions with his hands. “The head just so – snapping it back to carry out the spine.”  And then he smiled at me – a mocking grin.  “If there is a spine in this particular minnow.”

He made motions as if to wipe his fingers on his shirt, and looked down with genuine surprise when they brushed against the dampness of the soup. Mother was standing by this time, and father looked at her with his mouth open. His hands fell to his side, and he finally looked at Ottla.

“You disgrace your parents. The whores of Russia act better than you.”

“Then it is a shame I can’t get to Russia.”

Ottla stood carefully, though she shoved her chair back with enough deliberation to hit the wall.

“I would truly be rid of you.”

She looked right at him, her face without expression.

“But I can go to Zurau. That I can do this evening. I’ll not have to stay another night under this roof. Within the reach of your contamination.”

She walked from the room without looking back.

“You’ll think differently, after a few days on the farm. When your hands are blistered, and your body aching. Then you will be glad to return here, to the comforts of your home.”

I rose to follow Ottla, to be with her, and to help if I could.

“If you leave this table to go to her, then you are no son of mine.”

I looked father in the face as I passed, and smiled again.

“How I pray you could accomplish that.”

Battle on the Enterprise bridge: Marina Sirtis’ Spurs v Sir Patrick Stewart’s Huddersfield – ‘the Star Trek derby!’ 2 March 2018 – News – tottenhamhotspur.com

Source: Marina Sirtis’ Spurs v Sir Patrick Stewart’s Huddersfield – ‘the Star Trek derby!’ 2 March 2018 – News – tottenhamhotspur.com

A Stopover In Windsor Castle via “Jessica’s Journey With Emirates”

Yet ANOTHER trip to London Heathrow and I thought I should do something a little more exciting. A couple of our Heathrow flights stay by Windsor and thought it be the perfect opportunity to go and explore somewhere relatively new. I say relatively as the last time I came to Windsor was when I was […]

via Wandering Through Windsor — Jessica’s Journey With Emirates

A royal pilgrimage – {with some fine London dining}

A prince’s wedding focuses attention on London and all its glories

The Grill at The Dorchester Hotel … bordelaise sauce to a tempting array of Aberdeen Angus beef tournedos on gnocchi and onion confit.

At The Savoy … platter of smoked and cured fish that included wild Scottish, hot peppered, and Royal Fillet of smoked salmon, plus sable, gravlax, citrus-cured wild sea bass, and star-anise cured salmon.Sushi and sashimi alternatives hopped aboard this culinary cruise as well.

Source: A royal pilgrimage

Ambassador Of The Spanish Language

museo-de-la-palabra

Because of my participation, and attaining a finalist position, in The César Egido Serrano Foundation and the Museum of the Word, Flash Fiction Contest of 2016, the organization has designated me an ambassador of the Spanish language.

Such an unexpected and unusual honour is pleasing, and I thank them.

DE

 

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Dear friend,

Considering the interest and affection that has been shown to us in recent years for the Spanish language, and the enthusiasm in awakening the love for our language in your country.

The César Egido Serrano Foundation and the Museum of the Word in plenary session have agreed to name you Ambassador of the Spanish language of our country in the world.

Sending you the corresponding title and appointment:

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Cenefa izquierdo1 Cenefa abajo Cenefa ladoderecho1
Logo nuevo OK MDP

 

First
 
Second

Dale Estey  

Third

 

SignatureP SelloMUSEO
Cenefa abajo

 

Italian Onion Meal From The Liver (Not The Heart) of The Fourteenth Century ~Fegato alla Veneziana

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(photo) https://www.zainoo.com/media/medium/4603.JPEG

As I wend my way through my second Onion novel, China Lily, which is taking too, too, long to put into the computer, I approach page 300. The end is in sight.

My intent was to write a trilogy that followed a Fourth Century Italian farm family, as it developed into an International business empire. There was to be 1,000 years between the first and second book, and the third book was to be set in the present day.

I confess, my interest might not be sustained for the third novel.

However, as I soon describe this recipe – and its creation – in detail, I thought it might make someone a nice supper.

Fittingly, this recipe is from Harry’s Bar, in Venice.

DE

When we visited Venice, we asked the locals where to find the definitive calf’s liver and onions. Everyone said Harry’s Bar, and, after trying it there—and lots of other places—we had to agree. This is Harry’s recipe.

Find this recipe in our cookbook, SAVEUR: Italian Comfort Food

serves 6

Ingredients

2 lb. calf’s liver, trimmed and thin membrane peeled off
6 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
6 small yellow onions, peeled, halved, and very thinly sliced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 tbsp. butter
12 bunch parsley, trimmed and chopped

Instructions

Cut liver lengthwise into 4 long pieces, then, using a very sharp knife and pressing the palm of your hand firmly against the meat, slice each piece crosswise into pieces as thin as possible.
Heat 4 tbsp. of the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onions and cook, stirring frequently, until soft and deep golden brown, about 20 minutes.
Transfer onions with a slotted spoon to a bowl and set aside.
Increase heat to medium-high and add remaining 2 tbsp. oil. When oil is sizzling hot, add liver and cook, in batches to avoid overcrowding the skillet, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until brown and crispy on the edges, 3-5 minutes. Season liberally with salt and pepper, then add reserved onions and accumulated juices. Cook for 2 minutes, stirring and turning liver and onions constantly while shaking skillet over heat. Transfer to a heated serving platter.
Add butter to skillet and scrape up any brown bits stuck to bottom of skillet as butter melts. Remove skillet from heat and stir in parsley. Spoon butter and parsley over liver and onions. Serve with Grilled Polenta, if you like.
https://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/Calfs-Liver-and-Onions