

“It is a dark and stormy night.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“But it could be.”
“Could it – if it isn’t?”
“Oh – I think so.”
“Well … maybe – possibly.”
“Oh – think of the possibilities.”
“On such a night?”
“Yes.”
“In such darkness?”
“Yes.”
“With a storm raging.”
“Oh – such a storm.”
“Putting us at the whims of the ocean toss.”
“Tossing our good barque – yes.”
“Will Ellerton save us?”
“Ellerton has his other duties to the safekeeping of the ship.”
“He won’t come knocking with his manly hand upon the door?’
“No.”
“Not to direct us to our lifeboat station?”
“If he comes knock knock knocking with his manly hand upon my door, he won’t find me there.”
“He will get no response to his manly knock?”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I will be in here with you.”
“On a dark and stormy night?”
“Yes.”
“Then he will come to knock knock knock on my door.”
“Yes. With his manly hand.”
“And will I answer?”
“Will you wish him to join us beneath the covers?”
“Oh – I think so. Do you?”
“Yes – I think so.”
“Then I will answer his manly hand and ask him to come in and he will say that the door is locked and I will say then use your master key and he will ask if I am sure and I will say …”
“What?”
“I will whisper to you for your assent that he is supposed to join us.”
“I will so consent.”
“Then I will most firmly and directly answer that he can come in and he will enter and we will hear the door open and he will comment about how dark the room is and I will tell him to follow my voice and we will hear him close the door and …”
“What?”
“Won’t you be nervous?”
“I’ll be expectant, which is a positive nervous.”
“Then I will guide him with my voice.”
“What will you say?”
“I’ll ask you for your advice.”
“And what will he think when he hears both of our voices together?”
“He will think he is in heaven.”
“And he will be.”
“Yes.”
“Then I will advise you to tell him that, since there is a storm -“
“On a dark night.”
“Yes – that is, of course, the basis of it – to tell him that he better have his sea legs steady to cross the room so he can firmly handle two damsels in distress.”
“He must be firm?”
“Oh – yes – I think so. As firm as firm can be. Don’t you think that should be his preexisting state?”
“When he reaches the bed?”
“Yes.”
“Then – yes – Yes, I think so also.”
“And we will give him an appropriate welcome and make room for him on the perhaps-not-quite-wide-enough bed and he will say ‘no-no, I think I should be in the middle if I am to tend to you both, and ease your minds about the storm in the night’, and you will say – “
“ – what?”
“Then you will move closer to the edge of the bed and you will say ‘climb over me, Ellerton, for there is now space for you’, and when he carefully climbs across you …”
“ – what?”
“Then you will find out if he is indeed firm as firm can be to handle both of our needs.”
“And if he is?”
“Then you and me will go paper/scissors/rock in the dark to see whose needs are tended to first.”
[Image] https://i.ytimg.com/vi/EGpZwUV7IXs/maxresdefault.jpg

And the wind is whistling past the graveyard and past the land and past the sea and past the ships upon the sea and past the sailors upon the decks and in the companionways, tethered by their ropes and harnesses and heaving their axes and mauls against the shattering ice coating their still upright ships and even here even in this peculiar time the sailors revert to their age-old method of coping with their labours at sea and the perils of the sea and they break out into thunderous shanties – yes, even thunderous enough to best and beat the thunderous wind and crashing waves – that tell of wind and waves and women and graveyards and ghosts and the whistling that is supposed to keep the ghosts at bay, and, keep the bodies beneath the ground.
“Heave ‘er to, boys/
“Heave ‘er to and smash her down/
“Get the rhythm, boys/
“Get the rhythm so we won’t drown//
“It’s girls or ghosts, boys//
“Girls or ghosts that we next meet/
“Smash that ice boys/
“If you want our meeting sweet.”
“They’re singing about you,” says Alison Alexandra.
“And you, too,” says R/Jane-the-Ghost. “And I don’t mind if you’re the one to win.”
“It’s the wind, boys/
“Screaming like Banshees from Hell//
“Give ‘er Hell, boys/
“Or that’s where we will dwell.”
(Image) https://www.stives-cornwall.co.uk/wp/wp-content/uploads/Sea-shanty.jpg

This is a story told to me by a lawyer who seemed to be pondering his future. I do admit I have embellished what, originally, had barer bones. And – perhaps – I assumed too much
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Have you ever been in the train station at Place Ville Marie in Montreal? The escalators that come up by the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. I had a lot of travel to get to work when I lived in Montreal, and made train and bus connections.
“One morning – a Thursday – as I was going up the escalator, I saw a girl coming down from the street. She had short red hair, and a green skirt with a white blouse. Coming down that escalator, with that wide space between us. She was looking at me the way I was looking at her – interest and excitement and whatever potential that leads to. We stared into each others eyes as we came level, and craned to look back as we passed.
“That was stupid enough. I should have jumped that barrier, or at least gone down after her. But I had a job, and was young, and things like that just don’t happen.
“Next morning, even though I was looking for her, and hoping so much, I couldn’t have been more shocked by a ghost. when I saw that red hair. She had that same look – of shock.
“God, to be so unsure of what to do, and stupid to the ways of the world, and even to have that stabbing thought that it can happen again tomorrow. We stared and stared, you could almost feel electricity between us. At the top I waited as long as I dared, hoping she would come up. I had to get my bus. I just jumped it as it was pulling away.
“That was a Friday. I sweated through the weekend, full of grand plans about telling her to wait, or to come up to me, or yelling my phone number. She wasn’t there, of course – on Monday or any other day. I looked the rest of the summer, then it was back to university.
“I mean, to be given one chance like that and waste it. But two. I’ve never forgotten, even now with a wife and kids, I wonder what might have been.
[Image] https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/b/retro-style-escalator-4759569.jpg

In Kafka In The Castle I fill in Kafka’s missing diary entries. It is believed that many of the gaps in his real diaries, he removed and destroyed.
14 March 1918
The past.
And again the past.
Why can we not be rid of that which – moreso than practically anything else in life – is gone?
I am not even sure what I get from memories. Why do I stroll along the road, reach some humble heights, and imagine (by glancing in a particular direction) I can be closer to a person or event? For even if I reached that place, there would be nothing to recapture.
I am not the me of then.
Swimming in the lake; living in a shack by the shore; climbing the mountain. None of these would mean the same to me as they did.
Even if the Swiss girl were present, and had a new song. The new me – the new she – the new us, would be swamped by our old ghosts, making comparisons no two humans could defeat.
I think the ghosts are such, she could right now walk up beside me – yes, even singing her lively song – and remain unnoticed.

There are a lot more ghosts
Now
Than there were before.
The earth,
And the heavens (of course),
Heavy
With ghosts.
Weighted down with
The new/old arrivals.
There are ghosts behind the ghosts.
There are legions of the dead,
Lined up to peer
Over my shoulder.
They breathe with satisfaction,
Upon the hand
That writes the word
Ghosts.
The millions of departed,
Disturb the air enough,
To stir the hair,
On my moving wrist.
They keep a place in line,
Patiently waiting,
For me to join them.
[Image] https://s-i.huffpost.com/gen/1315880/images/o-GHOSTS-facebook.jpg

{Image of Kafka by Kafka}
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the lost (or destroyed) diary entries of Franz Kafka. He recorded many of his dreams. So I give his some, too..
**************
04 March 1917
I dreamed I was a prophet. The prophet Amshel, which is my Jewish name.
And, I could talk to God.
And I was looking at myself in the mirror.
And I was looking back at me. I mean, Franz was in the mirror, looking back at me – the me of Amshel – who was looking in the mirror. Except, I was as much me looking out, as I was me looking in.
The wall behind the prophet was painted red, while the one behind Franz was of brown wood. They both could raise their fists at each other, and sometimes did. In unison, of course. That was the law.
“Certainly, you may speak to God,” said Franz. “What is there in that? Everyone speaks to God – in sentences, in actions, with their lives. No one is more talked-to in the Universe than God. But what a prophet needs, is to have God speak back.”
And then God spoke, from somewhere behind the mirror, but He did not speak to Amshel. He spoke to Franz.
“You are on the wrong side,” said God.
“Speak to me,” said Amshel.
“Wrong side of what?” asked Franz.
“Of the mirror,” answered God.
“Don’t speak to him,” shouted Amshel. “He is from the world of vipers.” And Amshel raised his fist, but Franz had to hold up his fist in turn.
“I am not the prophet you seek,” said Franz, and pointed his finger at the mirror. “There is your prophet.” And Amshel was also pointing toward the glass.
“Not him – you don’t want him.” He then turned his hand toward himself. “I’m the one you want.”
But Franz was just as vehement, as his thumb arched toward his own chest. “Not me.” For emphasis, he placed his hand over his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”
And his words echoed those of Amshel, who also had his hand upon his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”
And the two faces stared at one another, their fingers clutching at the garments they wore.
But God was silent.

