kafkaestblog

~ So, Don – we come to a parting of the ways.

~ You were mine – all mine.

~ Well – no – not really.

~ You loved me – admit it.

~ Only love can break a heart, Don – my heart ain’t broken.

~ I made you great again.

~ That wasn’t necessary, Don.

~ MAGA MAGA MAGA

~What can I say, Don – old hat.

~ As God is my witness!

~ A witness for the prosecution, Don.

~ I’ve left my mark.

~ Yes. So do dogs.

~ I’ll win in the courts.

~ Don – you won’t even win in the Supreme Court.

~ They’re mine – all mine.

~ You’ve got nothing to bargain with, Don.

~ The American people are a disgrace.

~ They’re redeeming themselves, Don.

~ What will they do without me?

~ Have a nice day, Don

[Image] media.beam.usnews.com/8f/e14eecf15db6b99f422347090bb15d/media:bd4e9a953c944d50bcd78d93362e6a63GOP2016Debate.JPEG

This scalloped potatoes recipe appears in the ‘Potatoes’ recipe of Martha Stewart’s Cooking School. Get this side dish recipe at PBS Food.

Source: Scalloped Potatoes

Halloween is a night for ghosts. Real ghost, also.

It is the night of Samhain, when the ancestors of the Celts walked the pathways between the living and the dead. The living were not so sure that the Dead might not want to take them back with them.

So, this is a true story for All Hallows’ Eve, although it did not happen on Halloween. 

Indeed, I have incorporated this ghost story into my current writing project, where many of the characvters seem destined to tell ghost stories to pass their time through the COVID pandemic. However, this fictional re-telling is not as kind.

But, in truth, I was visiting the Bay of Fundy island of Grand Manan. I had booked a room in a bed and breakfast and arrived mid-evening. I went elsewhere for a meal, but did meet the owners, and noted there were a couple of others staying there. I returned around eleven, chatted to the owners and one guest, then went up to bed.

The room was top of the stairs and across a landing. Comfortably rustic with a radio. The bed was fine and I was not long getting to sleep. In the dead of the dark (no streetlights here) I was awakened by the touch of hands on me. I was sleeping on my left side. One hand was over my groin and the other on my chest. There was also the weight of a body next to me and the pressure of an arm across my side. I was initially surprised and confused but not frightened.

Time probably stretched but it seems to me I lay like this for ten or fifteen seconds. Then, the very first coherent thought which came to me was that someone laying behind me could not have both arms over my body. There could not be two hands placed on the front of my body. I got out of bed very quickly and did indeed experience fear. I turned on the overhead light but saw nothing. I heard nothing. The temperature was not unusual. I was frightened and certainly uncomfortable, but I can’t say that that aura was present.

I went to the bathroom across the landing. The house was silent. I returned to the bedroom, thinking both of leaving the light on and turning on the radio. But then I thought that that was just giving into fear, and might encourage the fear instead of ease it, so I did neither. I did not seem to take very long to get to sleep. 

The next morning I went downstairs for breakfast. I heard the owner talking to two other guests as I approached the kitchen. Just as I entered she interrupted her conversation and turned to me. She said: “Let’s ask him. He’s the one sleeping in the haunted room.” 

I don’t know if they had been talking about ghosts or if something else had happened in the night. I relayed my experience and the owner then told the story of the house. As with many buildings on the island it had been a farm house, with the owners also fishing. It was a century or more old and left to a daughter. When she herself got old and could not look after it, her family forced her to leave, something she fought against. The present owners then bought the building and started taking in guests. However, whenever they attempted renovations, they were discouraged by having paint cans overturned, new wallpaper peeled from the wall, ladders moved, hammers and such hidden. 

The new owners’ daughter lived next door, and looked after the house when her parents went away (trips to Florida in the winter). She inevitably had to come over to the house and close doors, turn off lights, put furniture back in place. The old woman who was forced to leave had the reputation of being a mean and unpleasant person. I don’t know if she was taking a liking to me or not.

[Image] thehc.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/cemetery-395953_1280.jpg

The Celts  learned every celebration has its risks.

The Druids taught them this. The Druids are correct. Samhain is a festival of the harvest; the end of summer; the preparation for the winter to come. Samhain is a juncture. 

As they all know, junctures lead to sundry places. There is both the leaving, and the coming. A time of disquiet. A time of danger for those unprepared.

It holds the magic and the power of midnight.

Midnight is a powerful time because it is the juncture of two days.

Midnight of Samhain thus holds double the power. It can not be avoided. It must be met with all the power mortal man can muster. It must not be met alone.

On the Eve of Samhain, the border between Life and the OtherWorld is breached. A door swings invitingly open, but it is not inviting those who live. It is inviting  those who have died. The Dead who still miss their lives. The long Dead who still are curious. The distant Dead who get a whiff of fresh air, and have their memories stirred.

So the Dead approach.

The Dead approach. The living must prepare to meet them, just as they prepare for the vicissitudes of winter. The same threatened cold holds sway over both. The living assemble the treats and threats that will assuage the longings of the Dead.

Because the living have a healthy fear of death, they equally wish to avoid the Dead. The Dead can prove to be envious, and attempt to relieve the living of their lives. Lanterns from the earth are hollowed out of turnips. Their light will guide the dead to safer places (safer for the living). Candles will shine through carved faces. Some faces are friendly and welcoming. Some are ugly and fierce, to give aggressive Dead a pause.

There will also be treats to entice the Dead – apples and pastries and savouries and some roasted game fresh from the bonfires. There will be ale and other spirits to keep the Spirits at bay. The living will wear costumes and masks to disguise themselves from those Dead who might wish their company to be more permanent.

They will remove the masks if the Spirits are friendly.

They will dance and sing and raise a right ruckus to entertain the Dead.

The boneyard is on the outskirts of town. 

Revellers approach with noise and caution.

A bonfire is set.

The moon hangs from the trees.

The gated fence stands closed and latched.

The living pause and watch. And listen.

Is it the wind, or do the hinges scrape the stone?

(image) https://www.history.com/.image/t_share/MTU3ODc5MDg2NzAzNzE1NjU3/the-festival-of-samhain-is-celebrated-in-glastonbury.jpg

Samhain/Halloween is the night of Death and Ghosts. Ghosts to fear and ghosts to help along their way to the Otherworld. But not all ghosts are troubled and fearful. There is nothing wrong with being dead if one is content.

This excerpt is from my non-spooky novel, where a man goes looking for a new place to live. He comes across many houses on his quest. Many.

Based – as they say – on a real incident.

From: He Lives In The City/He Drives To The Country

  It had been a house of dreams, it was now a house of ghosts.

   Ghosts tranquil and benign peered through the dusty upper windows, stood in wait behind the boarded doors. The dreams of long ago, which had tumbled down the stairs, and frolicked through the rooms, were now memories in the minds of ghosts.     

   The ghosts were themselves memories, destined to further fade with each new birth. But there would be no births in this house, as it slid inexorably toward decay. The lackluster brown shingles would be more smudged, the remaining panes of old glass would break, the floors would warp and collapse, the unkept roof would succumb to the years of harsh weather. 

     Even the `No Trespass’ sign was barely legible. Then where would the ghosts go?

     Blaine left his car and walked toward the house. 

     If he had eyes to see, who would be there to greet him?  Would children’s dreams, fair-haired and boisterous, burst through the front door and surround him in games of tag and laughter?  Would he get caught by their enthusiasm (would he become a child himself), and race behind the trees, burrow into the hay, hide between the bins of potato and turnip, intent not to be `it’. 

     Or would he meet the ghosts, quiet and tentative at the top of the steps, moving slowly with their uncertain smiles. Would they greet him with a wave, invite him into their warm-smelling kitchens, offer him fresh tea, and squares right out of the pan?  Would he sit in the stream of fall sunlight flowing across the well-oiled floor, and talk about childhood?

     Blaine walked part way up the drive before he stopped.

     He knew what lay beyond the boarded windows, and the sagging door upon its rusty hinges. Wallpaper would be water-stained, and curling off the plaster walls. There would be lumps of refuse in the corners of the rooms, with one inevitable rusty bedframe lying on its side. There would be gaps in the ceiling, where beams of sunlight shimmered through motes of dust. There would be holes in the baseboards, where earnest rodents made comfortable homes.

     There would be musty smells offering a hint of long-ago meals, and something gone bad in the pantry. There would be one upper window (at the back) which still had a tattered lace  curtain, half obscuring what had once been totally private. At night he would hear bats.

     It was not this house he had come to see, of course. Of course, not this derelict house, which he knew could never be restored, and which was so beyond help even death slept while visiting.

(Image) http://www.asergeev.com/pictures/archives/2005/457/jpeg/10.jpg

The little old lady

(and – she was – it’s no cliche)
[And – yes – there are
Two Titanic graveyards
But,
This is one
of them.]

Had a plastic
Shopping bag
And a
Hand trowel.

She had a straw hat,
And wore a
Flowered dress
(Though neither of these
Were necessary
To dig dirt
From the graveyard.)

She had,
At her command,
A huge pile
Of earth,
That looked as if
It had been dumped
By a Dump Truck,
In the middle
Of the
Graveyard.

If she thought it
Was just for her,
So be it.

She was industrious,
Scrape
Dig
Dump.

Repeated a number
Of times.

Trowel
Dirt
Plastic bag

And then she
Went on her way.

I did not follow.

There is privacy,
And then,
There is
Privacy.

~ D.E BA U.E

[Image] https://historicgraves.com/sites/default/files/gyard-photo/li-ctwn/gallery/headstones-2.jpg

[ It is more than just Space where circles rule. Try Earth Try History Try People Try Life.]

“Circles are the answer.

“Just look at any circle and you’ll see what I mean. Of course, no one else is to know about the circles. They must be very stupid if they can’t see something so obvious.

“Yet, you get hints, don’t you – all the time out there. And in your own life – the way things happen so you never get anywhere. Never change.

“The earth, of course, and the sun – well, that’s something you can see. Either way you look at it, the one goes around the other in a big circle that takes in the whole sky. And the earth and the sun and the moon are round  – all circles in their own right. So you have circles which are going around in circles, if you get my meaning.

“And if you look further – reach out into the universe as far as you can go – they tell us that everything is going around everything else. Smaller circles and elongated circles which take in such large distances that numbers become forgotten.

“Now, this means that everything, eventually, comes back upon itself. The beginning is really the end. That’s what most people would think – and that’s where they make their mistake.

“You see, things don’t start by beginning – they start by ending. It’s the end which comes first in a circle, so, instead of going back to where it started, it comes back to its end.

“That explains it.”

[Image] https//3.bp.blogspot.com/-3Ktlv3LFcKA/XIdSJYpIyqI/AAAAAAAAIEo/QNn-7NpIDW0qcAb6ULgxjUQ2ylswpNseQCHMYCw/s1600/flames-outer-space-stars-patterns-circles-supernova-flame.jpg

The Royal Prerogative are a set number of powers and privileges held by The Queen as part of the British constitution. Nowadays, a lot of these powers are exercised on Her Majesty’s behalf by ministers – things such as issuing or withdrawing passports that, without the Royal Prerogative, would require an act of parliament each […]

What are The Queen’s powers? — Royal Central

The Archbishop of New Orleans said Friday that a priest’s filming of a pornographic videotape atop a church’s altar was demonic, and that the priest will never again serve in Catholic ministry.

Source: New Orleans archbishop: Priest’s desecration of altar ‘demonic’