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Happy Birthday Margaret Atwood – I’m Sorry For My Interruption

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

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27 August 1917 Kafka Take His Leave

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. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


27 August 1917

             Max has arranged for me to see a specialist a week from tomorrow. My protestations are necessarily weak, since it is an effort not to cough during most of our conversations. Even my breathing proves to be more difficult. Perhaps some treatment or some medicine can be found. Some palliative. With luck a cure – the cure? – will be to get me out of Prague. Even if Prague had grand entrance gates, and I lived just on the other side – had my cot in the dust just an arms length from the wall – I could sleep easily. Even without a mattress on the springs.

     As it is, I have no use for the furniture, so I may as well be rid of it. There is no need or place for it in my apartment, and Ottla has expressed no interest. Or even curiosity . A solution – and the one which was done next door – is just to leave everything. I suspect, in this day and age, the people who really have to live in this type of house, will find a use for it. Even the bamboo pieces. I think I’ll keep the lamp.

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STOP AI From Scraping Creative Work To Use Elsewhere

It is time (past time) to regulate, restrict, impede, STOP, and make illegal, any and all external stealing of creative material. Period and Exclamation Point.

That all he wrote.

~ Dale Estey

https://actionnetwork.org/petitions/authors-guild-open-letter-to-generative-ai-leaders?source=direct_link&
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Kafka Takes The Train In His Dreams

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.

04 April 1917

             Dreamed I was to take a train journey. I tried to find my travel papers, but all the drawers were jammed shut. The cupboard doors refused to open. My wallet was stuffed with money   – colourful bills worth thousands of marks – yet no passport, no police clearance. I could find no proof of who I was, and no permission to cross borders. I feared I was going to be late, so I put on an overcoat, grabbed a small bag off the bed, and hurried from the room.

     The door led directly to the station platform, and I was quickly caught in lines of people. A man in uniform  harshly requested to see our tickets, but when I explained I had been unable to find any of my documents, he pointed to my case. Inside were passports and papers from every country in Europe. I handed him one, but over my name was a photo of hog. Another had a picture of a donkey. A third showed sheep. Rodents, insects, and finally an ape, all appearing over my name and signature. “You are Doktor Kafka?” he demanded. “Yes,” I answered. I was terrified – what face did I have now? “You are the veterinarian,” he said, finally satisfied. “Down to the end of the train.” He pointed the way, and I hurried along.

     I walked and walked, but the train just became longer. Box cars and cattle cars were filled with the most terrible animal clamour, and reeking of filth. And I wondered, as I searched in vain for the end of this endless train, where would my destination finally be?

20 September 1917

               Dreamed a mixture. I walked – a desolate figure trudging the vast Steppes. Yet I rode wildly – a madman with my forehead pressed against the compartment window. And I saw myself as the train raced by, outlined by the yellow light of the coach; and then a slender body turning to stare at the racing train. We both hollered, but noise and distance obscured our voice. The vast Steppes turned into a castle, but the castle was displayed in the photos of a magazine, which I held on my lap in the flickering light of the compartment, as the train became engulfed  by the large buildings on either side of the tracks. In the magazine there was a railway at the base of the castle, and as I looked out the window the stone walls filled the frame, each giant block wedged securely to the others, their facing protruding and rough. It was as if the train had entered a tunnel, except there was still light from the distant sky.

     I turned a page, and had to squint to see the pictures. Along the whole bottom of the magazine pages, a train obscured part of the castle wall, almost becoming a part of the stones. Black and white, light and shade, blending into a sepia which smudged all the details. Was there a figure in the window?

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Kafka Meets A Gypsy And Coin Is Exchanged

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. 

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

08 June 1917

A Gypsy confronted me today, and I was in the mood for a bit of sport. Her age was difficult to tell – certainly a decade older than me. In her swirl of shawls and dangling jewellery, heavy make-up on her face, she could almost have been in disguise. She peered at me with an intense sigh, attempting – I am sure – to penetrate my own disguise.

“You are a Jew,” she said.

“And you a Gypsy,” I replied.

She seemed pleased with my response, for her professional smile became real.

“You state the obvious,” she said. “As becomes a Doktor of Laws,”

I replied. “But to your eyes, do you not state the obvious?”

“Are you going to banter with a poor old Gypsy woman, instead of barter? That would make you suspiciously like one of us.” She said this with a growl in her throat.

“The Gypsy and the Jew,” I said, feeling the challenge which I so miss. “Perhaps an opera – but I think it’s been done to death.”

“They will try to do us all unto death,” she said harshly, and turned away.

I had the fear she was going to leave me without another word, but what she did was to spit fulsomely onto the street.

“They can’t kill us all,” I said, but I knew she heard the doubt in my voice.

She slowly faced me again.

“So. Even a Doktor of Laws can have hope. That is refreshing – but foolish.” She took my hand and felt my palm roughly with her thumb, although all the while her eyes never left my face. “You are going to travel.”

“Travel is a vague word. One can go on many types of voyage.”

“And reach many destinations,” she added, still holding my hand. “If you take away my vagueness, you take away my trade.”

“Then let me pay you for your services right now.”

This transaction would make her loose my hand, which is what I wanted most of all. She had frightened me, for her eyes and face were full of truth. I know the truth. I know it when it presents itself, stark and unobscured. I search out truth endlessly, yet still can flee at its approach. As in her eyes. But she gripped me more fiercely, and pulled my hand up.

“The coin, Herr Doktor.” Her voice was now soft. “The coin can wait.”

She at last lowered her eyes and looked closely at my palm. She rubbed the lines and whorls of my skin. She touched her finger to her lips, and spread the moisture along my hand.

“Your lifeline, Herr Doktor,” she took a quick look in my eyes, “of Laws. You deceive with the youth upon your face. Is that not so?”

“If your eyes stop at the mask, then no, the years have not etched themselves deeply.”

“Not on your face, Herr Doktor of Laws.” Her grip was intense. “But on your palm…” She hissed. “You will soon embark upon that final voyage.”

She released my hand, rubbed her fingers across her sleeve.

“But you will not go in haste. There will be many stops along the way.”

Suddenly her face was full of the most beautiful smile, and her laughter was genuine.

“I see you do not complain of vagueness now.” She held out her hand. “The coin, Herr Doktor of Laws. This time I have truly earned it.”

I dug deeply into my pocket, and feared that I may have overpaid her. But, perhaps, that is not possible.

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All I Want Is $100,000 Up Front – Is That Asking Too Much?

What are they going to do when I get into the finer details?

So – this happened.

I answered the phone yesterday. There was a five second delay which (really) lets you know you are in a queue. Suspicion created.

A garbled voice ( I honestly couldn’t tell if I was experiencing an accent different from mine, or if they were in a large room with lots of speakers – I suspect both at the same time) inquired about my book, using the correct title. Gotta admit, that did catch my attention.

Was I the author?

Yes?

Did I want to sell a lot of books?

Yes.

They could do it!

Then, what I assume was a company name, was mentioned. I never did hear the name distinctly enough to know what it was, though mentioned four or five times. It was never clear what its function would be.

But – you know – they mentioned the title -correctly- a number of times.  And, in all truth, I figure I should be making more money.

So, I asked questions. Not very deep questions, but I should know something.

They seemed to know next-to-nothing about the publishing world. They did concentrate on “promotion”, which would, I readily admit, help.

World-wide promotion. Somehow.

So, knowing that they had a stellar product to sell, I just went to the end result. I would consider their proposals for the up-front price of $100,000. A nice round figure. Easy to remember. I could picture the cheque.

This seemed to confuse them.

A few more entreaties were made. An additional publishing term or two. Alas, it was still all garbled. I pointed out that I could still not fully understand them.

I noted they made no counter-offer (not that it would have done any good). $100,000 SVP.

So, I was told to wait until I could speak with a supervisor.

The supervisor did not seem to have an individual office. Same garble and/or background noise.

How could he help?

$!00.000 please. I was tempted to add (and I’m all yours). But I did not (though surely it was implied).

The call ended.

Since there seemed to be no knowledge of traditional publishing (which is how my book is published) I assume this con is directed to Indie authors. Beware, y’alls.

DE

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How Does Palm Sunday Become A Religious Event On Partridge Island?

Without Any Announcement,

And No Invitation,

Sister Darling

Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)

Arrives on my Lighthouse Keeper’s dock,

Through the kind ministrations of


An outgoing fishing boat,

To deliver to me


An actual frond of Palm.

Paw, my cat/kitten,


Black as an upcoming tomb

With one white mitten,


Has much sport with it,

As does Sister Darling have with me.

She will be unable to visit


On the Sunday next,

As there will be “Hallelujah,


Praise the Lord”,

Services to perform.


However,

She will still hear


Such praises,

Today.

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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World Class Poetry For World Poetry Day (Don’t Argue With God)

My book of short stories, The Elephant Talks to God, consists of many conversations that an Elephant has with God. In one of the stories, he breaks out into {his version of} poetry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The monkeys, in the trees,

Cause a breeze, when they sneeze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I nudged the boulder with my shoulder.

It was older, and much colder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is a stone, which has grown

In a zone, all alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is a thrill, to have free will,

That is until, others say `nil’.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That’s not my last, don’t be so fast,

My muse to cast, into the past.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rock of ages, dissolved in stages,

And proved the sages’, `noblesse obliges’.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s just a guess, I do confess,

That more is less, in the wilderness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

God – as God is wont to do – did have the last word.

Poems are made by fools like thee,

But only I can make a tree.

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Trapped On Partridge Island And Freed By A Cat

I allowed Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as all thunder

With one white mitten,

To walk, without cage or leash,

On this so-close to Spring day.

He’s gotta learn.

So, I was surprised when

He came dashing back,

Hooked a claw to my pant leg,

And pulled me forward.

I followed.

Down near the shore,

Close to the water.

Was a deer.

It had a hoof trapped

Between rocks.

Deer don’t swim over often,

And when they do,

They don’t stay.

But this doe,

In her way, young as Paw,

Was not going to leave.

Paw went up to her.

She didn’t struggle.

And, I swear to God

– Yes, Jehovah Himself –

That Paw started digging

Around the hoof.

Now, I would have had

Heavy second thoughts

Of helping,

If it had been a back leg.

One kick, and it would have been

Arse over teakettle for me.

But the deer tolerated Paw,

And Paw tolerated me,

And I got her free in a minute.

And away she ran.

And away she swam.

And I swear again to God

– Yes, Jehovah Himself –

Paw smiled.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report

DE BA. UEL

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