Old.
And cold.
And not so bold.
Broke the mold.
There is no gold.
It’s time to fold.
Nothing to hold.
Bought and sold.
DE
Franz Kafka (although a trained lawyer) had plans other than his job at The Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute for the Kingdom of Bohemia in Prague. He eventually found it was a good place to be.
Kafka was press-ganged to be a ‘silent partner’ and part-time manager for his brother-in-law’s asbestos factory, Prager Asbestwerke Hermann & Co. In his diary of 28 December 1911, he complains of ‘the torment that the factory causes me’. He also commented to his friend, Max Brod, that “. . . after writing well Sunday night [. . .] I had to stop for the following reason: my brother-in-law, the manufacturer, this morning left for a business trip.”
Needless to say, Kafka’s enthusiasm was not pure. The Factory did not survive.
Also, Kafka had the idea of moving to Berlin and opening a Café. He was to be owner, chef, and waiter. This idea sustained him a number of years, but happily (for everyone) it never came to fruition.
But, as this following story from The Goethe Institute reveals, Kafka has some plans to actually make money from his talent as a writer.
Making money as an author :
“Together with his mate Max Brod, Kafka wanted to publish a commercial bestseller series. Kafka wrote: “We had the idea of creating a new type of travel guide. It was to be called BILLIG or ON THE CHEAP. For example, On the Cheap through Switzerland, On the Cheap in Paris and so on.” It would only ever recommend one thing – the cheapest hotel, the cheapest restaurant, the cheapest means of transport. Linked to this was the idea of the On the Cheap language guide, which, given the impossibility of learning a foreign language completely, teaches the wrong thing straight away. In the end, the idea remained just a dream. Talks with publishers failed, and so Kafka did not become a millionaire. https://www.goethe.de/ins/pk/en/kul/mgz/ros/25439440.html “
DE
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. He mentioned is dreams often, but they were rarely as coherent as those I give to him.
*********************************
03 May 1918
Dreamed I had found out the reason for dreams.
I was not to reveal the secret, so I was being pursued. I imagined they were the dream police, and I wondered which was the worst punishment they could give. From their point of view, would it be worse to make me wake up, or worse to keep me asleep. At times, even I would not like to choose.
As I attempted to elude them, I wondered how I threatened anything by revealing the secret of dreams. It was indeed very simple, for the truth I discovered was that we are all having the same dream.
When we went to sleep, we all entered the same place. The same land. The confusion arose because we were only in a small part of this dream world at any given time. And it was so vast, that we could never see it all, even if we slept straight through fifty lifetimes.
When I was having my dream in my little section, no one else could use it. The people in my dreams – if they were sleeping – were dreaming of somewhere else.
In my own dream, they were awake, and so didn’t remember any of the things they were doing as a dream. When I awoke, someone else could use the place I had just left. It was all concise and simple, and gave me a great feeling of comfort.
And – so I thought – would please any one who found out. So I was anxious to wake up and tell everyone, particularly – for some reason – my uncle in Madrid.
I had underestimated how cunning the dream police could really be.
I had expected that all the obstacles, all the signs which said `stop’, all the attempts to grab at my coattails, would occur within the dream itself. But, after awhile, I realized their pursuit was not an attempt to apprehend me. It was the very contrary.
They had no intention of laying hands upon me. Instead, they were chasing me away. I was being forced to flee, and it was only as I was at the entrance of wakefulness that I realized what was happening. My eyes were about to open when I managed to ask `why’. And the voice – if voice it was, nestled somewhere firmly inside my ear – replied too late for me to hear.
I’ve been reading
“The Winter’s Tale”
To Paw, my cat / kitten,
Black as a bear
With one white mitten.
I confess I emote with
Gusto,
Which he likes.
And I growl at the part
[Pursued by a bear]
Which he really likes.
And sometimes I,
(I confess),
G R O W L
Which makes Paw
Spit and bristle
And back up.
He even
– Sometimes –
Looks around the room.
Which makes me call his name,
Which calms him down.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
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 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 bed frame 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.
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
Paw
My cat/kitten,
Black as Spades
With one white mitten,
Stopped dead in his tracks
And stared.
He could have been a statue.
So, I walked carefully
To stand beside him,
And also stared.
In the grass,
Perhaps a foot away,
Was a thin, long and
Young-looking snake.
It was stretched out,
In curves,
With its head erect,
And motionless.
Much like Paw.
There are not many snakes
On Partridge Island, and I have seen
Much bigger.
But, still,
It was a snake.
Paw was curious,
Cautious,
And scared.
I was careful.
Old Nick
Chose well
To use a snake,
To bring down
Humankind.
I guess we three
Waited five full minutes
With none of us moving.
So, I scooped up Paw
(He made no complaint),
And retreated the way
We had come.
I know the snake felt
Every step we trod.
{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
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
kafkaestblog 