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Where Do You Find The Ghost Of Kafka?

The Ghost of Kafka walks

– not stalks –


The streets

Of Prague.


 Prague,

The city he would/could

Never leave

Until the last

Year of his life.

He described Prague as:
“The little Mother has claws.”

Which she did.

For him.


He managed


To escape to Berlin,

During one of

The worst times

Anyone could live

In Berlin,

Until the end of the

Second World War.

But

The Second World War

Was years away.


He escaped with a young

Lover – Dora Diamant.

She made things

So much better.


However, his Ghost only

Walks the streets of Prague.


Whereas

Kafka’s Ghost

Stalks

The rest of

The World.

DE

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Kafka Hopes To Prove His Worth On A Farm (from “Kafka In The Castle”)

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 May 1917

          I shall visit Ottla. She asks that I come. She has been gone six weeks to the day. I could go next Saturday morning and stay two nights. I doubt the Director would mind. I could be back by noon, and work into the evening. Perhaps bring him eggs, or other farm produce. It would be appreciated with the shortages. She wrote that she could put me to work, if I’m worried about getting in the way. I know that she’ll really let me do what I want, but I actually would enjoy some chores. Some wood chopped, some earth hoed. More than the vapour which is the only result of thought. I’m sure she could find something for which I’m competent. I should do no worse than the other dumb animals.

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Letter To Kafka, Soon One Hundred Years Dead

Dear F:

I have found your reality is actually real.

Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations. 

1. Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies which run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held sway over the city where you spent your life.  All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.

2. Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better.

3. Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.

4. Sex is highly overrated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly ” ’tis a consummation devoutly to be had”.  Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.

5. There is no Castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human.  Which is why you never tried.

6. Except the grave, of course.

7. Except the grave.

 Yours,

D.

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Dignity Is A Cheap Suit Of Clothes

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.

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

24 May 1917

          Even with all the shortages of the war, I’m told no one wants to move into the house next to me. I’m just as pleased if it remains vacant, but I do wonder at the qualms of other people. Death is nothing but a liberator. It gives a blessing. 

There may be no dignity in the type of death my neighbour chose, but dignity is a cheap suit of clothes. It is of no importance as you undress for Eternity.

 But maybe this hesitation of moving next door is not from disgust. Maybe the fear is that it can happen again – that the house has taken on such powers of persuasion. 

The door of the evil eye. 

If I could believe such a thing, I would move in before the night was out. But I fear I don’t believe in anything which is not inside of me.

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Will Kafka Slip/Slide His Way Through May?

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.

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

22 May 1917

          There was even some snow. 

         They spoke of it at the office. Further down the river some snow and thunder together. 

               Hysteria traced the words of one man, who claimed he had good information – which he could not reveal – that the enemy has a great machine which can control the weather. That is how they are going to win the war. Freeze us in May, and destroy all our crops. 

                “And where are these giant weather engines?” somebody asked. 

                “In France,” was his reply, but he said it with such hesitancy that I knew it was a guess. 

                 “No machine could cause us trouble from that far away,” said another, and there was laughter before work resumed. 

                  Laughter without a touch of mirth.

DE

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What Happens When Kafka And Trump Walk Into A Bar (Though Neither Drink)?

~ Frank. Welcome to your world.

~ Thanks, DT. I’ve been living it all my life.

~ I’ve taken some pages out of your books, Frank.

~ I did try to get them burned.

~ You didn’t try too hard.

~ Well – no.

~ You know – neither did I.

~ I know. They all ran to your tune.

~ They did.

~ You were the Pied Piper of Havoc.

~ Worked like a charm, Frank.

~ Yes, DT – yes, it did.

~ They thought I was a bug.

~ Yes.

~ But I turned them into bugs.

~That you did, DT. And turned them against each other.

~ Yes.

~ And stood back, and watched.

~ Pretty well.

~ To the victor goes the spoils.

~ I was astounded – believe me.

~ And they keep making the same mistakes.

~ I know, Frank. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so funny.

~ The one-eyed man is King in the land of the Blind.

~ Yes, Frank – yes. But you know what?

~ What?

~ I’ve got great vision in both eyes.

DE

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Am I Looking Back To Sea?

I had the dream again.
Not a bad dream,
But an odd dream.
I have it often.
I’m on shore, and looking at
The Lighthouse
On Partridge Island.
And
As I sit there,
I wonder what I am doing
On the Island.
(You’d think I could have
Dreamed up a spyglass).
However, now awake,
I plan to turn my dream 
Into reality.
I made everything right

At the Lighthouse.
And I made sure Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as night

With one white mitten,
Was played with, and fed.
I walked him to my dorey
So he’d know I would be away,
And
Away I went.

It’s a peaceful row,
The sea is calm,
The distance isn’t great.
The biggest chore

Is climbing up
From the rocky shore,
To settle into the comfort
Of the trees.
But, I did,
And I did.
I sat upon
A grassy perch
And looked back
With my spyglass.
What did I expect to see?
What revelation did I hope?

Well – yes – I wanted to see

Paw, my cat/kitten.

And he did not disappoint,
Though he revealed no secrets,

He did the same damn fool
Leaps, and bounds, and rushes
From place to place.
I spied no secret trysts.
I was, however, myself
Taken by surprise,
When Michael, the Mi’kmaq Indian,
Approached my seating place.
He used no stealth,

For I would have never heard him.
He asked no questions.
I handed him my spyglass.
He adjusted it, and peered.
Many minutes passed.
He handed it back to me.
“Wild cat,” he said,
“Got Glooscap in him.”

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

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Franz Kafka And May Day

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.

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

30 April 1918

            If one can love and loathe the same thing, I do so with travel. Even as short a trip as the afternoon train to Prague. Regardless of the destination. And I don’t really mind so much, once I’m on the conveyance and moving. It’s having to get ready. It’s having to think about it.

     Ottla – of course – had all my things together and in the waggon before breakfast. I took a last walk around the village, as unobtrusively as possible, for I had said any `good-byes’ I wished to make the day before. And to Farmer L. the day before that. I was tempted to go past Fraulein G’s door – to be able to look at her one last time. She will fade in my mind. Faces and bodies always fade. But I did not.

     I went along the road which leads to Oberklee, and sat beneath my favourite tree for a short while. But, as is my habit, I became late, and had to hurry back to Ottla’s. Before the past and future started to mingle as I stared across fields and hills. O. insisted I have lunch, and then the hired hand drove us to the station. There were a few waves and farewells from people, which I had to return. My fingers to my hat.

     The wait at the station was not long, since the train was on time and we nearly were not. And the ride was uneventful. The day was clear and crisp, and I looked at the farms and countryside with new understanding. New curiosity. I saw where a field had just been started, and could guess which meal the farmer might have tonight. The condition of his boots. The gratitude for this Tuesday sunshine.

     And such things kept me thinking of Prague. Until it was in the distance. Until the landscape changed. Until the outskirts surrounded us. Until Prague filled the windows, swallowed the train whole, scraped us from the living earth. Then I was home.

01 May 1918

            It is like the day after the funeral.

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Shakespeare Birth Date + Shakespeare Death Date = A Couplet

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, 

With 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 through our eyes and ears

To battle with those thoughts and fears

that 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.

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