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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.
*********************************
15 January 1917
Dreamed that I never dream.
“That can’t be true,” said AB, dropping the papers she held. “Everybody dreams.”
“It never happens to me,” I insisted. “And what’s more, I don’t really believe that anyone else dreams, either.”
“Of course people dream,” said AB, dropping bunches and pots of flowers on the floor. “I dream all the time. I’m full of dreams every night.”
“Even tonight?” I asked, excited, because I had some power, some type of knowledge, although I didn’t know what it was. “Tonight,” she repeated. “Especially tonight,” she said, dropping bowls of snow on the floor. “It is right now, right here.” Her voice was also full of excitement. “I am dreaming about you.”
“Me?” I said. “You can’t be dreaming about me. I’m right here – I’m not in your dream.”
“Not only are you in my dream,” she said, dropping automobiles and tram cars on the floor, “but you’re talking in your usual obstinate way. You’re cross, and you’re silly, and you’re shaking your hands at me.”
“I’m doing no such thing,” I said, wringing my hands and starting to yell.
“You’ve taken your absurd thoughts,” she said, dropping pieces of Prague on the floor, “and you’re forcing me to be part of them.”
“Even if it’s true – all true,” I said, trying to sweep Prague into the river, “it still isn’t me. You’re the one having the dream.”
AB snatched the broom out of my hand, and dropped it to the floor. “Then try to wake me,” she said.
16 January 1917
I have the feeling, that what I really am doing at the office, is committing suicide. And doing a good job.
Fishing Pole Toy with a pulsating light at the end of the fishing line [operated by human]
Chase The Laser Toy [operated by human]
Bag of small balls and toys to chase [thrown by human]
Assorted cans of delicious treats:
1) salmon and shrimp feast
2) ocean white fish and liver
3) cod, sole and shrimp
4) white chicken penne pasta served in a silky sauce
5) white chicken florentine in a light broth [fed by human]
What Did the Human Get For Christmas?
One enlarged photo of Bedford the Cat, framed with a glass front [unsigned]
DE
What did the human get for Christmas?
One enlarged phoyo of Bedford the Cat, framed with a glass front [unsigned]
My father, Byron Caleb Estey, served in the Canadian Army for the entirety of the Second World War. He was 31 when he signed up, and was a decade or more older than most of the soldiers he served with. At the end of the war, he was offered an instant promotion from Corporal to Sergeant Major.
He declined. He had had enough.
He was with the 90th Anti-Tank Battery. He was the member of the crew who calculated the coordinates to aim the gun and destroy targets. He did this up through Sicily and Italy, except for those times when he grabbed his rifle to shoot at soldiers shooting at him.
I imagine I could write pages repeating the anecdotes he told – and maybe some day I will. He didn’t talk all that much about the war, and when he did, I’d guess 80% of his stories were humorous. The other 20% were not.
I regret not discussing his war experiences more with him, but he did not encourage it. I once asked how close he got to the German soldiers. He said, close enough to kill them.
He hated Germans and Japanese all of his life. I understand that this is not the way of most soldiers. They mellow. They come to understand that soldiers on the other side were doing a job, just as they were. My father was not one of these. Those 20% of his stories explained his attitude to me.
He fought in – arguably – the most horrific and bloodiest battle in the war, the Battle of Ortona over Christmas week of 1943. He marched over piles of bodies, and crawled over piles of bodies. Such were the details he would tell. He didn’t speak of his feelings, or use words like “horror”.
On Remembrance Day he would march in the community parade. He rarely lingered for a meal or beer or camaraderie at The Legion. He did not seem affected by the memorial event, and did not talk any more or less about his experiences just because it was 11 November.
Because his tales were more funny than not, I’ll close on what might have been his last funny story.
At his death, the Royal Canadian Legion wanted to conduct a small ceremony at the funeral parlour. They requested that his medals be pinned to his chest. But, the medals could not be found. This was odd, because they were important to him, and he always wore them for the Remembrance Day parade.
It is excessive to say that the whole house was searched – but not by much. Drawers, shelves, boxes, closets, clothes, were repeatedly searched. Nothing. The Last Post was played over a Veteran with no medals.
Months later, when the house was being sold and possessions were being removed, his clothes were searched before being given away. In the side pocket of a jacket he never wore were the medals, all spiff and shiny.
He would have smiled at that.
Dale Estey
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as a starless night
With one white mitten,
Has outdone himself.
Again.
He came and got me,
Tracked me down,
(I was repairing part
Of the Partridge Island
Dock)
And bade me follow.
Demanded, actually.
So (of course) I did.
He has yet to understand
I can not scramble
With the alacrity
His four paws
Allow.
He stood waiting
At the top of
The rough trail
And complained.
He then stood by the base
Of the Lighthouse
And complained.
He paced at the
Entrance
Of our rough little forest
And complained.
But he didn’t enter until
I stood beside him.
No complaints now.
So . . . I wondered what
I was going to find.
And – no – I would
Never have guessed.
Paw moved carefully,
But unerringly,
To a spot not far
From the water.
He stopped in front
Of a swath of tall grass.
He sat down.
The rest was up to me.
I stepped (deliberately) over him,
And peered.
In the middle of the
Swath of grass
Was the leg of a deer.
One leg.
Nothing else.
No head
No antlers
No exposed bones
No hide nor hair
(Save the tiny hairs
on this solitary leg
complete with hoof).
Paw didn’t make a sound,
But his tail twitched.
There couldn’t be
Enough meat on it
For even a cat to chew.
There are no deer on Partridge Island.
Nothing much larger than
Paw, himself.
Some hawk or osprey or eagle
Might have dropped it.
Some storm might have
Heaved it ashore from some
Hunter’s field-dressing
Of a fresh kill.
I let Paw do what he wanted.
He didn’t want much.
He did walk its whole length,
Sniffed and licked,
And once
Rubbed his face
Against it.
He paid special attention to the hoof.
He was satisfied.
I was satisfied.
The deer was
With its ancestors.
I carried it
Across the rocks
And tossed it back
Into the sea.
By the time I turned
Back to shore,
Paw was on his way
Home.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report.
DE BA. UEL
I have written a novel where I fill in the missing days of Kafka’s real diary. However, I appreciate the following, which is Kafka’s real opinion of the first employment he ever had. I never had such far-away thoughts at my own first job, but neither was I enraptured by it. I lasted a year.
*****************
“Now my life is in complete disorder,” he wrote to Hedwig Weiler on October 8, after just a week of work. “It is true, I have a job with a tiny salary of 80 crowns and 8-9 interminable hours of work, but I devour the hours outside the office like a fierce beast. . . . I nourish the hope of sitting one day on chairs in far-flung countries, looking out of the office windows onto sugar cane fields or Muslim cemeteries, and the insurance branch interests me greatly, even though for the moment my work is sad.”
He quit after less than a year, on July 31, 1908, citing health reasons. (“We express our amazement that the state of health of the aforementioned, who after the careful examination of the doctor carried out in October last year was recommended as absolutely fit, is after such a short time so bad that his immediate resignation must follow,” reads a letter from the company in Kafka’s file.)
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as the Ides of March
With one white mitten,
Has a green ribbon
Tied around his neck,
As we stand on the dock
And welcome the arrival of Sister Darling,
Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)
On this Saint Patrick’s Day,
She steps off the fishing boat,
And unceremoniously hands me
A hefty cauldron,
As she scoops up Paw
And holds him close, the way
(I trust)
She will eventually hold me.
“Irish stew,” says she.
But I didn’t even have to guess,
For I can recite, by smell,
The ingredients:
[Lamb on the bone
Carrots/celeryonions/leeks/garlic
Bay leaf/sea salt/black pepper
Lots of potatoes]
And two (I hope) pints of ale
“You are right,” she says
As Paw snuggles into her hair,
“And you will get
A Reward.”
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
I’ve made a special meal
For Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as dark ale,
With one white mitten.
It will be his second
Robbie Burns Night feast,
And again, to keep him
In good cheer,
I am going to omit the haggis
(A hellish thing to make anyway),
And lay on the
Tatties & neeps.
But,
Since I doubt Paw will enjoy
Either Spuds or Rutabaga,
There will be a couple of
Mutton chops each,
And a piece of steak.
I will, however,
Have the whisky flowing.
And be in full voice
When I recite:
‘The Selkirk Grace’ by Burns himself.
“Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.”
And,
If the little bugger
(And myself)
Have more luck than we deserve,
We’ll be sharing our wee feast
With Sister Darling, of the
Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)
Who is
(Hopefully),
Boarding a fishing boat
On its way to our Lighthouse,
Right Now.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025/ A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
Christmas Day is like
Any other day at
The Partridge Island Lighthouse.
Ya gotta trim the wicks,
And renew the oil.
So, I went about my business
At the usual time, only noting that
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as soot
With one white mitten,
Had abandoned me.
‘Mice’, thought I.
For there are always mice
On Partridge Island.
But, I found out
(After my chores were done),
That wily Paw had used stealth
– and his sensitive hearing –
To scurry to my Lighthouse-keepers house.
When I returned, as darkness settled,
I saw twinkling lights
Through the windows,
And smelled the delightful warmth
Of roasted fowl, and sweetened baking,
As I walked through the door.
Sister Darling, of
The Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)
Had hired a fishing boat to
Bring her to the Island, whilst I
Was occupied in the tower.
She had put her pre-baked goods
Into the oven, and
Stoked the fire.
A bottle of red wine, and
A bottle of white,
Sat upon the kitchen table.
And
Paw, the cat/kitten
Had a red red riband tied
Around his neck,
With a key attached.
I took it.
When I turned,
Sister Darling removed a small casket.
And handed it to me.
I used the key
To open a tiny lock.
I Opened it,
And looked inside.
Oh, My!
Oh, My!!
It GLOWED.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
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