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Does Kafka Dream A Dream In Place of A Dream?

A dream of dreams

Is a dream confused.


Do you wake up

Into another?

Do you blend

Into reality?


Do you pick up

Where you left off?


Or leave off

Where you joined?


If it’s not making sense,

Is there sense to be made?


Did Kafka have the answer.

Or was Kafka the question?

Kafka Ponders The Past And The Ghosts

 

prag-cz-3

In Kafka In The Castle I fill in Kafka’s missing diary entries. It is believed that many of the gaps in his real diaries, he removed and destroyed.

14 March 1918

The past.

 And again the past.

Why can we not be rid of that which – moreso than practically anything else in life – is gone?

I am not even sure what I get from memories. Why do I stroll along the road, reach some humble heights, and imagine (by glancing in a particular direction) I can be closer to a person or event? For even if I reached that place, there would be nothing to recapture.

I am not the me of then.

Swimming in the lake; living in a shack by the shore; climbing the mountain. None of these would mean the same to me as they did.

Even if the Swiss girl were present, and had a new song. The new me – the new she – the new us, would be swamped by our old ghosts, making comparisons no two humans could defeat.

I think the ghosts are such, she could right now walk up beside me – yes, even singing her lively song – and remain unnoticed.

The Ghosts Tread Heavy In This Time Of Pandemic

o-ghosts-facebook

There are a lot more ghosts

Now

Than there were before.

The earth,

And the heavens (of course),

Heavy

With ghosts.

Weighted down with

The new/old arrivals.

There are ghosts behind the ghosts.

There are legions of the dead,

Lined up to peer

Over my shoulder.

They breathe with satisfaction,

Upon the hand

That writes the word

Ghosts.

The millions of departed,

Disturb the air enough,

To stir the hair,

On my moving wrist.

They keep a place in line,

Patiently waiting,

For me to join them.

[Image] https://s-i.huffpost.com/gen/1315880/images/o-GHOSTS-facebook.jpg

The Bee Prepares For Death

bumblebee

An anxious companion called to me,
As I was sitting out in the yard,
That a bee had
Settled on my leg.
 
So be it.
 
Bees will usually,
Quickly fly,
When they realise they
Are not on a flower.
 
This one did not.
 
So, I assumed that there
Was something wrong
With the bee.
 
It was not just languid from the heat
‘Cause it wasn’t that hot.
 
The longer the bee stayed,
The more concerned I became.
 
Not really knowing
The ins and outs of bees
Heading for their demise.
 
Except, that they usually fall
In Service
While heading toward,
Or away,
From their hive.
 
I thought a languid/dying bee
Might take some sort of affront,
Or take one last stand
At life,
And make a defensive move
Of stinging whatever
Was nearest it.
 
So I kicked out
My leg.
 
The bee moved through
A gentle arc,
Caused by my propulsion,
And its own feeble
Attempt at flight.
 
It landed in the taller grass
On the verge of the lawn,
And,
I suspect,
It did not
Move again.
 
D.E. BA U.E.

Space & The Universe Are Going Around In Circles

motion-map

 

There is a new map of the Universe, created after ten or more years and looking past numbers that are in the billions. There are also pretty colours.

I appreciate space speculations, and accept that the folk who come up with them, plus the knowledge and machines they use, make their pronouncements and suppositions more relevent than my musings. But I haven’t been proved wrong yet.

This excerpt from one of my short stories keeps being very popular, so maybe I have achieved an answer by having no real answer. Sounds likle the Universe to me.  I’m always glad and willing to add to knowledge about the unknown.

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

“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) http://public.media.smithsonianmag.com/legacy_blog/motion-map.jpg

The Ghost Hunts The Living For Revenge

woman's ghost
The Ghost came calling

(As ghosts are wont to do)

When they go to wander,

In those places,

They used to play.

The Ghost wanted

(As ghosts are wont to do)

When all full of revenge,
To pull the living

To the Other side.

The Ghost hated

(As ghosts are wont to do)

Those who had been mean,

And hateful, and cruel,

And so so selfish.

The Ghost tugged

(As ghosts are wont to do)

With bony hands and fingers,

Hooked into both

Memory and conscience.

The Ghost succeeded

(As ghosts are wont to do)

Tenfold times ten again,

Turning troubled dream

Into shrieking nightmare.

The Ghost retreated

(As ghosts are wont to do)

At the blush of dawn.

Slipped behind the drape,

Waiting ever patiently.

 

{image} https://media4.s-nbcnews.com/i/newscms/2016_43/1169631/ghost-woman-tease-today-161026_a0e92f89834bf99d7763b514b91aa60d.jpg

Kafka Sees A Ghost’s Shadow From The Window

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An Excerpt from my Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of his missing diary entries. Kafka never avoided life – if anything, he perhaps plunged too deeply into it. But I think he never felt he was a part of what went on around him. He understood reality too well.

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

01 June 1917

I have been on the outside, looking in – the darkness of the night behind me, the fog resting close upon the harbour.

I’ve watched diners at their ease, the fire colourful through the grate, the rich hue of the glass raised to the lips. And my own face, peering back at me as I look in, reflecting like a ghost’s shadow from the window.

And the very next night, I have been on the inside, looking out – seated at the very table I had previously observed.

The fireplace at my back, its warmth more than welcome. And I glanced out at the harbour, its fog higher than the previous evening, but not yet obscuring the lights of the ships. Their portholes wavering.

And, as I brought the red liquid to my lips, I saw my own face dimly doing the same in the window, imposed and distant between me and the fog. And I felt as alone as I did the night before.

Whether I was sitting or standing; whether in the warmth, or in the fog – I was still me.

Always K.

Always observing.

Does Hope In Life Cloud The Reality Of Death?

quote-plenty-of-hope-an-infinite-amount-of-hope-but-not-for-us-franz-kafka-242320

An Excerpt from my Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of his missing diary entries. Perhaps because the summer heat is getting to him, his patience is thin with those whose hope outstrip the realities of life and – particularly – death.

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

17 June 1917

I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day.

Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose  – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday.

There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so.

When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.

 

(image) https://izquotes.com/quotes-pictures/quote-plenty-of-hope-an-infinite-amount-of-hope-but-not-for-us-franz-kafka-242320.jpg

To Die As Kafka Did Is Not Easy

Franz Kafka inches toward being dead for 100 years.He died on this day, 03 June, in 1924. he did not go gently into that good night, though he probably was just as happy to be gone. It was difficult to satisfy Kafka,

I wonder what Kafka would think about the worldwide communication and information of today. He was a rigid fixture of the staid (he hated using the telephone). He also was a keen observer of the world around him (he wrote the first newspaper report about aeroplanes, and he invented the safety helmet). It was more this deep divide in his personality which caused him his problems, about which he so famously wrote.

He did not fit into his personal world, yet he fit into the real world perfectly. He was adored by his friends and by many ladies. He was respected at his work and rose to a position of power. His stories were published to acclaim in his lifetime. 

Kafka lived a Kafkaesque life. He died a Kafkaesque death (he caught tuberculosis because he drank “pure” unpasteurised cow’s milk). He was rigid in his personal beliefs (until proved wrong), yet he was a beacon of compassion to others.

Kafka was always on a tightrope. He looked at things with such accuracy that his comments can seem bizarre. Supposedly his last words were:  “Kill me, or you are a murderer.” They were to  his doctor, as Kafka beseeches for an overdose of morphine.

I have written much about Kafka. I will share but two.

This is the diary entry I had him write in my fictional novel “Kafka In The Castle”:

03 July 1917

The anniversary of my birth. In honour of the day, I do not make it my last.

And this is a short story.

      The old Rabbi moved slightly on his bed, and the young man raced over.

     “Yes, Rebbe?”

     The old Rabbi opened his eyes, showing the cast of death which had almost consumed him. “Ka … ” he groaned.

    The young man had been told the dying Rabbi would never regain his senses, and he did not know what to do. He was scared, almost horrified, but he leaned closer.

     “What is it? What do you want?”

     The old Rabbi struggled for breath. “Ka … Kaf …”

     The young man gazed at the face, saw its pallid features and the clouded eyes. He touched a shrunken cheek, raised his voice to a shout. “What is it? What can I do?” He could hear wheezing, the struggle for air. He put his ear directly over the gaping mouth.

    “Ka … Ka …” One last ragged breath, a low hollow whisper. “Kafka died for your sins.”

(image) https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Mj5aC-_baiQ/VU8ja5psBxI/AAAAAAAAWqY/y6gyF6mst2g/s1600/Kafka%2BGrave%2C%2BPrague%2BCU%2BDetail.jpg

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