life

The Old Order Changes, A Saint Passes On

Robert (Bob) Gibbs has left the building:

I considered Bob Gibbs an honorary member of my very exclusive (and never acknowledged) “Grand Lake Writers Group” This august body consisted of myself, Elizabeth Brewster, and Robert Hawks (neither of them knew of its existence, either). We all three lived within the vicinity of Grand Lake (I could see it from the upper windows of my home).

We three included aspects of the Grand Lake area in our books.

Well . . . so did Bob.
In some of his writings, his characters boarded riverboats, and took a trek which got them to Grand Lake from Saint John. One such Riverboat pier was a twenty minute walk from my house. Although not certain of this, I like to think he pulled into this port upon occasion. Evangelical meetings were generally on the agenda. I have (in my way) incorporated this into one of my novels.

I remember Bob once being nonplussed by my activity.There was a party at his house (such a delightful place, next to a railway). It was either a birthday party for Elizabeth Brewster, or a celebration of a book launch by her. I showed up with the gift of a bottle of champagne. I handed it to Bob.

His look was one of surprise. I’m not sure I had ever seen him surprised. I had the suspicion he knew everything. I still have that suspicion.

He made the comment (I don’t remember if it was to anyone) “Look, he brought champagne.” My interpretation was that Bob didn’t think I had enough sophistication to do such a thing. Or, he didn’t know what to do with the bottle.

When I left, it was still unopened.

The Essential Robert Gibbs – Robert Gibbs – Google Books

Whatever three ships mean

two freighters and a tanker

standing off Partridge Island

more like scanned-for presences

than really anything out there

(I saw three ships come sailing in

come sailing in singing itself

off-season off-key)

~ Bob Gibbs [Skipping Round the Biosphere]

10/28/2024 0

Is Kafka Correct About The Dead?

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.

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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.

06/12/2024 0

I Saw Gwen Downtown This Afternoon

I saw her three times.

Slender, blond, walking with intent, dressed with a flourish.

Gwen died five days ago.

But it coulda been her. Some last minute business to tidy up.

Or, there was that one, solitary crow, flying overhead, cawing also with intent, A sorrowful sound indeed.

That would be more like Gwen, saying good-bye.

~ Dale

06/11/2024 0

Does Kafka (Who Endlessly Seeks The Truth) Want To Hear The Truth?

This particular entry from the life I created for Kafka is one of my favourites.

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08 June 1917

A Gypsie 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 Gypsie,” 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 Gypsie woman, instead of barter? That would make you suspiciously like one of us.” She said this with a growl in her throat. “The Gypsie 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.

06/07/2024 0

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.

05/28/2024 0

Dignity Is A Cheap Suit Of Clothes

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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.

05/25/2024 0

Franz Kafka And May Day

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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.

05/01/2024 0

The New Year Prods Kafka To Think Of His Youth

03 January 1917

I still have fantasies about the Swiss girl – although not the type one might suppose.

(My father says I already have too many fantasies, and that I deal with them “too long, and too often” – he is certainly right.)

I make a mixture of what I shared with the Swiss girl, and what I imagine we would be like today. This is certainly more fantasy than not, for what would being together have done to us? Done to her?

But, in this tiny house – could she not join me?

Be here by the window, as I write this?

But she was so young, and such a girl, where I fear that I was never such a boy.

01/03/2024 0

It Is A Cold Kafka December

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the missing entries of his actual diaries. There are many days to fill, as he either did not write during these days, or he destroyed the record.

In these entries, the chill of winter begins to settle over the chill of his life.

10 December 1916

My father is so suspicious, he rarely suspects what is really going on around him. He has no idea that Ottla has rented this house, or that I come here like a thief in the night. He would think that it is another plot against him. And, he is right about the plots – but he’ll never realize they are done solely for defensive purposes. Which is a shame, for he fully appreciates self-preservation.

Of course, even I do not fully know Ottla’s reasons for renting this tiny house. I suspect a young man is involved, but I will keep my queries to myself. It is not the place to bring Felice – but is nice enough to set out on new adventures. I’ve had adventures in less suitable surroundings. The shop girls. The hotels with their chilly rooms.

12 December 1916

Max wants me to publish more. He may even wish upon me the horror of his own proliferation. His novels, and stories, and all his comments and reviews about the “arts”. I do not tell him this, for I think he would be greatly offended, but much of the time my opinions do not even interest me.

14 December 1916

Overheard a woman talking to Max today – complained of being lonely. But what it sounded like to me was that she was only tired. She had children at home, family in the neighbourhood, and friends (obviously) whom she could talk to. Yet, she chooses to feel lonely. Yes, her husband is in the war, but a partial loss does not make one lonely. Perhaps alone – but that is entirely different. Being lonely is waking from a nightmare, and realizing there is no one to wake you.

12/12/2023 0

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