What would you title the chapters of your autobiography?
Born and Bored
Looking Around
Who Are These People
School Leaves Much To Be Desired
The Broken Eggs Of The Robin
Girls
Rubbing The Plates
University Engulfs
Working On A Farm In Germany
On The Way To Dachau
Women
First Novel
The Ice House
252 Charlotte
Gov Doc And Mrs Colson
A Lost Tale
DE
It was not a day like any other day, so I suppose it did not start like any other day. I don’t know.
However the day started, it did not end well. It did not go well. It ceased being well half way through.
Half way through the day that did not end well, on the street that leads to the Causeway that crosses the Bay that leads to the street that takes you into the heart of the city, the police pulled over the dump truck of delights.
One police car with flashing lights approached the dump truck of delights and pulled it to the side of the road and parked behind it with its lights still flashing and . . .
Well, that was it.
The dump truck, painted a utilitarian grey with a rusty dump covered in a tied-down tarpaulin, was stopped. Halted. Pulled to the side of the road by the black-and-white police car with its flashing blue-and-red-and-white lights flashing dully off the dull dump truck.
Far enough!
End of line!
Turn off the engine!
Chock the wheels!
And that was that. In sight of the city proper. So near and yet so far. Over the Causeway was the forbidden land. Do Not Enter!
For the Dump Truck of Delights would rouse the populace and inflame the imagination and loosen too too many tethers.
There were unicorns, of course, in the Dump Truck of Delights.
And Spheres with moons and stars whizzing around them.
And rabbit holes to disappear into.
And cotton candy, floating floating floating like clouds.
And real clouds coloured like cotton candy.
And the Tree of Knowledge weighted down with fruit.
And angels and seraphim with trumpets and harps and chubby cherubim with big brass drums.
And the joys of the flesh and the hopes of the soul.
And the biggest, the widest, the firmest beds where anyone, anywhere, ever eased off into sleep.
There were warming winds.
There were cooling breezes.
The food and drink were – well – beyond description.
So – of course – the police were instructed to stop the Dump Truck of Delights, and keep such pleasure and peace from the people. To make sure it would not cross the Causeway and disrupt the commerce of the city.
Besides – the driver had no permit to transport unicorns.
DE BA UEL
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.
Has no one before
Watered the floor
With the tears of
The poor
Sailorman?
Months out at sea
Is no place to be
No loved ones in sight
And to never feel free.
Alas!
The seas are oft rough
The boatswain is tough
The work never ends
And it’s never enough.
Drat!
The days yawn into fog
And the doldrums do bog
And create such an itch
Not relieved by the grog.
Hic!
So, any port from the foam
It doesn’t have to be home
Just some food that tastes real
Without maggots that roam.
Sigh!
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
Just as these sailors,
On A Friday night,
Were overjoyed when they
Entered the port,
Sailing past my Lighthouse
With smiles and cheers,
For a weekend where they
Could
– And would –
Let loose
In all those ways
That sailors do.
Now they return to the sea
,
With full days of
Hard and harsh work
To test their mettle.
No smiles now.
They barely look my way.
Nary a cheer,
Nary a wave,
And I,
The lighthouse keeper
Of the Lighthouse
On Partridge Island,
Bow solemnly
At their passage.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
[Rideau Hall]
I am putting myself forward to be chosen as the next Governor General of Canada. I am open to the job in the natural progression of such things, but can be on call to finish off a term if – well – the need arises.
I am a sturdy Maritimer (I think this part of the country could use the boost); have travelled nearly across this fair land; am a successful artist; and am descended from United Empire Loyalists. I will be more than proud to represent our Monarch.
I also have a stellar idea of how to raise funds for this great country, even in these times of COVID-19 disruption.
I propose to turn Rideau Hall, official residence of the Monarch, into an AirBnB. I’ll be more than happy to live in Rideau Cottage, or even 7 Rideau Gate. I generally live small.
Rideau Hall has 175 rooms and sits on 88 acres. It can easily pass as a Gated Community – with guards. It is set back from the hustle and bustle of the city. Unwanted visitors are removed.
Though it could indeed be party central for the insanely rich, I think more in terms of renovating the interior into a number (admittedly, a large number) of rooms and apartments, suitable for a vast array of the world’s population.
Also, the way things are going, well-done – though admittedly hasty – renovations could turn the building into a grand place for staycations. Proud Canadians from sea to sea to sea can come (eventually) to stay in the nation’s capital. There might be a shuttle service for residents to go to the Byward Market to stock up on provisions.
I throw open this proposal even if I do not attain the high position I desire. It will be a gift to my fellow citizens.
But I think I would look right nifty in uniform
[image] https://www.gardensottawa.ca/img/cache/126/261/11/86976117480161100269-0114588001517009332.jpg
We know that Canada Day is really Dominion Day.
But – that said – there is still no better symbol for Canada than the industrious beaver. But even hard-working beavers hard-working beavers need their time at play. This is what I saw.
I was walking along the river and heard the strangest noise.
It was one of those noises which, when I found out what it was, sounded exactly as it should. A beaver was chewing at a branch on the bank of the river.
First there were small rolling noises, as the branch went through its hands.
Then the ‘gnaw gnaw gnaw’.
And then the turning noise and the cycles were repeated.
This went on fifteen minutes or so, until the beaver and I both heard noises in the river.We both saw another beaver approaching.
The beaver-at-gnaw quickly went in her direction (though I can only guess which sex was which). They swam toward each other, then rubbed faces. The approaching beaver made small bawling noises like a young calf. They rubbed bodies and sniffed each other. They then swam in different directions.
This performance – the swimming away, the languid circling, the approaches – went on for twenty minutes. A couple of times the ‘gnawing’ beaver clambered over the over beaver’s back, but this lasted just a few seconds. The beaver that had first approached rubbed noses once again, then made the bawling sounds one more time.
I never appreciated how large beavers are until one of them came up on the bank. The water was clear enough to see their feet and tail move underwater (I wonder if the portion out of the water might have the 1/10 proportion of an iceberg). The sun was setting and they became difficult to see.
However they decided to part anyway. One began to go down river toward the harbour and one headed to the other shore.
Perhaps they had just had a date. Perhaps they had just arranged for a date. Whatever the case, I had the distinct impression they were more than friends.
Excerpt from my Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of his missing diary entries. Here he is dealing with a time twenty-eight years after the first May Day was declared. Kafka dealt with workers every day of his work life. But he didn’t take their problems home.
By the way – in real life – Kafka is credited with inventing the the hard hat.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
27 April 1917
Life seems to offer a handful of solutions which solve nothing. If I could get out of Prague, then I wouldn’t have to get out of Prague.
29 April 1917
Ottla managed to get away, and I’ll be able to visit. The dead man next door (I have since found his name was Adolf) also managed to get out of Prague. Him, I can not visit, but I can follow.
03 May 1917
The thoughts of the living discourage the dead. I spend so much time watching over myself, that there is no one left to watch over me.
06 May 1917
I write to Ottla. I make no mention of her terminated neighbour. I do say “hello” from father. Not an uneven balance.
08 May 1917
If Shakespeare were alive today, and people pestered him about Hamlet, would he wonder what all the fuss was about?
(image) 2.bp.blogspot.com/-atmC5fHIQp0/UhqBTCq06LI/AAAAAAAAAkA/S47fPCQHuww/w1200-h630-p-k-no-nu/kafka_hard_hat.jpg
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.
23 January 1917
The Director talked to me today. About not having sufficient people to run the Institute, and the other shortages caused by the war. And he asked my advice.
And I gave him good ideas – pointed the way. I do know my strengths – although far more familiar with my weaknesses.
And as the Director talked to me, he looked at me. In the eyes – as he so often does.
But he did not see me.
Not the I which I carry around inside myself. Not the K.
He saw an adequately dressed government official, Herr Doktor of Law, a Jew (I think he really does not mind), who knows well the operations of the Worker’s Accident Insurance Institute for the Kingdom of Bohemia in Prague. Has, indeed, risen to the rank of Deputy-Secretary.
And that is who responded to the conversation. Made comments Smiled at the Director’s dry humour.
I watched this Jew with interest, and his act was flawless.
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