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My Nanosecond In The Star Trek Universe On Star Trek Day

Can I use the word eons when talking of Star Trek?

Considering the time travel that often enveloped them, why – yes, I can.

So, eons ago, I wrote a script for Star Trek, The Next Generation. Memory says (and I’ve been told my memory is not up to light speed), this was the only television series that asked for, and actively used, scripts from writers outside their own stable. They used one script per season from these submissions.

So I submitted.

I had a response from Lolita Fatjo.  I believe she was classed under “Pre-production”. I also thought she had a real nifty name.

I note she currently still has dealings with Star Trek, helping to facilitate Star Trek Fan conferences and arranging appearances by some of the Star Trek stars. I did not have an abundance of communication with Ms. Fatjo. I think I got a package of information about the type of thing they wanted for a script. Memory says there was a desire to have a main plot line concentrating on just two or three of the main characters. There was to be one additional sub plot. There were arcs to accommodate the commercials. I believe they hoped for some humour. And timing, of course, all was timed to the exact minute.

I followed directions and wrote a script and put it into the format and sent it off. I had two further dealings with Mz Fatjo. One told me they had received the script. The other – so deliciously close to the end of the season – was to tell me they would not be using it.

The script was called The Minstrel. In it, an alien had a musical instrument (I think a horn, but it might have been strings) that would play tunes attuned to whoever he was talking to. It had other properties, but I think I’ll keep them tucked away. You never know.

Anyway, the Minstrel would interact (per act) with the Star Trek characters. Revelations were forthcoming. Not too many special effects (which was something else requested). I received no cheques, nor writing credits, from this foray into television land.

But not all was lost.

I was writing my script in tandem with a friend who was writing her own script. News of our endeavours made the local writing circuit, and we were interviewed on regional radio. From that we were asked to speak to a couple of writing classes, and even invited to an alternate world fan club to give a reading.

We boldly went!

DE

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31 August 1917: A Weasel Well-versed In The Ways Of The Earth

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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31 August 1917

             The last night of the month. My last night in this tiny house. My last trek along the Alchemist’s Lane as someone who belongs. And soon, my last walk down the Castle steps. Which Max so dutifully counted. And after Max conveys me to the specialist, I imagine I’ll embark on the last part of my life. The power of the Alchemist’s Lane is far from spent, if one truly sees what I have turned into. There could have been no substance so base as myself to put beneath the test of smoking acid. Burning with precision into my lungs.

     Since Max helped last night, there is not much for me to carry away. I might indeed be taking as little as I brought that first day. Technically, I must leave by mid-night, and I plan to walk out the door at that precise minute, turning the key in the lock at the last strokes of the cathedral bell. Of course, I don’t have to do this – no one will appear to check on me. But, I enjoy technicalities. I skirt through life on both the vaguest, and the most precise, of technicalities. After all, I am a well-trained lawyer. Like a weasel well-versed in the ways of the earth.

     But sadly, this burrow must be vacated. And by its exposed front entrance, for I never had the luxury of a back escape route. But then – is that what is now being offered me? Opened for me? Not the Alchemist’s Lane, which will lead me to the city. Between the walls, through the courtyards, down the steps, and beyond the many gates. But the Tuberculous Lane, which may meander in many directions, stop at many doors, but finally – eventually – lead to the deep decent into a darkened pit. The only thing of me remaining above to be my name, carved in stone. The Herr Doktor. Not an unexpected fate. But not a fate I wish to happen too soon.

     Not, at any rate, as soon as my fate to walk out that door, my few parcels and papers in hand. A lingering look upon the table, the lamp, the stove. I think I will say good bye. I think I may even say thank-you. And then, I will take a great deal of time to find my key. It will be in the last pocket I search. And I’ll close the door slowly. With care. And the key in the lock will make a noise I shall never forget.

DE

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30 August 1917: The World Held Suspended Beyond The Massive Gates

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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30 August 1917

             I’ll just leave the newspapers.     They will no doubt be appreciated as fuel for the next winter. My manuscripts though – regardless of the temptation – I’ll take. The pile on the table, looming behind the lamp, I’ll take tonight. The rest tomorrow. Max has offered to carry things – no doubt thinking that what he carries, I can not burn – and has arranged to be here shortly.

     What I most want to take away with me, I can’t. The comfort. The view of the Stag Moat. The Castle walls. The world held suspended beyond the massive gates. The silence. Perhaps peace – which can be many things – can also be nothing more than silence. And here is Max at my open door. His worried smile precedes him into my peaceful room.

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29 August 1917: Kafka Walks A Dark Bridge And Ponders The Sea

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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29 August 1917

             I strolled the Charles Bridge a long time tonight, before coming on to the castle. I have the feeling that the river air helps my lungs. I also like the city lights reflecting from the racing water. And the occasional boat, lanterns stern and bow. I have once or twice steered my own boat through the dark, the flickering light dripping through the gloom before me. If I could have reached the sea while it was still dark, I would have tried to do so. But I was younger then. And could breathe deeply.     Fantasy fuelled this escape, from my Moldau island and then along the Elbe, through Dresden, Magdeburg and Hamburg, to the freedom of Helgoland Bay. Further into the North Sea, if I wanted. Perhaps to Iceland, where I could become lost in the snow and white. All this, from my perch upon the Charles Bridge, as I strolled from side to side, and one end to the other. My last smile reserved for the statues staring down on me. Their stony expressions etched upon their faces, as are mine to me.
DE

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28 August 1917 Kafka Is His Own Invention And Not His Father’s Product

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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28 August 1917

             I avoid my parent’s apartment, and as yet they notice nothing from the ordinary. Actually, I think my father’s fervent wish would be to find something ordinary. Something he could understand. Such as sickness and death. His gratitude at this understanding would not, I think, even be unkind. The Director, however, notices things only too well. He came to my desk – an unusual activity – again today, asking after my cough, which proves futile to hide after any length of conversation. His concern is genuine – he has always shown me the utmost kindness – and goes beyond the conventional interest in a valued employee. How radically different my life would have been had such consideration ever been shown by my father.

     I don’t mean I think of the Director as a father – we rarely see each other outside the confines of the Institute. And anyway, I am as much my own invention as I am my father’s product. How quickly I point my finger to others about my woes; how quickly I drop my hand when I’m faced with a mirror.  

DE

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27 August 1917 Kafka Take His Leave

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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27 August 1917

             Max has arranged for me to see a specialist a week from tomorrow. My protestations are necessarily weak, since it is an effort not to cough during most of our conversations. Even my breathing proves to be more difficult. Perhaps some treatment or some medicine can be found. Some palliative. With luck a cure – the cure? – will be to get me out of Prague. Even if Prague had grand entrance gates, and I lived just on the other side – had my cot in the dust just an arms length from the wall – I could sleep easily. Even without a mattress on the springs.

     As it is, I have no use for the furniture, so I may as well be rid of it. There is no need or place for it in my apartment, and Ottla has expressed no interest. Or even curiosity . A solution – and the one which was done next door – is just to leave everything. I suspect, in this day and age, the people who really have to live in this type of house, will find a use for it. Even the bamboo pieces. I think I’ll keep the lamp.

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Paw, The Cat/Kitten, Does Not Mean To Kill The Li’l Bird

I was sitting on my porch
Humble enough,
At my Lighthouse Keeper’s house,
When Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as a  raven
With one white mitten,
Started playing with a flock
Of little birds.
They were in the bushes,
Flitting from branch to branch
Up and down and over.
He tried to catch one
And then another
And then an another
And then –

He succeeded.
He stood over the bird
Pushed it with his paw,
Sniffed at it,

Then came tearing over to me.
He snagged my pant leg
And pulled.
“Come come come” was in his meows,
So, I did.
The sea breeze ruffled the bird’s feathers
But
There was more movement than that.
I picked up the tiny bird,
Touched its breast,
Felt the trembling heart,
Saw its beak open and close,
And just held it closer to the sun.
It stirred, and stood, and wobbled
And gasped open its eyes
And started to fly
Before it stood.
Right back to the other li’l birds.
Paw slept by my feet
The rest of the day.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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Kafka Takes A “Mistake” Train To Prague As The War Begins To End

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.

Franz Kafka did not shy away from writing horror, and you are forwarned.

14 February 1918

              The grip of evil showed tenfold times the horror.

               The train to Prague – late and slow because it had made a stop in Hell.

              “A mistake train,” said the Stationmaster. “But we had no other choice because of the shortages.” I looked through the windows, and hesitated. “There may be no other train today, if it’s Prague you want.” He rubbed off the chalkboard with the spittle on his finger. “No evening train. Perhaps there will be something after mid-night.” He wiped his hand on his soiled jacket. “Perhaps not.”  “You do not even dare look into the compartments,” I said. “And yet you expect me to enter.”

     “I’ve seen worse.” He wrote down a new time, and his hand did not shake. “In the dark of the night, these trains come through.” He put the stubby piece of chalk back into his coat pocket. “But -no. I don’t get used to it.” He looked in my direction, his face as expressionless as before. “I would advise you to try the coaches after the engine. Most of them there can at least sit up.”

     His advice was good.

     That is where the other civilians were clustered. Huddled – almost literally – away from the sounds and the stench. And they readily made room for me, moved even closer together so they could add me to their number. In my suite and tie, overcoat and hat, I was a Godsend of normality. The gentlemen nodded, and the ladies tried to smile. But then the train started, with its usual jumble of jolts, and the moaning which followed turned their faces blank and ashen.

     One of the soldiers, across the aisle behind me – a Hungarian captain with a weeping bandage obscuring his neck – gulped and slid to the floor. I looked around for a doctor, or an orderly, but there were none. I went back and placed him – as best I could – onto his seat. He mouthed some words – he obviously couldn’t speak – and I patted his hand. Further back still, I saw an Austrian corporal grabbing and grasping over his head. I went to him, and smelled the blood before I saw it. One leg ended in a jagged stump of bandages, the other ceased inches below the hip. He kept grasping at the air even as I steadied him, and he finally seemed to realize I was there. He made motions toward his mouth, gesturing with both hands. “Have you got a fag for us, Sir?” he said, and I realized what his movements had meant. “You’re bleeding,” I began, but he smiled with a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell them, Sir. Don’t tell them. A cigarette is all I need. I’ll keep quiet. I confessed that I didn’t smoke, but a voice behind me spoke with a shrill deliberateness. “I have some – a box of them.” I turned, and it was one of the men I had been sitting with. The soldier held out his hand, and I changed places with the man. “I’m going to find help,” I said. “It won’t do any good,” replied the man, lighting the cigarette. “We’ve tried.” Terror was trapped in his eyes. “You shouldn’t go any further.”

     And I should have listened to him.

     I can not – or perhaps, even now, I dare not – reveal the monsters which I saw. For that is what these men had become, by no choice of their own. Terrifying, repulsive creatures who were more frightening the more human they appeared. One man had his arm melted into his side by and explosion. Another had his ribs piercing through his chest. And what flame can do to faces. The last cars had sacks of dead – too many for the coffins. And any official, any officer, any nurse I met, would only say that they’ll be tended to in Prague.  Treated.  Looked after.  The best care available. 

     And I remembered something from my childhood – a saying perhaps even from my parent’s parents: “A dead man doesn’t care what suit he’s buried in.”

     But I did not tell them this.

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STOP AI From Scraping Creative Work To Use Elsewhere

It is time (past time) to regulate, restrict, impede, STOP, and make illegal, any and all external stealing of creative material. Period and Exclamation Point.

That all he wrote.

~ Dale Estey

https://actionnetwork.org/petitions/authors-guild-open-letter-to-generative-ai-leaders?source=direct_link&
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