Kafka Reels && Re-Reels +
Kafka returns to lend a hand. Notes from his pals pogblog & Cara Mel:
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One does reel at BabsToinette of Laissez-les manger le gâteau infame. I keep thinking the maze & spinning lurching besmirched kafka qualities of our time will — must (how much quease can one universe stand? — slow down, ameliorate, at least abate? But no, every day when I wake up it's beaucoup plus bizarre, mucho màs extraño, veel bizarder. Note: pinching myself doesn't help. It seems this nightmare is for real.
Naturellement, like a marble cake, the dream swirl in the nightmare confection is excruciatingly beautiful, appallingly exotic and erotic. I have had the bone-marrow sweating privilege of inhabiting the Planet at the same time as The Funniest Man Who Ever Lived (for someone with a taste for obsidian humor, the darkest, the snarkiest, the malarkiest, the flirkiest, a humor from which no light can escape) and at the same time as the Silverest Cat Who Ever Lived.
I ask myself — WHO in the Hell is the Script Writer? What grim and humorless ArchGod can keep coming up with new dizzguzzting twizts for KarlBoy to creepily perpetrate? The mind surboggles. The language lurches drunkenly. Who can keep up? The synapses are in a constant state of head-on collision shock. from pogblog
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‘Dear Frankie, at first I thought I should be formal with you – the great Kafka — because of all the esteem we hold you in and the fact that I have always seen you look like something out of a coffin but upright.’
‘Ah, Miz Mel — or seeing as we’re being so intime, may I call you Cara?’ Seeing a moue, a small shrug and a slight wildly becoming blush, Franz continued lustily. ‘I have been mistook. I love sunbathing by and idly dogpaddling in the second great <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />river of Hades, the river Mnemosyne, indigo in the evening and turquoise at dawn.’
‘Oh Frankie – we thought you’d covered the silent despair, the peculiar, the creepy traps the modern Greed-Ridden World was chaining the frolicsome souls of men in. The self-inflicted conformity that we walked unwhipped back into our cages, our lionhearts dazed, our wild bright eyes glazed. That was then we thought in the often brighthearted Sixties. Now we see, now we’ll be free. No one ever imagined, I swear to you, that that, that your time was the mild, the less lethal version of the crippling disease of Greed and of Greed’s slavering handmaiden War.’
‘Cara Mel – you are lovely by the way – we return a few bardos or layers of K¹ closer because of the emergency. Plato’s napping but near. Rocket Socky, an original in any agora, is speaking with me this evening at your friends’ Clown School InterDimensional. What’s your greatest danger? What would you have us speak to tonight in the dreaminar?’
‘There’re a few. Cynicism. Apathy and its cousin Inertia. These are what I fight every day, fearing the young and the dreamers will be wounded and quail, be dimmed of eye, hidden of heart.’
‘OK, We’ll address tonight the mass inoculation by clouds. We took to heart your excellent paper on the ingenious water transport system on Earth, What better way to move vast quantities of water around than with clouds? Therefore what better way to move mass amounts of inoculations around. We plan to seed the clouds world-wide with what you might call a humor vitamin or tonic. Everyone will be refreshed with what your friend pogblog, also winsomely plump if I may say so, calls an obsidian humor, the darkest, the snarkiest, the malarkiest, the flirkiest, a humor from which no light can escape. Nothing else will get you all through this great battle with Greedor, the forces of Aggrandizement and use of people.’
‘Frankie, I saw a paper by Rocket Socky on the distribution of brutal humor by cloud and then river then corn then tortillas. I saw a pict of him by the way on the holonet and he was wearing a pair of bright red high-tops. I love seeing him as a 30 year-old, gallivanting around. The stupid history books were all so bonebreakingly boring. Socrates. Kafka. We thought you all were duds on the stud front, not doods with tood.’
Kafka preened. It was fun. These new folks had élan.
‘I understand that you all will shortly do the more essay form of action items?’
‘Yeah 7/8 of the folk won’t even be conscious of the inoculations of obsidian humor. their blood will be a more dark, sweet candy apple red, but they may not grok or funes it. Most of your fellows in harmless arms are still quite linear, though warm of heart. We try to do 1/8 fractal and even that quite grammatical. Only you and Gato Gateau are cleared for the grb mad ride.’
Have you ever done a grb, Frankie?’ Cara Mel handed him a card with grb defined on it in holobraille. He ran his fingertips over it lightly and read it outloud to her, like a spoken song.
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‘grb .. stands for gamma ray burst – discovered in the 60s; “exotic, mysterious flashes pack the output of many galaxies into a single pulse that lasts seconds or less” – and that is exotic on any plane, cf “the consciousness-altering pulses that are emitted by the Hanab-Ku, the Cosmic Center.” This relates to the Mayan energy-matrix calendar which pogblog honors because the path forward is holospherical not linear like the cursed Gregorian calendar and that ‘convenient’ atrocity, the metric system, may it boil in many liters of oil, which has taken measurement of distance and quantity out of poetry in one fell fell swoop. “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely miles, oh my beloved?” “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely kilometers etc.” I wasn’t trying to defend ‘good poetry,’ just the on-the-endangered-species-list poetic impulse. A poetic impulse looks not unlike a zebra. They tend to be solitary animals. They don't do herds. ‘He inched across the searing sand on his belly, a pilgrimage to an oasis, a mirage no doubt like other wet heavens.’ You can’t 'centimeter across the searing sand.' It’s a sin to kill an inch.
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Frankie the Kafka. ‘Well make their first oneiro-project choosing a totem animal and doing some shapeshifting. That always lubricates the poetical and the hilarious.’
‘Remember to define all these terms like oneiro as dream for them. this will be a very mixed group. Some of the oneiroscouts come from cultures like the Senoi who grow up with dreaming skills and others will be from places like America where no one ever asked them even once how their dreams went last night or what did they learn or bring back in trade from the FarStars. So remember to at least put in some clues for the treasure hunt along the way.’
‘The first thing I’ll get Rocket Socky to do is send them to pogblog’s Glossary and the powerful Search function on the left side of her blog. They can find all the secret handshakes there. How we all hate obscurity. It’s time to tell the secrets as brazenly as possible.’
‘Sweet dreams, Frankie,’ said Cara Mel.
‘And thee, Cara, and the lovers of sweet Earth, a jewel of the Galaxy which will shine again.’
from Cara Mel
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¹ K = kinesthetic degree. Standard waking Earth is K1. Many dreams and alternate experiences have less stable K. It a genius of masterpiece Earth that it has such sturdy, persistent K.
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know: pogblog@yahoo.com
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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
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7 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West . tzol 111 09.20.05 tues
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Perhaps, we are not dealing with lizars. Maybe those in power want to turn the world over to cockroaches.
They already have turned the world over to cockroaches — their favorite totem animal into which they most easily shapeshift, ipso facto. Tho not baffled cockroaches like Gregor Samsa but ruthless Greedorian cockroaches like Dick & Karl & Donald & Condi & mere GeorgeJr
We cannot wake from the uneasy nightmare in which they scurry, it seems.
Maybe ipso facto isn't the exact phrase I want above? I mean as the facts blazingly deafeningly insecty-stink-of-cockroachily clearly show.
I'm confused, I thought Dick, Karl, Condi et al were reptiles. They are cockroaches too?
like those Transformer things that little boys play with? that look like a car then unfold into some sort of robot.
If Kafka does send you an e-mail back, will you please let us know?
Well before, and after too I do not doubt, there was electronic mail, there was what I knew as email which was ether mail. Kafka and I have communed on ether mail for a lot of time.
I never thought this was odd or rare until I found that like swimming in water, this kind of legerdemind or sleight of mind was not quite universal, yet.
If Kafka sends you another ether mail, could you ask him if he's mad about not getting any royalties for all those things he wrote?
Nah, Frankie's pretty droll. He's much more concerned with the ferocious Pandemic of Greed that is sweeping Planet Earth — a violently virulent strain shocking even to his dulled keen eye at his time. Dulled by the leaden and unleavened tasks joyous beings were asked to declaw themselves to do then. Worse now because we should know better.
In the just world to come, we will share the grotty jobs and no ceo will have more or niftier vacations than the janitor at their company or he will be pelted with special bright orange marshmallows of shame. He will have an neon orange Greed tatooed on his forehead. That's what Frankie the Kafka wants according to the latest ether chat we had.