What was Kafka thinking? Felice Bauer-
blonde, in a homely sort of way- couldn't
think of him the same way after. He'd asked
her that question (hidden behind his obsession
with his own self-hatred, his surety that she hated him too).
Could you- might you- do you think you'd be able to bear it-
M a r r y i n g  m e?
History tells us they didn't tie the knot.
Kafka, probably, didn't mind a lot.
Franz Kafka: that hopeless man,
couldn't look in the mirror without shying from his own reflection.
Kafka, who'd balk at the slightest hint of romantic attention.
More story than man, really. Had more eloquence in his
smallest finger than ever came out of his mouth.

No wonder Felice had her doubts.

I saw but a glimpse of his eagerness to be, his effortless telling of the truth- the truth and nothing more terrible or beautiful- and I hovered over my future and my memories, and I thought, I thought, cut with a sliver of Kafka’s own eagerness: ‘There is so much to write.‘

— *L, The End of A Dream

In the garden amongst the flowers
like a bee in a library, a bookshop
there's nectars sweet with flavors discrete
words bitter and stories magical
I see and fly by Kafka, oh there's Camus
I smell the roses and touch the lilies
knowing not how to make honey
much to see, much to read
can I drink my share, lead others here
where should I be, why cant I be

Aku ingat awalnya
Mimpi itu aku simpan
Mimpi itu aku timbun
Aku tidak berasumsi
Aku tidak berekspektasi

Tapi kau datang
Di malam yang tidak kusangka
Mencari celah untuk masuk
Mencari cara untuk dekat
Ya, kamu waktu itu
Saat awal mula tahun ini

Secepat angin ku ada di pelukmu
Ku terbaring di kasur
Ku merasa hangatmu
Ku ada di sisimu
Ku memilikimu

Mungkin memang benar,
kata Kafka waktu itu

"He who seeks does not find, but he who does not seek will be found."

Memang mungkin,
tak perlu susah payah
tak perlu menunggu
apalagi mencari
Karena bila takdir
Ia akan datang sendiri

Vor dem Gesetz steht ein Türhüter.
                                      --Kafka*


This is a day
like the many days I've spent

empty handed
among the shadows at dusk

that cast no reflections
in the reflecting pools

and hold no illusions
as to what really is illusive.

But on this day my illusions
are changing

imagining that for once my world is based
upon three things;

The rule of law

The five books of your hand

And you, the prophetess that wrote them.

And as required
I will build a hedge for you.

And if this hedge
should ever over grow,
I will then trim it
like a true guardian of the law

Allowing none other entry
and I alone will hold fast

to the five books of your hand
and the only other existing copy.

Sometimes I imagine sitting under our dining table wanting to chop my hair off, days and nights oppressed, yet not to run the rat race. Partly because I was too resistant to be happy, but with the first monsoon showers, I almost collapsed inside my oversized grey T-shirt that began to turn white, infinite gaps inside mind channels, I sat and watched strange men winning Wimbledon. I stopped writing one thousand words a day, themes and perspectives slipped into a closed brown diary, and I always worried what if someone finds it and reads it aloud in the public sphere in Prague, right in front of David Cherry’s rotating Kafka, how miserable he died thinking he was worthless, how miserable it would be to listen to voices that came beneath my dining table. I talk to a shy Kafka, every day, under our dining table, today he shaved my head.

~ for FK

He fell asleep a defunct and uncertain mortal,
but in that night of wavering visions
he dreamed of crocodiles and lilacs
each blossoming according to its own nature.
That made a sort of sense.
Telephones rang and creditors questioned.
Fishermen returned from the sea with boats full of water
which they easily traded for vast quantities of oxygen.
The crocodiles were fragrant and the lilacs smiled.
That, too, made a sort of sense.
One melancholy action flung itself upon the stars
and vanished from the satisfied earth.
He loved God and Satan simultaneously
and in their delight they reopened the Garden
feeling once more the necessity of affection
and directed him to eat his fill.
Who can argue with such divine logic?
All his ex-lovers sent telegrams expressing regret.
The gold he never had swelled his coffers.
He decided this dream was too lovely to end.
And yet, how to make sense of this gloaming cornucopia?
The answer struck him obvious as an earthquake:
forget the prisons of words; take new orders;
laugh with the crocodiles; dance with the lilacs;
become a man of action; imbibe Ambrosia for breakfast;
devour Manna  for lunch; **** astonishing flowers.
This makes perfect sense.

  - mce

This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.* — Franz Kafka

—

After some time on this earth, we come to be encased in a robotic shell; the same kind our parents were encased in and all who surround us are encased in. There’s a feeling of being trapped, of living a “semi-life”, of simply living yet not existing.

Gradually, you get dropped and dropped by the world. Parts of the shell start to disappear; you see parts of what lie underneath, yet remain encased by what you’ve come to assume. You see some lies, but at the same time, you cannot breathe in all that you see.

You get dropped and dropped some more. Your body reacts in all that has been taught; in hurts. The stabs and contractions scare it out of confrontation. The more you shield yourself, the more the shell seems to cling. You come to resist all that you once felt. And so long as you refuse, the falling will never cease. Till one day you fall so hard into the ground, shell encased, never found.