Metamorphosis Kafkaesque a

This morning, as I was waking up
from sweet dreams,
I discovered that in my bed
I had been changed into a tiny insect
and now was sitting on my glasses
reading Kafka's Verwandlung:

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up
from anxious dreams, he discovered
that in his bed he had been changed
into a monstrous verminous bug.
He lay on his armour-hard back and saw,
as he lifted his head up a little,
his brown, arched abdomen divided up
into rigid bow-like sections.
From this height the blanket, just about ready
to slide off completely, could hardly stay in place.
His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison
to the rest of his circumference,
flickered helplessly before his eyes.
“What’s happened to me,” he thought.
It was no dream.

Kafka_esque

A bug gone astray.

Metamorphosis Kafka-esque a

This morning, as I was waking up
from sweet dreams,
I discovered that in my bed
I had been changed into a tiny insect
and now was sitting on my glasses
reading Kafka's Verwandlung:

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up
from anxious dreams, he discovered
that in his bed he had been changed
into a monstrous verminous bug.
He lay on his armour-hard back and saw,
as he lifted his head up a little,
his brown, arched abdomen divided up
into rigid bow-like sections.
From this height the blanket, just about ready
to slide off completely, could hardly stay in place.
His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison
to the rest of his circumference,
flickered helplessly before his eyes.
“What’s happened to me,” he thought.
It was no dream.

soliloquy, blooming A ... or so

Stream of consciousness. In a blogpost? Lovely. Ha ha ha ha. I am not Molly Bloom, hm? Ah, a Joycean. Nah. Although, in a way. Four times? Four times that I read the 'Ulysses'? Five times? Yes. Five times. I think. Gosh. Did I write 'Yes'? "Plagiarism!!!!!!!!!!", I hear them shout, the heirs of the late James Joyce. And: "One million cun ... err ... punts for a Yes!" Fastards. Bucking. Sucking honey from the dead. Can't even spell the German philosopher´s name correctly. Phonetically, alright. Kant. But. Anal Ivia Plurabelle. Language, Sir. Language! Language? Language = Ethic = Fairplay. Thierry Henry. God's hand. Frog's hand. To be fair: Would Robby Keane have beseeched the referee: "No goal, ref. No goal. I played the ball with my hands"? Hypocrisy. Punt. Pound. Euro. Guinea, Guinness. Guinnessis. Money money money. Mon(d)ey. Monday? It's Thursday, isn't it? Thirsty. Thuirsdy. Nah! Not what you think. I'm drinking warm milk with honey. Bloody cold. Hm. Interesting. Do they say it´s every six seconds a child, a woman, a man dies of starvation? After all there can't exist poverty, hm?! 1,3 trillions being sacrificed each year to defend enduring global freedom. Praised be the defence (sic) industry. Malnutrition. No. No! Not in this lovely little village. See this tree?

Click to enlarge

Apples. Lots of apples. In front of the pub. Public tree. No one cares. No one is hungry. Otherwise ... Tomorrow morning I shall go and pick them. Up. Winter's coming. Hm? The blackbirds love apples. In winter, anyway. Lovely to watch them. Creatures. Hungry. In Seanhenge they will find food. Always. Ah! Watching them in the morning. While smoking a first cigarette on balcony. Phewwwwwwww! Smoking? Yep. Gosh, in the last moment. One ought always to have Mr Joyce's heirs in one's mind. Not to forget my former finance minister who when in 2003 once again raising the tobacco tax let me know that the more I smoke the more I support the 'war on terror', while the health minister ... Fucking hypocrites!! Sorry about this tiny aprosdoketon. There is something rotten ... not only ... in the state of ... Israel. I mean not only Joyce's heirs one ought to have in one's mind, but the peace-loving people of Israel, too. This sounds kafkaesque? Well, si. Mr Kafka(´s work) is national heritage, isn't he? National heritage? Well, at least heritage of the state of Israel, hm? After all, Kafka died only 24 years before Ben Gurion proclaimed a state of Israel. Shshhhhhh! A German ought not to write such naughty things. That's anti-semitism. Each Arab, Maltese etc. will get infuriated. Won't he? Not to speak of her. And what did the friendly looking elderly Turk in Bremen say three or four years ago when being asked about a most suprising campaign, in which the Turkish tabloid Hurriyet tried to elucidate that women are human beings, too, and that it's not nice to beat one's wife, at least not on a daily basis? "A man who does not beat his wife is not a man."
Ah, nuff written. What one cometh to think of within but a few minutes! Time to fall into the feathers, put my head on the pillow and have a dream: All semites and other machos with immediate effect do veil their faces up til infinity ... yes ... and walk four steps behind their wives ... yes ... when lugging the shopping bags. Yes.
The peace of the night.

Kafka-esque conundrum

Strange things happening this evening: Why would I, while re-reading Kafka's 'Metamorphosis, feel reminded of Monsanto?

In general I do like insects.

For sure I shall have to ponder about this, for a while; be sure, however that I shall offer you a roundup as soon as I'll have found a solution to this conundrum.

The pea...

Ah well, once the name of the honourable society has been mentioned, I shall not ask what Monsanto could do for me, but what I could do for Monsanto.

For a beginning: I could skilfully organise Monsanto's worldwide watchdog system (MWWS).
Just send me your offers and, if they meet my demands, almost immediately MWWS will get efficient.

Presently it's a pigsty: nonprofessional, inefficient and - stakeholders' money wasting.

Example: No Ministry of Defence, no secret service, or any other sinister organisation, would ever let more than three, four watchdogs check Omnium. Okay, Homeland Security seems either chaotically organised.
However, Monsanto?!
To cut it short, and to coin it in your terms: The pigsty needs new genes!

Nothing against the individual janitor, but what's too much, is too much.

There are (up til now) at most ten posts to be found on this blog which are somehow Monsanto relevant. And: They are telling nothing new.

By the way and in this context: I do highly recommend reading Thoreau.

Oh well, very probably one janitor in Reno - and some (!) others elsewhere - already did. Why else should s/he have spent 10 hours 28 minutes and 30 seconds during one (!) visit, when ... look above.

Don't get me wrong. Of course, it's a pleasure to widen one's horizon by reading this blog, but please, not during office hour.
This will definitively end, when I am your boss.

Which brings me back to my offer, and to all of you who each have to waste hours and hours, when two separately working colleagues would be enough.

I could understand when any of you doing this nonprofessionally organised job - which is not your fault - in Englewood, Reno, Henderson, St. Louis, Bloomington, Durango, New York, Naperville and Seattle, to name but some, fearing for her/his job would not pass on my offer.

Perhaps it helps when I promise that none of you will get fired (moreover I guarantee optimal climate, joyful team-work), and the first to pass this offer to the boss of the bosses, as soon as I am his boss will become my assistant.
Now ladies and gents: Who's the first? :)

But now:
the pea...ce of the night.

Kafka, the Kremlin and Kasparov

"Am in Erzurum. The
worshippers to dead
sardines' heads are
forming a
supranational elite.
Until soon,
kind regards,
Tetrapilotomos."

You remember this message I received November 16th?

Well, since, I had been living lovely quiet days, snapping at the chance to rereading parts of the correspondence between Voltaire and Frederic II., Saramago's The Seeing, and, after all, listening to Harry Rowohlt reading the complete volume of Sterne's Tristram Shandy, altogether 23 hours and 24 minutes on 22 CDs which had been last year's Christmas present.

There had been but five more messages, each containing of three words: Am in Istanbul, Am in Stockholm, Am in Moscow, Am in Bern. The last arrived Wednesday evening: Am in Lisbon.

Now, tonight watching the beginning of Kafka's "Castle", who drops in?
Right. My closest friend.

Here I am.

Welcome back, Tetrapilotomos. How ...

Ah, Kafka's Kremlin. Ulrich Mühe is brilliant in the Kasparov role.

You did not have a date with Mary Jo?

No.

Tetrapilotomos! Kafka took his last dwelling six feet under almost 40 years before Kasparov made his first move by leaving his first dame.

Are you sure?

A strong tea, Tetrapilotomos?

Yes. As K. awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed into an asteroid; in 1983 this asteroid would be discovered by Randolph Kirk and Donald Rudy who would name it 3412 Kafka, and in the same year "Amerika" would be published. Sean, don't you understand? It's a gig.....

Coming to think of it I do hastily agree. Otherwise, in a minute you'll tell Flann O'Brien is Kafka's reincarnation.

Was.

Is. Anyway, it's lovely to have you back, my friend. It was so quiet and I missed you so much.

Alright, seriously: But you will agree if Kafka were Russian, he would be a Costumbrista writer, won't you?

Would he be a Costumbrista writer, he were Mexican.

Why? Take it as an ingredient of globalisation ... or, this may please you more, of Omnium.

*

Well, actually I had intended to watch the film and afterwards to hear Tetrapilotomos telling a few (!) tales of his trip.
Instead, I did see nothing of the film, and ... the rest you know.

Now I am tired. Suppose tomorrow I'll need nerves of steel.

The peace of the night.


- - -

For those interested to read a little more about the (unfinished) novel, the film and its director: Voilà.

More about Kafka - and surprisingly not bad for the beginning - you find here.

And for those who could not get enough, highly commended: The Kafka Project.