When Franz Kafka Strolls Though the Corridors of your Brain

An Existential Moment of Doubt and Discovery

During my junior year at LTI, a German instructor, Mr. Henry Meyrs, introduced me to the literature of that land of Goethe.  Brief, Teutonic reading assignments sparked in me an appreciation of the world of Thomas Mann, Remarque, Heine, Franz Kafka and others. Given that philosophy, psychology and history were my secret areas of interest, I immediately became entranced by their unique worldview. .

As a result, it quickly became clear to me that Franz Kafka may have left a permanent impression on my psyche. Even Thomas Mann, a Nobel Laureate in literature, praised Kafka for his unique and entrancing ability to capture the reader’s mind in a state of frozen, bizarre horror and disbelief.

Nothing, of course, could beat the scene in “The Metamorphosis” where our brave protagonist, Gregor, discovers, to his horror, that he has been transformed, overnight, into a giant, grotesque, black cockroach. And, sadly for Gregor, the ensuing pages of that nightmare left futile the possibility that he would ever find happiness and joy in that creepy shell of an insect. Only his dear sister was able to accept him in his new state of being.

Dreams remain as mysterious insights into the cryptic works of our unconscious selves tossing out unanswerable questions all posed under surreal circumstances and loaded with bizarre images.

Could such occult and mysterious forces ever influence the dream state of a young, Lowell Tech physicist in training? The world is filled with mystery.

 Guilt, Inadequacy and Shame – wrapped up as a midnight message

Fortunately for my mental well-being,  a phantasmagorical  dream sequence, years later, seemed almost upbeat in comparison, although tinged with that Kafkaesque flavor.

In the first scene, I was visiting the home of friends living in a foreign city when the hostess reminded me that I had not brought any food to the potluck. Suddenly, I felt sheepish about this mistake and immediately told her that I would return in 45 minutes with a home-made cherry pie for the party.

Also, upon leaving, she reminded me that I was often late to these functions. Again, I felt guilty and departed with a heavy heart. Clearly, I was a deficient human being with little hope of ever measuring up to the high standards of my friends. Perhaps, I was just a loser, an expression from my days as a youth in Spindle City, USA?

Soon, I found myself driving home to my very first house on White Street in Pawtucketville, Lowell, Massachusetts. There was a heavy traffic flow with cars, trucks and cyclists, everywhere. This travel situation seemed quite scary and dangerous since I was riding a small, wooden, red wagon through the grownup streets of the city.

This had been a toy given to me by my grandmother, Memere Bolduc, for my fourth birthday when we stilled lived on Endicott Street during WWII.

The wagon was equipped with four, tiny wooden wheels spinning as fast as possible. My mission seemed clear: to get home quickly and fetch that cherry pie, which I promised to provide. Maybe, that pie was the very one referred to in the popular song from the 1940s: “Can you bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?” The whole setup  flew in the face of reality, i.e. curious but not too unusual – strange, but not too strange, a surreal event.

Suddenly, a handsome, clean-cut, well-dressed young man wearing a suit appeared on the scene. He and I were having a nice meal at a fine restaurant. Apparently, he had invited me to enjoy this excellent lunch with him. I  appreciated his light-hearted, open friendliness, but soon after the meal, I realized that he had captured me very much like the black man in the Washington restaurant scene in “Twelve years, a slave”.

I had been duped, double-crossed and tricked. Then, he drove me by train through wooded territory to a rendezvous location where his fellow kidnappers, many of them in a gang of cut-throats, were awaiting our arrival. Never in my life, had I experienced such treachery.

Surprised and feeling very foolish, I seemed doomed. My bad luck was even worse than I had anticipated. These gang members belonged to a secret, cruel and ignorant society of cannibals, who looked upon me and upon many innocent, fellow captives also at the train station as lunch and dinner for weeks to come. They intended on eating us a little bit at a time!

This group of famished meat-eaters rejoiced in their new bounty. In my case, the only good news was simply that I would be the last one eaten since I was the last person to be captured. So, even in a bad situation, one can, sometimes, discover a positive attitude.

To me, this fact stood out as slightly reassuring since playing any role as a human roast for these terrible people nauseated me. My abilities at self preservation were being sorely tested, but no immediate solutions were coming to mind..

A Young Boy in Peril – Dream continues

In my state of numbness, I realized that a young boy, six or seven years of age, who had been captured recently, would be consumed, soon. Revolting, but in the world of cruel cannibals, it all appeared to make perfectly good sense. The people at the station – not the captives, however – all smiled a happy community smile over their good fortune.

But wait, eating humans was only one cultural activity that these folks really relished doing. Soon, a naked, young, two-year-old boy was placed on a tree stump in the center of dozens of onlookers, men and women, who were eagerly watching the sexual show before their eyes. An adult male, also stark naked, sat on the tummy of the frightened child. There was clearly deep sexual overtones to the rocking motion of the naked savage over the child. This appeared to be bizarre stuff, but not unusual in this underworld of ignorant savages and perverts..

A New Peril was Happening.

The long, busy corridor, a Roman arcade of sorts, located outside the sexual stage described above was filled with buzzing and disbelieving lines of teaming, innocent, captives. These folks of all types and ages had just recognized their discomforting role as delicious roasts for several future, elaborate, community meals. Such a bizarre and mind-boggling fact was unimaginable. All the captives moaned and were aghast.

“Maybe, I needed to quietly reflect upon my situation?”

I had been tricked – like the black fiddle player in “Twelve years, a slave” by a white, clean-cut, friendly, young man, who just happened to be a cannibal, through and through. I had let myself be fooled. It remained my fault, through and through. Again, my sense of good judgment seemed on the line.

But, how could I escape this madness of lost, hopeless persons, who found themselves sandwiched together, and caught in the heartless rhythm of hungry meat-eaters? The kitchens located in similar corridors behind these white undulating walls were busy antechambers of chefs preparing soups, stews, condiments and spices. They were all working with unique, wrought-iron pots, pans and utensils. The scene spoke of the Middle Ages with overtones from the turgid mind of an Edgar Allen Poe..

I wanted “out of there”, ASAP, so I looked down the dark, long, narrow arcade or stockyard of our joint confinement to discover patches of bright daylight piercing through slats in a shabby, tall, wooden, green gate at the end of the arcade. I saw a possible escape route. Sleuth and cunning could possibly save my skin with just a bit of luck thrown in.

Pretending to have peacefully accepted my role as a future main course, I arouse no attention or suspicion in the minds of my captors. So, I quietly worked my way through the milling crowds until I could clearly see through the slats of that green gate. There. I found the very-middle-class, attractive driveway and green lawn of my hostess, Mrs. X. This was the venue of the house party, the potluck location from where I had emerged early on in this tale.

Somehow, I  then found myself on the outside of that white-clad menagerie of inter-connected, windowless arcades that still held hundredths of captives, who had not managed or even attempted to manage an escape. That long, tubular, undulating enclosure looked more and more like the pulsating outer walls of human entrails – not a pretty sight! Even Franz Kafka might have found the analogy upsetting.

Nightmare comes to an End

How had I managed to find myself safely surrounded by friends at a neat potluck? Maybe, I had worked my body through an opening in the big, green wooden fence located at the orifice of that organic tunnel? Exactly how that that had occurred was not clear to me, but I did then feel very content to safely observe that undulating, tubular enclosure from the outside.

But, the final scene was not all happiness and joy. I had left many other captives to fend for themselves inside that white, serpentine envelop of despair. Somehow, reflections of life in Spindle City, Massachusetts, came to the forefront of an aching brain. Might it be that for many people, who are left behind, life but a nightmare? Had Franz Kafka captured my mind during those halcyon days at Lowell Tech?

Where does personal responsibility end when dealing with human tragedy? Guilt, grief and personal horror enveloped me. The carefree camaraderie of the afternoon potluck remained, forever, tainted.

[ENDE]