Clouds depart, emptying.
Left on me deserted sky, vast vacancy,
Much sorrow under the brilliant sunlight,
As if it cares nothing.
Leaves whispering gossip,
Millions accounts of the life and death
Of things that cross our mind missing.
Much was lost, things I forget,
But not that haunting thought.
Reminding me that I,
Under the Sunday afternoon, still a broken heart.
Dance is, unknowing where boundaries are supposed to be but testing, pouring the plasma and watching where it goes; consciously formulating your steps without committing to a direction.
It’s murmuring with limited vocabulary, uttering the sound that’s familiar while making it exotic, vomiting when you don’t necessarily have to, just to sense the warmth in that narrow path between your lungs.
Dance is, instead of turning your language into music, turning the music into your language.
Lays the sun
Drunk the feet
Point the toes to the swamp
Let grasses bite you
in the freshly opened summer
Since Verwandlung does not exclusively mean metamorphosis, it really leaves to the reader to determine what exactly is the subject of the metamorphosis/transformation. By saying that, I almost directly position myself to the side of the “death of the author”, though I have no credential of claiming to be a post-structuralist; what I would like to do is just to keep a record of how I interpret this work.
The transformation has been suggested to be presented by the physical metamorphosis of Gregor into the insect/beetle/bug, by the transformation of the attitude of Grete, and also, by the altering mental state of Gregor. I have no objection to any of these. Sincerely, the transformation of Grete is distinctly noticeable and the theory itself is very convincing.
However, instead of asking what the metaphor is about, what is the subject of the metaphor, and which character represents what, I want to know what has been genuinely transformed?
The entire story to me, is actively mourning the vanish of love.
It doesn’t matter what kind of insect, or not insect, he turned into, or that his didn’t even transform to anything at all, the point is that he became a burden. This burden, partly the result of not able to communicate, turns this into a tragedy, rather than a fable. He is not the ugly duckling, and there is no positive insight in it. I believe Kafka simply wrote down what he thought was real, that love, no matter how much you have, as Gregor tried to provide Grete the opportunity to be a musician, will (I would say may) degrade, it will be forgotten. He could simply write a story about how someone got leprosy and his family turned away from him but it can be much scarier than that. Because seeing love turning into nothing is one of the scariest thing ever in its nature, and that we just don’t even want to look at it.
Your shade leaves that agitates my heart,
As though moonlight vanishes in that thin morning mist,
Into silence, you depart driftingly.
I sit up into a pitch of dark torment,
Forgot the length of time, weakened corps aches as if the deaf hears the cry,
A self floating.
Vast, void, antithesis of eternity,
Fear now sleeps in me, surrendered to night terror with my incapacity.
What an atrocity.
Yet you assert this is reality, as I
Inhale the emptiness that permeate the uninhabitation.
You left; “morning has been blackening.”
Robin egg blue
Wintery lentil soup
Your voice in our tiny kitchen
Ash tree seeds
The irresistible moisture of your wee lips
I miss you,
And all those miscellaneous reminiscences,
My memory a daze, bygone is a future once might be reality.
The trillion molecules
Drafted from the ground, station in the air,
Transcend into heaven, we once called.
The immense, remarkable.
So light it weights as angel,
So substantial it sustains storm.
That which shadows the earth,
The unimaginable, so to speak,
Ask Kant, we call it sublime,
That trillion molecules,
The awe-inspiring wonder.
Bernard, Rosemont, Jeanne-Mance Park,
Honourable, semantic, overpass,
Doctorate, Galway, Esplanade,
The miscellaneous reminders,
Loss now the only signified,
Carefully they cut through my pulmonary valve,
Now that you are omnipresent.
The entire logos my haunting ground.