Walking with Franz

Walking with Franz 100 x 80 x 4,5 cm / 39.4 x 31.5 x 1.8 in acrylic/soft pastel on canvas

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PASTORALE

                                           “He is terribly afraid of dying

                                           because he hasn’t yet lived.”

                                                                       FRANZ KAFKA

The other night I dreamed

I was lost in a forest somewhere,

one of those sandy, piney affairs

one usually stumbles across then through

in the skinhead wastes of Brandenburg,

home of concertos,

home of French-speaking Prussian

emperors, homeland of the potato. The light is veiled

white and moist with sun surge

and we are all beginning to sweat a little.

Somewhere up ahead there’s a girl

and soon she’s walking right by us, wordless,

because the Prussians, unlike the Bavarians and Swabians,

never greet strangers when they’re out for a hike.

They walk right past you like you’re mist or smoke.

Soon, there’s a guy I’ve never seen before in front of us.

Pale, dressed in a pair of rumpled PJ’s, he looks bad.

He says, “You’d better change your priorities,” as if

we were in the middle of a conversation about life choices.

I feel like asking him, “Got any tips?”

But I know what he means, because this is a dream

and dreams are nothing if not indecipherable

and at the same time somehow obvious.

I choose sarcasm anyway:

“What do I owe you for this sage advice?”

“Everything,” he says, “that you have ever thought. Plus

whatever inborn rhythm and grace you might possess.

All the opportunities you’ve never exploited

because you were weak, or too tired, or unsure of yourself.

And all the dreams you’ve ever had of my wife I want out

of your head. Forever.” And now he looks really sad

as he raises his eyes and says: “And time. Just a little more time.”