I could tell after the Kafka museum something had struck Davidov, either that or his caffeine was wearing off. He had that expression on his face, that solemn kind of inward look that meant either he was reflecting or he was disappointed. He called us over, all five of the stragglers and said nothing, just motioned us to follow him down the short streets of the Little Quarter. We didn’t ask we just followed. We passed the plaza, which was full of natives and their dogs, huge black hounds that don’t walk but sort of trot. Then to the nearest building, out into a courtyard and into another building, we didn’t notice this whole time we had been marching two by two.
Our instructor asked a security guard some question, I wasn’t paying attention, either because I was still zoned from Kafka or I too was coming off a caffeine blitz. Retracing our steps we came this time not into the square but into palace gardens, complete with fountains, hedgerows and peacocks. We sat on benches adjacent each other and the master very deliberately took a seat.
Whatever he was so passionate about—I don’t remember what his words were—there was no giveaway from his speech. It started with how he had noticed several distinct group of tourists outside the Kafka Museum in the little plaza; Asians, Russians, Germans but none of them seemed to have the first concept of who Franz Kafka actually was, just sightseeing. One of the Asians drew a camcorder, pressed record and circled the square. Then there was the museum itself, a “great” museum, but he was sure to point out that Kafka was many things, not just a surrealist and that seemed to be all that the exhibits were interested in. He also said something about a specific piece the author had written, “Preventative Measures Against Damages Caused By Metal Brush Machine” an actual safety pamphlet, but was not everything Kafka wrote a sort of a safety manual.
By this point we were so mystified by what he had brought us out there for and yet so perplexed by what he was telling us and how it was relevant that we all hung on every word. It turned out he wanted an assignment from us, “Preventative Measures Against Damage Caused By Life Machine,” and/or what we would expect from a museum commemorating our own lives—not just as writers but as people. Then I gave him a cigarette and he left with a wave in the same distant way he had come in.
Now it’s chilly outside and I’m chilly and there’s a full moon. My roommate managed to lose a full pack of cigarettes before he even opened them. I can only think it had something to do with the moon. The whole day has been odd. But even odd doesn’t justify the untouchable feeling I have right now. Imagine anticipation. Now hold that and take one string of the heart and begin to tug, firmly. Take another string. Then you take another string. And I think by now you see the pattern—
It… when you are in one place, there’s such a power, a simple beauty about waking up and being in that place. Prauge is an easy place to be. An enviable place to be. I have a self-calling here and if I don’t reach it the failure will be far more horrifying than anything academic or…
I may not be going to Columbia next semester, which makes this a sort of do-or-die. Or die to do, which may be the more likely. I need focus, not external distraction. At the moment that distraction is peers, not Prague. Prague spurs me on whilst inviting me into the cage for another beer.
I’m sorry focus infers that there is a goal, that is a concrete requisite goal. The goal is only self-satiating, self fulfilling. And while I burn, burn here in Prague. Life burns on more dimly somewhere else, maybe at home. It’s bizarre; I’m not homesick, I don’t want to work a job—there is nothing whatsoever that could compel me to want to go home. Just today I thought about rebooking my flight for a significantly later date before realizing the impossibility of that monetarily. Otherwise, I would. Already I’m spending money way faster than I should be. A dramatic scale back is going to have to happen, which will be difficult if not out of the question.
And I have sat late tonight by the moon with my comrades, drinking and howling and I have been plotting and plotting and plotting my come-uppeth. How will I go about it?
My answer is two-fold.
Artistically, through the passion (and by passion I mean suffering) I will imbue in what I am about to write and Physically through the city of Prague, the golden one— her great carpet of opportunity now spread before me, the towel is dropped and she beckons me forward…
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