Falstaff’s Diaries, a novel (recently published as a Kindle Ebook)

Sharing here, dear Reader, an opening sample of my experimental comic novel, Falstaff’s Diaries. This is not your typical mainstream novel but neither is it so far, far away, from any playful tale telling of a modern Falstaff in America. For a view of the cover, free sample, etc., try the following friendly link (we thank you): http://amzn.to/zOnaaz

Summary on Amazon: A Rabelaisian, coarsely humorous, diary novel written during the late 1980s by Wolfgang Falstaff, Ph.D., a peripatetic scholar and philosophical gadfly from England and the Continent; this latter day roguish Falstaff explores and exploits American culture, while studying Eastern thought and seeking therapeutic relief for mid-life depression in a New England meditation center near Boston.
The European academic gadfly Doctor Wolfgang Falstaff settled in New England and the Boston area in the late 1980s for a period of treatment and study at the Transcendental Institute (better known as “The Farm”) located in Marktree, Massachusetts. Throughout his two plus years of Rabelaisian diary notes, the reader may follow his seemingly erratic path through the dungeons of his depression and coarse humor, upward to the highlands of clarity and the saint-like balcony of Far Eastern cosmic views, rebounding into the black holes of nothingness and enlightenment–these clashes of realization can teach us all something about the terrains of postmodern consciousness and the treachery and exhilaration of risking it all for transcendent, nay, spiritual, realization.

THE DIARIES

1987

March 4—

So in the midst of advanced draft brainstorms, ye olde storyteller, Dr. Falstaff, bent and bruised (abused, yeah), opens a crack in the creative space, and herein, a start by gum, by golly, Dolly Tearsheet.

Holy avatar, Batman, but this has been a tough season. Yes sir!

Ash Wednesday it be. Let the pain of denial begin. And here, the mind is at rest, a season of abstinence, forty, a big Four O, days ’til sunshine outstretches the dark. Thereabouts anyway. Mark me, now.

Dinner instruddles at The Farm. Scuseme, yes, when I return, shall begin the tale of Rolf Wittgenburg and one flaxen-haired lass, Helena Spitzmark, yes.

*  *  *

March 9—

Lesson One.

A torrid affair. The fear of the Last Man. Will he be the Last Hope? And of course he cannot replace Father, that damaged Genius who attains the Fame and Pseudo-Fortune. Father drinks too much and interferes in his sons and daughters’ lives. He meddles, he upsets, he harasses, he minds your fuckin’ business, okay?

Here the irate client bares her legs from her skirt. I see as Therapist, I say I see her libido snake out, the Temptation. We skirt the subject of sexual preferences. We maintain high altitude philosophy. The World is Our Domain. Will we descend to flesh and blood, gnawing hungers, loose fingers? Will we only grind the Wagered Wafer of life unfulfilled. I seek citizenry motives, find sheen on surfaces sublime, color gives me vertigo, my fingers trail across carpets, corduroy, plastic surfaces; smiles are pandemic, hearts are closed for repairs.

Okay, let’s get serious, she says, let’s get to the heart of the archetype? What’s your favorite sexual position, Doctor?

What’s yours? the Doc replies, ready.

No, you go first.

No, you!

I won’t stoop to conquer.

Poetaster.

Yellow journalist.

Bourgeois couch potato.

Stupid dilettante.

Boorish bitch!

Self-obsessed prick!

You really make me sick, with your posing, your academic exercises, your, your.

Belly-aching, whining, sycophantish worship of the Great Masters of All Slime. You haven’t read them, you only worship them. That’s the real difference. You can’t look at the Holy Books because you’re afraid you’ll be blinded! So you take little distorted glimpses of Truth, Holy Truth, Veritas my eye! And you make up your own little crazy Cod games with what you’ve seen. I think the Buddhists have a name for guys like you and it isn’t front row, pal! You’re definitely in an Outer Circlet. You got the drift?

Devastate, I should be. Am I? Hell no. You sour pussy! You

sweet and sour concoction of womanly wiles. You think I’ll give you the pleasure of maiming my morning of creative freedom by bowing down to the level of primeval tides, some sorry creature slurping about, trying like hell to raise its sorry little vain head from the soup. Oh no, baby toes, oh no, I’ve got your evolutionary number. You’re pre-Pterodactyl, you’re ante-Fern Forest and Great Swamp. You’re the great Muck Worms of the Foaming Seas Come to Land Mass. You’re plates of organic rot grinding the coral rocks of volcanic islands. You’re the original, the one and only inhabitant, the highest form of an insignificant lava cone protruding from the Pacific Ocean, way before vertebrates, before arms and skittering lizard reflexes. At your best, you’re ur-proto-reptilian!

Oh, it’d been a fine morning for insults, a bit condensed, more work on expansions, digressions and balance of ironies, but still for a cold morning like this, 12 degrees Fahrenheit, and the stench of the lab research wallowing in its crib of neglect and confusion, the old scholar alchemist groans his ruined lower back into the chair and prepares for the inevitable stupidities of his own mind.

Golly! The Scholar runs out of Gas in 19—? How about the Publisher? Oh no, he’s just starting his Thefts. Therapist slogs onward, while Editor takes a break. Ye Olde Fictionist returns with a wild ride through Insult Acres, just off the ThruWay from Inca-pa-cities, vegetable, mineral, animal. Paper beats rock.

So, Roles beat the Fictionist into a small morning corner, backgrounded later. Afternoons and evenings. Loosening up. All Roles come together simultaneously. None of them done well. So here is the challenge of this Year or next phase. Bring these Roles to fulfillment, complete expansion. Gopher It.

Thank you. Realizations are powerful now. The Sage smiles and views other worlds. Wow! Thank God It and I have a sense of humor, mutually circumspect most probability.

Ah yes. Then there’s doing. There’s writing finished text. Oh how I love to start, but true to name, I’m procrastinating. Sick. This year we finish. So no more reading of idle texts, each move has a deathly accuracy in a time bound world. Not enough time for all that I wish to accomplish. Oh boy! Take a break on the wild side. Come back to the Land of Total Freedom, well, about as much as you’ll ever see. Last Refuge for Reprobats of Kultur. A Land without Mercy: always the last wor(l)d!

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s