Rolling with the Kafkaesque / 3 November 2014
Of course I'm not a real person, I wouldn't want us to get off on the wrong footing. I'm not exactly a fictional character either, at least not a complete one. I realise that sounds a little fantastical, but I'm keen to explain. I'm more like a shadow, nothing sinister; I'm certainly nothing like a ghost, I wouldn't want you thinking shades or other figments of creepiness.
I was created on paper, painstakingly written out as one whole, if somewhat bewildered, personality. I lived in the manuscript. Existing in this state of collapsed time; knowing and unknowing who I was and what would become of me.
And then life got strange, you see, we got published. I say we, but by now of course you must be suspecting the truth.
Published and exposed to living, breathing imaginations; seduced off of the page, we acquired the ability to evolve. They, me, but not me; and not really we, because somehow I was still here in the manuscript, locked away, frozen in this 'outside of time' state. Josef K. (for that was me) went into the world, while I (and who was I? What was left of me?) petrified, static, mesmerised, became increasingly separate from the evolution catalysed in the hearts and minds of the life support that analysed, dissected and critiqued Josef K.
And maybe, who knows, maybe I should have been consumed by fire. Instead I somehow found myself falling, like something concocted by Dali under the influence of Magritte, falling, like smoke through a keyhole. Falling and floating, my prison of collapsed time expanding from the chaos inside the creators head, through the manuscripted maze, spiralling down from symbolic flight between Germany and Israel, to embrace a world where Josef K was no longer merely a character in a novel. Joseph K's predicament had become something universally acknowledged. The world envisaged by our creator lurked in the sub-consciousness of humanity, this eponymous state was embraced by the seeds of his creation with the same ineffectual resistance and resignation as by the original, innocent Josef K.
I emerged yet again into this world, protesting like any newly emerged infant; protesting and somehow still innocent; unsophisticated and unready to accept the knife in my heart.
I am a population; a disabled population lost in the labyrinths, the incidental cruelty of a mindless bureaucracy; threatened, lured, twisted and misled, tortured and finally marked out for disposal.
i think i could cope with the right kind
of job. 'You can stack shelves at Tesco'.
It wasn't what i had in mind, shelf stacking;
it isn't really possible
from a wheelchair. i argued my case
on deaf ears but in order to live
was forced to choose the benefit option.
And the process; humiliation,
the sense of persecution, wore me out;
broke my spirit. Groomed me to be
afraid. Victim of £he System.
And now, now that accounting for me
needs statistical adjustment, my
presence unwelcome on this
'overburdened' list, i must be
removed and i must be guilty
of something. How else did i get here?