View allAll Photos Tagged Kafkaesque
Civil War Era fort, immediately under the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco, Northern California, USA
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This world is Kafkaesque
Something has changed
Turned on its head
We are not in control of
Systems or reality
Designed to keep us
A barely functioning figment
We will be judged harshly
There will be cruelty inflicted
And laughter from those in power
A full circle of depravity and madness
But organized in such a way
That others won’t even cast the blame
Or point a finger at the true villains
Some days I think
It would be so much easier
Just to be a mere insect.
**All poems and photos are copyrighted**
Kafkaesque look at the Tower of Laws (tour des lois) of the Bibliothèque François Mitterrand BnF (13e)
Paris, France 05.07.2021
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biblioth%C3%A8que_nationale_de_France
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArAl6XDrRrI
Gespiegelte 90°
Kafkaesker Blick auf den Turm der Gesetze (tour des lois) der Bibliothèque François Mitterrand BnF (13e)
Paris, Frankreich 05.07.2021
The town where Kafkaesque dystopia meets Orwellian dystopia.
"Orwellian" describes a society characterized by authoritarian control, surveillance, and manipulation of information, while "Kafkaesque" refers to a situation or experience that is nightmarishly complex, bizarre, and illogical, often involving bureaucratic absurdity.
The USA of today . . .
Step into the surreal world of art and architecture with this mesmerizing shot of David Černý's 'Rotating Head' sculpture, set against the backdrop of stunning Czech-style buildings. A tribute to the enigmatic writer Franz Kafka, this mind-bending creation leaves you questioning reality. As the head effortlessly spins, it encapsulates the essence of Kafka's works. Join us in experiencing the fusion of modern art and timeless architecture. 🎨️
November 23, 2016
Kafkaesque:
[kahf-kuh-esk]
adjective
1. of, pertaining to, characteristic of, or resembling the literary work of Franz Kafka
2. marked by a senseless, disorienting, often menacing complexity.
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I shot this early in the morning while my computer was running updates not knowing what the day had in store for me.
Well, was I ever glad to have shot early because the day picked up speed and just forgot to slow down.
It's not my favourite photo, it's a little grainier than I'd like and the lighting isn't ideal, but hey, you work with what you have!
Anyway, hope everyone has had a good day.
Click "L" for a larger view.
Franz Kafka's life was Kafkaesque – mundane, absurd, enigmatic, surreal, and yet, very precious. But he did not know any of that. It is supposed that Kafka – who wrote "in spite of everything, absolutely" in a "struggle for self-preservation" – burned 90% of his written work during his life time. What was thus not 'cremated', he instructed his friend – Max Brod – to burn after his death. Brod disregarded the request and introduced us to classics like ‘The Metamorphosis’, ‘The Castle’ and ‘The Trial’.
This image reminded me of Kafka. Kafka is not everyone's cup of tea; I don't expect this image to be either. Like Kafka's words, thoughts swirling about this image are dark and surreal. There is self-doubt, perhaps as "nauseatingly miserable beyond repair" as Kafka thought of himself. And yet, this image may "communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones".
So, please – as Kafka pleaded – consider this image an indecipherable dream.
(from the archives)
The Magic Donkey likes my archives .... and many thanks to you! (Explored)
Around position 50 on Sunday ;-)
(Thanks Mary for letting me know.)
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1.
what is madness
is it an outbreak of dawn, a wild blood sun
killing this night
this touch less night
it is the wale of a full moon
over the breast of a homeless mother
or the shriek of stars
witnessing murder
to risk living
you encounter madness
broad based and picking its teeth
the insane sigh
and pull you to their chest
sometimes, you must stop breathing
to leave them
and leaving the insane
is again, madness
a run towards orchids
blooming in a field of broken glass
a terrain too dangerous to walk over
and running doesn't avoid the danger
but then, this is
the risk of living
the blood letting among flowers
2.
what is madness
a cacophony of voices
in our armpits
hurling us into stillness
banging our heads with memory
i remember when small
the voices were crystals
easy to hold and pray to
at night they were bells
listening to the wind in my breath
when small
the voices taught me how
to ride my bike down steep hills
how to turn sharp corners
the voices made me
laugh at the dark
and the darkened places
kept the voices hidden
from pointing fingers
of mommy
she – wanted to know
who i was talking with
she wanted to know
why I sang even when
daddy was drunk
beyond a reason
being here
she wanted to know
what allowed me to sleep
the middle of her crying
and why i never awoke with tears of my own
the voices
I never told mommy about the voices
and how they whispered me
into dancing to the edge of everything
how they hummed
as i curtsied for the old ladies
and kissed the sunken cheeks
of old men
how at times they riddled me
to a windowsill, or a bridge
or a razor, or daddy's whiskey
but just for fun
just to see me dance to
and away from another edge
the voices are such testers
when small, i never thought of failing
3.
now, tapping
behind my ears awakening
too many pieces
the voices are rivalry
jarring, rampant
between my fingers
between my toes
i hear them
even as i run towards the orchids
i hear them
belittling my escape
4.
what is madness
a seagull impaled on a fence
a cat walking into a river
a baby sucking needles in the center of a room
rain beating holes into the eyes of a dead dog
when did the voices
become
so diseased and angry
and whose strength do they use
to carry us to such unfamiliar place
they can pull triggers
they can throw us off rooftops
they can split us into uneven halve
whose strength do they use
6.
a man i know
is fighting these mutant voices
he is scraping them from his walls
dragging them from under his bed
somehow they have read
his books and his mind
they quote his fears
hear them, whose strength do they use
hear them, whose strength do they use
they are charging up this man's back with swords
an army paranoid of his every blink
they bulge his eyes
see them, whose strength do they use
the voices are taking this man's dark brown skin
and stretching it across his memory .
he stands before himself like a crucifix
his palms showing the lines of too much and too many
a mother, two fathers, three brothers,
two sisters, two daughters, one son, two wives,
three college degrees, no job
i hear this man shouting at the voices
a cacophony of his own
a litany of statistics
of dark brown women and men
the number on ships
the number killed by whips
the number in chains,
the number swung from ropes
the numbers, every number heavy in his throat
a malignant phlegm
i've seen this man try
and inch his skin away from the voices
seen him count the spots of light
left by other dark skins
and carry this number as if a
candle to his brain
illuminating the horrors
and when he speaks
it is of the women and men
ripped open in front of their mothers
it is of the fathers crippled by
the weight of silence
this man's tongue is thick
with the silence of dark brown fathers
and the voices dare him to speak
dare him to dare
these voices jealous
of this man's 46 unbending years
threaten him with death at any corner
threaten him with the lethal stare of a stranger
7.
what is madness
hot tar cooling on dark brown skin
pickled genitals in a jar
and when we run from these voices
we wish for the wings of eagles, for the grasp of hawks
a caravan of warriors in our sweat
our eyes screaming madness be still
not another dark brown body
will it take, not another
will it take to its rage ridden room
not another foot, tooth, or strand
of tightly coiled hair
this man and i poised against our walls
ready for attack
see us, our skin, our only weapon
8.
what is madness
the smell of orchids stronger than the smell of blood
how many pieces of glass embedded in my feet
i mustn't stop to look
no, i mustn't stop to look
i want these flowers
i want this sweet touch
risking life for beauty
risking sanity for love
a bit of hope covering my wounds
a bit of hope covering my wounds
~ Safiya Henderson-Holmes ~
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Abstaining from photography (and Flickr) for over half a year was certainly not what I had in mind when I last posted my shot of the European tree frog. But the last semester was a very special kind of hell reserved for those who have to come in closer contact with university bureaucracy - one of the few situations where the term "kafkaesque" fully applies. Although I can not promise that there won't be any further dry spells, I certainly hope they won't be as long.
For yesteryear's Easter - as you might remember - I armed myself with carrots in search of the rodents of unusual size. This year instead I packed our Italian PhD student and two rain ponchos to search for Salamandra in the midst of Germany's largest urban agglomeration.
Depicting a fire salamander in it's natural habitat via wide angle close-up was a goal of mine I've been carrying around for about
two years now and this will hardly be my last take on the matter. Above you can see the animal on one of the slopes framing the tiny brook which is the main breeding site of this broadleaf forest's population. Much to my delight there were quite a few larvae moving around in the pools too.
Laubwald bei Essen.
Asian Lady Beetle, Harmonia axyridis.
Having pumped my photo stream full of beauty for the last few days, I’m throwing in this Kafkaesque specimen for science. Saw several of these during a severe infestation of aphids on our Crepe Myrtles, and at first had no idea what they were. Ladybugs start as ugly, elongated, black larva sporting black and yellow spikes. Kind of like caterpillars with longer legs. I may torment you with photos, eventually. Then they develop the orange segmented shell and pale antlers shown here, before becoming the cute little ladybugs I’ve adored since childhood.
Tech Note: Handheld, 1/30s at 900 mm full-frame equivalent. Fujifilm is not kidding about 5 stops of IBIS with the X-S10!
21 July 2021; 09:15 CDT; Velvia, SOOC, cropped
Don’t worry! Josef has been free for over four years.
The process against Josef S. in the year 2014 has become historical and it isn’t exactly a badge of honour for Austria’s justice and rule of law. If you speak German, you can read the detailed Wikipedia article about this Kafkaesque process: de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prozess_gegen_Josef_S.
In Austria Josef S. was sentenced for disturbing the peace and attempted grievous bodily harm after a demonstration against the so-called Akademikerball ("Graduates Ball") in the Hofburg in Vienna, which is given every year by a union of right-wing and far right fraternities, the official organizer being the FPÖ (which is a government party now). In his German hometown Jena he was awarded a prize for moral courage, while he has still in his six months pre-trial detention in this beautiful country called Austria. In his forced absence the prize was received by his sister from the hands of the city's Lord Mayor, Albrecht Schröter.
I took this picture in Favoriten, the 10th district of Vienna.
One of the first pictures I took (February 2004, Nikon coolpix 4700).
Joe and the group "Forgotten World - Mundo Esquecido" he created inspired me to search for my first pictures and especially for this one -- a strange feeling to see it again after all this time...
Curiosa estatua en honor a Franz Kafka la que podeu trobar al centre de Praga. El seu gegantesc bust canvia constantment, com les seves Metamorfosis.
ca.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franz_Kafka
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Franz Kafka's monument in central Prague, a giant bust in constant change, like his Metamorphosis.
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Lawyer:
You are accused of pursuing the independence of Catalonia.
Oriol Junqueras, the former vice president of the regional Catalan government, 104 days in prison:
Where does it say that the independence of Catalonia is illegal? Holding a referendum is not illegal. Working for independence is not illegal. Voting is not illegal. We did nothing illegal.
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©Jane Brown2013 All Rights Reserved. This image is not available for use on websites, blogs or other media without explicit written permission
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I returned home yesterday afternoon and Peter said that my tea was in the kitchen . . . . he didn't know that I'd been out! I had gone to the council with Max to hand in yet more forms. His life can be Kafkaesque at times . . .