Friday, February 10, 2023

A Conversation With an Errant God

I'm very pleased to announce that my story A Conversation With an Errant God: Distorted Reflections on the Kerker-Kreis has been released as a book on Mount Abraxas Press in Bucharest. The book has been printed in a gorgeous hardcover edition, complete with illustrated end-papers and silk ribbon. Limited to 100 copies. 

Copies will be available in the US at Ziesing Books. If you inquire by email, they'll reserve a copy for you. The story is a very perverse response to the German poet Stefan George and his circle of poets, the George-Kries. 

Taken from the pages of Die Nachtigal, issue 77, September 1973, “A Conversation with an Errant God: Distorted Reflections on the Kerker-Kreis”, directly transcribed from tape by the author. Text translated by C.K. Weber. Introduction excised. 

Die Nachtigal: How did you come to be involved with the Kerker-Kreis? I understand you were not a founding member. 

F. Keiner: It started when I was a boy. It was me and my brother, Kaspar. I must have been eleven, so he would have been twelve or thirteen. We’d sneak into our parent’s bedroom while they were in another part of the house and take off all our clothes. It was far more than merely a game between us. We treated it all with the utmost gravity. It would simply be unthinkable that our parents would find us behaving in such an unacceptable way. What, exactly, it was that we were doing, we didn’t really know. Whatever it was, we were genuinely inspired. 

I’m afraid I’m a little confused, Herr Keiner. Are you saying that this is what led to your involvement with the group? 

Excuse me?   

The Kerker-Kreis, Herr Keiner. The poets’ collective. The subject of this interview is your history with them. 

I’m coming to that. Some background details will be necessary. It all happened so long ago, I hardly remember. What I distinctly recall are the routines we acted out, my brother and I—the blindfolds, the punishments, the mock interrogations, the escalating dares and all the complicated dances. It all had very real consequences. 
     The worst was when we took the mantle clock apart. We’d always been fascinated by the faded Roman numerals that circumscribed its face. The curved, walnut casing, the ornate dials—they all came apart like lotus petals. We put it back together, but it was never the same. It didn’t keep time the way it was supposed to. What’s more, it did something to the house. 

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