A Slightly Less Shitty Father's Day

For years I hated Father’s Day. It was a shit day and I wanted it to pass as quickly as possible, mainly so I didn’t have to spend another twenty-four hours obsessing about my shitty relationship with my estranged father.

To help me through this, I would read Franz Kafka’s story, An Imperial Message, also known as A Message From the Emperor, a fantastic reminder that I was waiting for something that was never going to happen.

Only one page long, I printed and laminated it, and studied it daily, like Torah. I kept it in my bag always, the way I kept my Tehilim close by in my religious days.

Feeling desperate to have a Hallmark Card Father and somewhat embarrassed by my need for his approval, I created a series of drawings to go with the story. They made me laugh.

If, like me, your relationship with your father is more Middle East Conflict than Hallmark, I hope this post makes the day a bit easier.

Note: The drawings in this post are a combination of finished and somewhat finished. Many were exhibited at a Kafka festival in London.

An Imperial Message by Franz Kafka

The Emperor, or so they say,

has sent a message to you—his single most contemptible subject,

the minuscule shadow that has fled the farthest distance from the imperial sun—only to you has the Emperor sent a message from his deathbed.

He has had the messenger kneel beside his bed and he has whispered the message to him;

so important was this message that he has made him repeat it in his ear. He has confirmed the accuracy of the words with a nod of his head.

And then, before all the spectators assembled to witness his death--every wall obstructing the view has been knocked down and on the free-standing, vaulted staircases, all the dignitaries of the empire were gathered in a circle--

before them all, he has dispatched the messenger. 

The messenger sets off at once, a strong and tireless man, sometimes thrusting ahead with one arm, sometimes with the other, he beats a path through the crowd; where he meets resistance, he points to the sign of the sun on his breast,

and he forges ahead with an ease that could be matched by no other. 

But the throng is so thick, there's no end to their dwellings. If only there were an open field before him, how fast he would fly;

soon you would surely hear the glorious rapping of his knock on your door. 

But instead, how vain his efforts are; he is still only forcing his way through the chambers of the innermost palace, he will never reach the end of them, and even if he did he'd be no closer; he would have to fight his way down the steps, and even if he did he'd be no closer, he would still have to cross the courtyards,

and after the courtyards the second, outer palace, and still more stairs and courtyards,

and still another palace, and so on for thousands of years, and even if he did finally burst through the outermost gate--

but that could never, ever happen—the empire's capital, the center of the world, flooded with the dregs of humanity, would still lie before him. There is no one who could force his way through here,

least of all with a message from a dead man--

But you sit at your window

and dream it up as evening falls.