From Romantic love

“Bonny and Pablo stop and eat the flowers”

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“Blurtso channels Shakespeare”

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What’s the matter? said Alex. I haven’t been sleeping, said Blurtso. Why not? said Alex. I keep thinking of Lizzy. Lizzy? said Alex. Yes, said Blurtso, a donkey I saw on campus. What’s so special about Lizzy? I’m not sure, said Blurtso, there’s just something about her… I think I’d give anything just to brush against her. Really? said Alex. Yes, said Blurtso, and it’s driving me mad. Like in the poem, said Alex. The poem? said Blurtso. Sure, said Alex, the sonnet by Shakespeare: “By day my limbs, by night my mind for thee and myself, no quiet find.” Yes, said Blurtso, that’s it. Shakespeare sure knew donkeys.

“Blurtso plays Für Elise”

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Curse these clumsy hoofs! said Blurtso. How am I ever going to play Für Elise? I don’t know, said Pablo, maybe you could play it on the trombone…

“Blurtso is what he is”

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Hmm, I wonder what kind of donkey Lizzy likes? I wonder if she likes grey donkeys? Or brown donkeys? Brown donkeys are more colorful, but color isn’t everything. I wish I were a brown donkey. I wonder what else she likes? I wonder if size matters? I know I’m not tall, but I have big ears. I wonder if I’m handsome? I don’t think I’m ugly. Of course, there’s not much I can do, I am what I am. Maybe I should get a haircut…

“Blurtso fills in the spaces”

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I suppose when you see someone you like, and you don’t know them, you fill in the spaces with what you hope to find. Of course, you can make reasonable assumptions. For example, she was walking when I saw her, so she must enjoy going for long walks. And she was looking around, so she must like to sit and look at things. And of course, everybody likes pumpkin pie, and whipped cream, because everything’s better with whipped cream. I wonder if she likes to watch the ducks? This much is certain… she’s an attentive, pumpkin-pie eating donkey, who loves long walks, probably watches the ducks, and thinks everything is better with whipped cream. She also appeared to be simple, but intelligent, and unhurried and content—I think I detected a bounce in her step—and she was clearly enjoying the grass beneath her hooves. I wonder if she likes music? I wonder if she plays an instrument? Maybe she plays the trombone. If she plays the trombone we could play duets together, and travel the world earning our passage from place to place. I wonder what her favorite music is? It’s probably Für Elise. I wonder if that’s her name? Elise? Or Eliza? Or Liza? Or Lizzy? Yes, Lizzy is less pretentious. Hmm, I wonder what she reads? I wonder if she reads Shakespeare? Maybe she’ll join our barnyard company. Then we could stage “Twelfth Night,” and she’d be Viola and I’d be the Duke, and after many mishaps we would live happily ever after.

“Blurts loses control”

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I can’t stop thinking about a jenny I saw at school yesterday. I saw her once, passing on the lawn, and I can’t get her out of my mind. I wonder who she is? I wonder if she’s a student? It’s exciting to think of her, but it’s tiresome, because there are so many other things to think of. But no matter what I do, all I can think of is her. And I don’t even know who she is. I’ve seen other jennies, here and there, and now and then, but none like her. I’m dying to keep thinking of her, but wish I could stop. I’ve been here all day, while the hours passed, with the birds and the trees and the shadows and sounds, and I haven’t seen a thing, not a single thing, because I can’t stop thinking of a jenny I saw once, and may never see again. It’s times like this that make me wonder… if any of us have control over anything we do.

“Blurtso and Alex take tea”

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I am mortified, said Blurtso. What? said Alex. Poor Jane, said Blurtso, and poor Mister Bingley. Who? said Alex. I never saw a more promising inclination, said Blurtso, he had grown quite inattentive toward other people, and is not general incivility the very essence of love? What? said Alex. I am mortified, said Blurtso, I am humbled, I am grieved, and hope against hope that Wickam and Lydia will be married. I have been so ungenerous to Mister Darcy, and now we owe the restoration of everything to him. What on earth are you talking about? said Alex. And what’s that book you’re reading? It’s Pride and Prejudice, said Blurtso, by Jane Austen. Oh, said Alex. You are too generous to trifle with me, said Blurtso, if you will take another cup of tea, please, tell me at once. Another cup? said Alex. Why yes, I shall accept your offer, with gratitude and pleasure.

“Because I love you”

I was translating a Pablo Neruda poem yesterday, said Pablo, and I made a song out of my translation. I think you’ll like it. Give me a 4/4 rhythm with a syncopated beat…

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I love you because I love you, then I don’t love you,
and I go from love to hate and to fire from cold,
and when one day my heart stops loving you,
then you’ll know I love you even more,
then you’ll know I love you even more.

I love you because I love you, then I still love you,
then I hate, but can’t hate what I adore,
and I love you when I’m not seeing you,
and when I see you then I love you even more,
and when I see you then I love you even more.

Maybe your fire will consume me,
and take this pain of love away,
and maybe one day I’ll finally find peace,
and never find any peace again,
and never find any peace again.

In this story I’m the only one who dies,
and I go from life to death and back once more,
but I hope you won’t forget to remember me,
the one who died of love and loved you even more,
the one who died of love and loved you even more.

Maybe this fire will consume me,
and take this pain of love away,
but I hope you won’t forget to remember me,
the one who died of love and loved you even more,
the one who died of love and loved you even more.

listen to “Because I love you”

“Pablo does Pablomeo”

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She brays!
Oh, bray again, bright angel!

Pablómeo, Pablómeo,
wherefore art thou Pablómeo?

Pablómeo sayest thee?
By such a name am I not that what I am…
but wouldst Pablo become Pablómeo…
if such be thine demand…
pale past be gone, faint future damned…
for thee this present present,
that be that I am!

My rose, my sun, my Pablómeo…
my faithful heart that beats,
a burro that’s called a burro,
by another name smells as sweet…

“Blurtseau Lundif – Corsaire Extraordinaire” (XII)

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“Another day,” thought Blurtseau, “and another night. The king is dead, and those who killed the king are dead, and Napoleon consolidates his power while those who would kill him wait in the wings. And the once-full moon that illuminated my vainglorious victory now wanes with a warbling light. Tomorrow the fighting will begin anew, the British, French, Spanish, Dutch, German, Italian, Sardinian, Greek generals… and all the world spins with the bones of the living and the bones of the dead, so many dead, those who pursued a borrowed or inherited dream, white bones in the soil, white bones in the surf of the sea, bones as white as the flickering tail of the waning moon, sparking and submerging among the breakers, flickering water reflection of fleeting sun echoed upon half-eaten moon, half-eaten moon half-eclipsed by the globe it now reflects down upon… half-eaten glow that grows dimmer each day… until the moon, the day, the night, and all our blood-urgent exploits fall dark upon the darkness of the sea, and vanish in the low laving sound of the waves eating the rocks with their dance of disintegration.

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“And when the moon goes black, the stars will mark my path to Montecristo where Echo, alone on her island, watches the same silver flicker on a different surface of the same sea. And the light that flickered in her heart? Has it fallen prey to the same dance of deterioration? Will I find the moon already extinguished in the sea of her breast? Eclipsed by the vainglorious sphere that was my haste to depart? The misguided course of this star-crossed corsaire pursuing a sinking star? Yesterday’s hero is the dark side of the earth facing the dark side of the moon, is darkness double, two-faced night’s faceless faces, an echo of existence which touches no ear, a shout across an infinite expanse, an unreciprocated smile, a source without destination, a word from the heart that never arrives.”

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“My heart is an echo of the disintegration
of the heart of the universe
that penetrates and disintegrates my own heart.”

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