From Death and dying

“Blurtso looks at the snow” (XVI)

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The last flower is gone, but somewhere its seed remains, and when the seed is gone, its flower will remain. I suppose nothing is whole unto itself. We are all just vehicles, and life moves through us.

“Blurtso parrots Papa” (I)

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What’s that? said Alex. It’s something I wrote for my Literature class. Your literature class? said Alex. Yes, said Blurtso, the assignment was to imitate a twentieth century American author. Who did you choose? I chose Hemingway, would you like to hear what I wrote? I’d love to, said Alex.

“I suppose that’s that, said Nick.
“I suppose so,” said Jim.
“I would have thought it would be longer,” said Nick.
“Or shorter,” said Jim.
The wind was in the trees and the wind was on the roof and Nick slumped in his chair and Jim slumped in his chair. The darkness grew until the voices were only two dark chairs talking. The voice of Nick’s chair said, “I suppose this is what the room sounds like when no one’s here.”
“Yes,” said the voice from Jim’s chair, “the sound of the wind on the walls of an empty room.”
“Do you suppose this is what death is like?” said the voice from Nick’s chair.
“Two voices in an empty room?” said Jim’s chair.
“Two voices,” said Nick’s chair, “with no objects to distract them.”
“And no words,” said Jim’s chair.
“Two voices and the wind,” said Nick’s chair.
“Two voices and the wind,” said Jim’s chair.
“Or just the wind?” said Nick’s chair.
“Or just the wind,” said Jim’s chair.
The dark chairs sat in the sound of the wind and were dark.

“Alex does Richard III”

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A donkey, a donkey! cried Alex. My kingdom for a donkey!

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Tally-ho!!!

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Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer
by “BlurtZo de la Brava Espada”…

“Blurtso slips into stone”

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Into stone people come and go, slaves of Michelangelo…
Artist carved a brand new beauty, polished it and made it clean,
but now the stones are rough and the artist’s dust
and the statue’s going home, slipping back, slipping into stone.

Into stone people come and go, slaves of Michelangelo…
Mommy has a brand new baby, dress him up and keep him clean,
but the years will reach him, and time will teach him,
tear him down ‘fore he’s full grown, leaving him slipping into stone.

Into stone people come and go, slaves of Michelangelo…
So you think you’re doing fine, think that you have got it made,
but the music’s slowing, you can hear it going,
like a long forgotten poem, like the faces in the foam,
and all the places you’ve ever known, they’re slipping into stone.

Into stone people come and go, slaves of Michelangelo…
You can’t run, you can’t hide, doesn’t matter
if you’re nice or if you’re mean, midnight walking,
all-night talking, there ain’t no stopping going home,
‘cause you and me, we’re slipping, slipping into stone.

Watch Blurtso slip into stone on Youtube

“Blurtso is astonished”

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Hmmm, thought Blurtso, the season is really changing. Soon the leaves will turn yellow and fall. And once again I’ll be astonished… by the newness of predictable things.

“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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