A metal saw? I could bake one in a pumpkin pie…
Category: Philosophy
“Blurtso climbs a hill”
“Blurtso considers the end of an empire”
Maybe this is what killed the Egyptians.
“Blurtso learns a lesson”
Look at all that hay! I wonder if I can fit through the fence?
Oh, oh, my ears won’t go back… and I’m too fat to go forward.
I guess I’ll just have to stay here. Hmm… I can’t even reach the hay. That’s all right. I wasn’t hungry in the first place. I just wanted to stuff myself. I wonder how long I’ll be here? Someone is bound to come along. Someone with a super-modern high-tech donkey-saving tool. I don’t know why I wanted that hay, I wasn’t even hungry. But I’ll be hungry tomorrow. Then I’ll want that hay. But all I’ll have is the grass in front of me. I’d better be careful. I don’t want to eat it all. I’ve got to save enough grass for the next day, and the day after that. And I’ve got to leave enough on top so the roots don’t burn. Fortunately I’ve got a puddle of water, so I won’t die of thirst. Unless I have gas. I’ve heard that methane contributes to global warming, and if the temperature rises, the water will evaporate and the grass will burn. All because I wanted to stuff myself. And I wasn’t even hungry.
And so the days passed—night after day and day after night—and Blurtso tended his garden, eating only what was necessary to maintain his strength, and drinking only enough to slake his thirst. And from time to time it rained, and his puddle filled and his grass grew. And every day he looked at the hay, drying, splitting, and losing its fragrance, until one day when he was enjoying his morning snack… he slipped through the fence.
Hey! I’m skinny enough to get through! And to get out!
Hmm…
“Blurtso happens upon a harbinger”
It sure is hot…
I hope this riverbed leads to water.
I haven’t had a drink for days…
but I’m sure there’s no need to worry.
Oh, oh…
“Blurtso isn’t first”
Hey… what’s this?
You mean… there were Blurtsos before me?
“Blurtso overcomes his fears”
Off I go, thought Blurtso, into the Great Unknown. I wonder what I’ll find there? I wonder if it’ll be safe? I wonder if I’ll run into dangerous animals and unfriendly people, and natural disasters waiting to do me harm? I’d rather not run into a dangerous animal, or an unfriendly person, or a natural disaster… hmm… maybe I should reconsider my trip…
Hey… I can’t move. I think I’m paralyzed by fear. Oh no! I’m doomed! What will I do when the animals come? And the people? And the natural disasters? Oh no! I’ll just have to wait here, paralyzed and defenseless! Yes, I’ll just have to wait… and… hmm… and… hey… there’s a clump of grass under my nose… how fortunate…
Mmmm… this grass is excellent! Juicy and fresh! It may be the best grass I’ve ever tasted!
Hey… I finished the grass… what will I do now?
Fortunately… there’s another clump right over there.
“Pablo journeys to the greenhouse”
Over the hill and through the woods…
to my greenhouse I will go…
I’ll fill a wagon and return to our cabin…
where we’ll all live like H.D. Thoreau.
“Blurtso takes a trip” (XXII)
What did I see
when I first stepped up
to Paris from the metro at Montmartre?
What moved
in the light among the shadows
in the columns of Saint Peter’s?
What whispered
in the light of Interlaken
when crossing the Brienzersee?
Why so many miles?
Why the discomfort
and tedious lines that thinned
until I was alone
on a rock shattering the Mediterranean?
Why so many conductors
recording the course of my name?
Why so much motion
when my hooves were content to remain slippered
and cuddled on the couch?
A donkey crossed a dirt road
behind a church in Segovia.
His hooves and snout
were the color of the land.
He was laden with stones,
and was completely content.
In Paris the sun
woke a jenny asleep
beneath a bridge on the Seine.
She was happy.
She had no place to go.
She stopped to ask questions
no one has time to ask.
She took me to see her friends
gathered on the bank,
and we laughed
and lamented the sadness of change.
From the gypsies in Venice
I expected to hear the same,
but they didn’t want to talk.
They offered to read my future,
and I offered to read theirs.
I wanted to see
how they all fit inside me.
I wanted to see
what my hooves had created
with different hopes and dreams.
I walked and I walked and I walked,
and did what the natives did.
I wonder what I have learned?
Was the answer spelled
in a pattern of bubbles
splashed on a sidewalk in Rome?
Was it whispered
in the song
of a fountain in Seville?
At times a voice will call.
It is an image or an echo
rising from a night in Namur,
lingering on a street in Siena,
or whistling in the wind at Cérbère.
And though I go home now,
a part of me still waits
at an interminable light in Madrid,
or continues in the rain,
stepping through the past
on the stones of Mycenae.
“Blurtso takes a trip” (XIX)
The stone is clean now, and polished in the sun. And there is no sign of blood. But how many donkeys labored away their lives, hoof after hoof after hoof, to build this place?