What are you going to do when you finish your novel? said Harlan. I don’t know, said Blurtso, I suppose I’ll have to buy a pipe and a tweed jacket.
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“Blurtso crosses the river”
Well, I guess it’s time to cross the river. The river was wide and the current was strong and Blurtso could not tell how deep it was. I suppose it will wash me to sea, he thought, testing the water with his hoof. I suppose I will float for a while and then sink like a stone. I suppose I will become part of the river before I reach the sea.
“Blurtso is completely recyclable”
I’d better make sure everything I use is recyclable, thought Blurtso. Let’s see… I use my eyes and my ears and my nose and my hooves, and I sometimes even use my tail. Yep, said Blurtso, I’m completely recyclable.
“Bonny and Pablo look at the stars” (IV)
Wow!!
“Blurtso craves Chinese”
I’m hungry, said Blurtso. What are you in the mood for?
For some reason, said Blurtso, I’m craving Chinese.
“Blurtso feeds the fish” (IV)
“Blurtso feeds the fish” (I)
Feeding the fish? said Pablo. Yes, said Blurtso, from the edge of the river, there must have been a dozen people doing it. You mean “fishing,” said Pablo. Fishing? said Blurtso. Yes, said Pablo, they have a hook on the end of their line which they bait with something tasty, and they try to get the fish to bite it. The hook? said Blurtso. Yes, said Pablo, so it will push through the lip of the fish and they can pull it to shore. That’s not very nice, said Blurtso. What if you did it without a hook? Without a hook? said Pablo. Yes, said Blurtso, just put some food on the line and throw it in the stream so the fish can eat. Well, said Pablo, you wouldn’t catch anything, but you’d probably make a lot of friends.
“Blurtso enjoys the suspense”
Sitting in the woods can be suspenseful, said Blurtso. Suspenseful? said Pablo. Yes, said Blurtso, as if something is about to happen. What do you expect to happen? said Pablo. I don’t know, said Blurtso, it’s as if the continual sound of the creek, the breeze on the ears, the deep alterations of light and dark, are all waiting for something… maybe a change in the wind or a change in the sky, a sudden downpour or wild animal, maybe a cougar come to drink at the stream… something dramatic is going to happen. COME AND GET IT!!! called Bonny from the cabin. FRESH SCONES AND PUMPKIN PIE!!!
“Blurtso looks at the grass” (II)
If a single blade of grass exists only as a part of the pattern called grass, and the pattern called grass exists only as a part of the pattern called the world, and the pattern called the world exists only as a part of the pattern called the universe, then everything that exists exists only as pattern, and it is impossible to speak of grass, or pumpkin pies, or “Blurtso”, without speaking of the universe.
“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.