Two truculent ball attendants overheard

Mathilda showed up in her roo costume.
"Not good for waltzing, Matty," said John,
who himself had on his body costume.
Replied Mathilda, "Thank you, John Brown.
Yours definitely has me beat – it is
the very best for moldering in the grave."

– Leonard "Truculent" Blumfeld (© 2012)

The word at Sunday Scribblings was costume.

An educational ghazal

Said my teacher, Mrs. McKesson,
"I'm afraid you'll have to learn a lesson.

Had you listened to me from the start,
I would not have to teach you this lesson.

Had you learnt your tables by heart,
you would have understood my lesson.

Had you, as I requested, recited biblical verse,
I'd not be adverse to up your grade for this lesson.

But as it is now, I can only teach you a lesson
and flunk you," said Mrs. McKesson.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2012)

As requested at Sunday Scribblings for lesson.

A fairytale

Prince Pygmalian II, on a walk in the forest in the proximity of Castle Tsvitskenstein, could not believe his eyes – there was his beloved Cinderella, rendered immobile by a hideous red-bearded dwarf, who was fondling her to his heart's content with his callous and – most likely – smelly hands, all the while emitting lustful grunts.

Oh what to do to avoid equal immobility, restore Cinderella's mobility and seek retribution?
The prince, counting on dwarves' proverbial greed, thought of a plan that might possibly work.

"Pray, my dear fellow, I would reward you handsomely if you told me how to immobilize someone like this girl you have here," he said, stepping forward.

The dwarf was visibly annoyed but also instantly tempted.
"And what might such a handsome reward be, my dear prince?"
The dwarf had immediately made out that the prince was a prince by his princely garb, the politeness of his speech and a few other princely attributes.

"I have some gold coins with me," said Pygmalian II, "but can also offer you dollars or euros."

Like all princes, Pygmalian II always carried with him a sizeable number of gold ducats and bills in major currencies.

"No, gold is best. The other two have lost a lot of their market value lately."
"Will 15 ducats do?"
"Make it 25, and we are in business. My craft does not come cheaply."
"25 it shall be, then."
"I take cash."
"Of course."

The prince took out his heavy wallet, counted 25 gold pieces and handed them to the dwarf, who counted them scrupulously, which took a while and required some shuffling because he did it using the seven fingers of both hands.

"Shall we shake hands on the deal?" the prince said.
The dwarf proffered his hairy hand.
"But before we do, please tell me your name, my dear fellow. I always like to know who I do business with."

This request clearly did not please the dwarf.
"We normally do not disclose our names to your kind," he eventually replied, "but be it for business' sake. I am called Rumple, and I'm of the illustrious line of the Stiltskins."

The prince shook hands and immediately had to suppress an urge to wipe his hand.

"Now, dear Rumple Stiltskin, please reveal to me the immobilization magic."
"You say, 'Freeze, oh,' and then the name, all the while looking into the eyes of your victim, err beloved," the dwarf explained.

"Thank you, dear fellow. I shall practice this magic real soon. – How would you like to earn some more?"

Rumple licked his fat red lips.

"Wouldn't be adverse to it. Something to add to my stocking for retirement. What other magic is it you wish to know?"
"Well, it might come in handy once in a while to restore mobility to someone. You don't want to leave statues around all over the place."

"I'll take 30 for that one," the dwarf declared smugly.
"As you wish! I've never been known to be stingy."

Once again the prince took out his wallet, counted 30 gold pieces and gave them to the dwarf.
"Thank you, my prince."
"What are the words, then, dear Rumple?"
"They are, 'Unfreeze, oh,' followed by the name. But you have to stand behind the person when you say these words."
"And will they work on any moving creature, big and small?"
"Anything that is alive, guaranteed."

Looking into the dwarf's eyes, the prince said, "Freeze, oh Rumple Stiltskin!"

The dwarf froze instantly, the beginnings of outrage showing in his face.

Then the prince stepped behind Cinderella and spoke, "Unfreeze, oh Cinderella!"

Cinderella was released from immobility and gave the prince her best Hollywood kiss.

And if you take a walk in the forest near Castle Tsvitskenstein and come upon a garden dwarf, do not stand behind him and utter the words, "Unfreeze, oh Rumple Stiltskin!"

Because there is no guarantee that Rumple Stiltskin would react kindly upon his return to life.

As to Prince Pygmalian II and Cinderella, they lived happily ever after, doing whatever princes and princesses do best and gaining exposure through tabloids.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written for 3WW (immobile, proximity and retribution) and Sunday Scribblings (Fairytale).

You are here

Well, at least they took the precaution of carrying a torch!

Goes to show that not all "you are here" posts, even though they help locate you, are necessarily what you really want. Posted for Sunday Scribblings and You are here.

Leonard "Lost and Found" Blumfeld

All that’s missing

“The next step might be decisive, Mabel. Just think –”

“Yes?”
Mabel gazed dreamily out the window onto the green of the Schlossgarten.
“Just think of what might happen if I kissed you now.”
“You’ve already got your hand on mine.”
“Just think. We might fall in love, move in together, have children –”
All the while the form, the smile, the far-away presence of Evgeny was on Mabel’s mind.
“You’ve got it all pictured, I see.”
“Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind if it happened that way.”
“And if you were to be dishonest? Would you admit to just wanting to get into my pants?”
Mabel pulled her hand away from under his, reached for her purse, took out her wallet and put a five Euro bill on the table.
“It’s been nice, John, but I’ve got to run. This,” she pointed at the money, “should cover my cappucino and some tip.”
And with those parting words and a little wave she was gone.
John touched the bill with his middle finger and sighed.
“All that’s missing is a Dear John letter,” he muttered to himself.
He signaled to the waitress. Blonde, somewhat Slavic looking, plump, perhaps 45, bright blue eyes. About his age. While Mabel was in her early thirties.
“Zahlen, bitte.”
She told him how much it was with a strong accent.
He gave her the money, including a generous tip.
“Do you speak English?”
“A little.”
“What is your name?”
“Natalia.”
“Would you fancy going out with me after work, Natalia?”

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written around ‘The next step’ from Sunday Scribblings.

Notes
This little tale is set in Stuttgart, southern Germany. ‘Schlossgarten’ is the name of the city park. ‘Zahlen bitte’ means 'The bill, please.'

No surrender

Today's word at Sunday Scribblings is 'Surrender' – "Is surrender about letting go or giving up?" Before I could get to any thoughts on the topic, Bruce Springsteen's powerful song popped up in my mind, so here it is ... a contribution by far better than any I could have come up with today. His answer to the question is clear: surrender is about giving up, and no surrender means not giving up.

Well, we bursted out of class
Had to get away from those fools
We learned more from a 3-minute record, baby
Than we ever learned in school
Tonight I hear the neighborhood drummer sound
I can feel my heart begin to pound
You say you're tired and you just want to close your eyes
And follow your dreams down

Well, we made a promise we swore we'd always remember
No retreat, baby, no surrender
Like soldiers in the winter's night
With a vow to defend
No retreat, baby, no surrender

Well, now young faces grow sad and old
And hearts of fire grow cold
We swore blood brothers against the wind
Now I'm ready to grow young again
And hear your sister's voice calling us home
Across the open yards
Well maybe we'll cut someplace of own
With these drums and these guitars

'Cause we made a promise we swore we'd always remember
No retreat, baby, no surrender
Blood brothers in the stormy night
With a vow to defend
No retreat, baby, no surrender

Now on the street tonight the lights grow dim
The walls of my room are closing in
There's a war outside still raging
You say it ain't ours anymore to win
I want to sleep beneath
Peaceful skies in my lover's bed
With a wide open country in my eyes
And these romantic dreams in my head

Once we made a promise we swore we'd always remember
No retreat, baby, no surrender
Blood brothers in a stormy night
With a vow to defend
No retreat, baby, no surrender

– Bruce Springsteen

(From Born in the U.S.A., released 1984)

May in May

May we know, may we
discover, may we love,
may this be the time.

– Leonard “May” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written with two sites in mind – Sunday Scribblings and Recuerda Mi Corazón.

How about reading this as if 'may' were 'May' ...

Still life in big building

I'm nearly alone in this big building
which houses more than a thousand.
I ran into a few when I made my way in this morning.
Nobody's come by my despacho since then.
The phone's been silent.
It is a still life except for my fingers typing.

– Leonard Blumfeld

Written upon inspiration by Sunday Scribblings' Nearly.

Note
Things ain't as bad as the above makes them sound. I suppressed a few people encounters for enhanced effect. This is what you call poetic license.
My daily e-mail horoscope told me that romantic change is impending today. Can't wait.
Does that horoscope apply to all capricorns?

A world of friction

An attractive youngish woman dressed in some kind of frumpy lilac frock walked up to the desk that had been set up for the reading.
“Hi, my name is Frue.”
That surely had to be Sue, and I was about to quote Johnny Cash (“So how do you do!”), but thought better of it and smiled politely.
“I hear you’re a writer of friction,” said the woman.
“Of friction?”
“Yes, of froze.”
“Froze?”
I was beginning to sound very dull to myself, simply repeating her cues.
“Yes, froze, as fropposed to froetry.”
“That is true, I hardly ever write froetry. How about you? Are you a writer too?”
“No. I come from Frampton, which is near Frondon, and that is –”
“... in France?” I simply knew it had to start with an F and an R.
“What gives you that fridea? – No, it’s in Frotland, of course.”
“Which makes you a true Frot, I suppose.”
“Indeed, and I’m froud to be one.”
Was I ever going to snap out of this fruity world of friction?
I decided to steer the conversation back to the realm of reality ... err ... freality.
“So, Sue from Hampton, would you like me to sign a copy of my book for you?”
“It’s Frue and Frampton, and I don’t want you to frign a fropy of your frigging frook.”
“Oh?!”
“I came here for friction, and what did I get? Only frustration and fret.”
I frinally frinked my freyes – and that frid it.
Frue, with a frap of my froes, went up in a frume of froke.

– Leonard F. R. Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for Sunday Scribblings and Friction.

The intense immense ditty

Some people like it all intense –
I must admit I find that too immense.

Feelings looming like a tower
can do a lot to overpower.

How about some relaxation –
with plenty of room for imagination.

A steady love is what I crave –
steady, quiet, not one to enslave.

None of these spells and bouts I get from you,
and most of them come without a clue.

Some people like it all intense –
to me that shows a lack of common sense.

– Leonard “Calmly But Surely Intense” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Rhymed and timed for Sunday Scribblings and Immense.

I'd like to thank ...

... everyone involved in urgently proposing my overall work to the illustrious jury of Pedestrian Writing At Best, which includes such celebrated authors as Morman Nailer, Menry Hiller, Nais Ananin, Kephen Sting, Kean Doontz and Ban Drown.

My lifetime achievement won third prize in the Experimental Pedestrian Writing category.

The Pedestrian Writing At Best Prizes are on par with the coveted Cooker Prize, Phoolitzer Prize and Mobile Prize for Literature.

I am extremely proud and honored to have been awarded this prestigious prize, and it's all due to your efforts, my buddies, colleagues, cronies, acolytes and sycophants!

Thank you so eternally much!

– Leonard “Clod” Blumfeld

Published for Sunday Scribblings and I'd like to thank...

Love constellation

“Meanness is no recipe for love,”
he said and headed for the door.

“Knowing you, my dear,” she said,
“you will be back for more.”

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for ‘recipe’ at Sunday Scribblings.

Note
Some relationships I have occasion to observe simply appear to be doomed from whatever angle you look at them. A recipe that would save them does not seem to exist. And yet they go on and on and on...

For a courageous one in the world of trendy fashion

Chest orange,
undies red,
apron garish –
edible

– Leonard “Bon Courage” Blumfeld (© 2010)

A little terse poem formed from the acronym ‘courage’ for Sunday Scribblings. About a courageous acquaintance who would not hesitate to wear such strange attire and would still look stunning in it. She might wear it to teach one of her Moroccan cooking classes, for example, and look absolutely positively edible...

Alchemy

I could use a little now and then.

Even right now. Limbo is impending, even though not quite upon me yet – my work situation is about to change radically. I won't work in the same place any longer, won't be around the same people, some of whom have become friends over the nearly three years I've been here.

I have all intentions to bid good-bye to my beloved, who is among these people. I've come to the conclusion that it will be best to cut ties completely to regain peace of mind and peace of heart.

So – let me try and work some alchemy, generate light that shines and points me in the right direction.

– Leonard "Alchemist" Blumfeld

Posted for Sunday Scribblings and Alchemy.

My demands

I am your star

but my wants are few –

give me yourself,

and you and you.

– Leonard “Dickinson” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for Sunday Scribblings. The task was to think of demands one would have as a mega ridiculous superstar on tour. While I’ve definitely missed the subject here, I like this somewhat Emily Dickinsonian ditty in all its simplicity, if I may say so myself.

Dealing in conditional

Do you know
how much easier it is
to deal in muddled
but, if, if only
and I don’t know
than in bright
shiny yes or no?

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written and posted for Sunday Scribblings.

The weather situation

cannot be called extreme by any means (compared to Kazakhstan, for example, where they have -40 °C, I've heard), but we have had one of the biggest snow falls in this city I can remember, and it feels extremely cold even though it's only slightly below freezing.

I certainly would wish for more induration on my part.

Time to go out, do some dutiful shoveling and perhaps take a picture.*

A not so extreme contribution for Sunday Scribblings and a not so poetic one for One Single Impression.

* Shoveling completed, picture taken, picture added.

For the new year / another border crossed

La frontera

Hoy vuelvo a la frontera
Otra vez he de atravesar
Es el viento que me manda
Que me empuja a la frontera
Y que borra el camino
Que detrás desaparece
Que detrás desaparece

Me arrastro bajo el cielo
Y las nubes del invierno
Es el viento que las manda
Y no hay nadie que las pare
A veces combate despiadado
A veces baile
Y a veces…nada
A veces baile
Y a veces…nada

Hoy cruzo la frontera
Bajo el cielo
Bajo el cielo
Es el viento que me manda
Bajo el cielo de acero
Soy el punto negro que anda
A las orillas de la suerte
A las orillas de la suerte

(Lhasa de Sela, from the album The Living Road, 2004)

The border

Today I’m returning to the border
I have to cross once again
It’s the wind that’s sending me
That’s pushing me to the border
And effacing the road
That disappears behind me
That disappears behind me

I wear on underneath the sky
And the winter clouds
It’s the wind that’s calling them
And there’s no-one to stop them
Sometimes it battles mercilessly
Sometimes it dances
And sometimes...nothing
Sometimes it dances
And sometimes...nothing

Today I’m crossing the border
Underneath the sky
Underneath the sky
The wind is telling me to do it
Under the steely sky
I’m the black dot that’s walking
Towards the shores of fate
Towards the shores of fate

(English translation by Johannes Beilharz)

Another border crossed, a new leaf turned for Sunday Scribblings.

More song lyrics

Much belated note
As I found out years later, Lhasa de Sela had passed away on January 1, 2010 at the age of 37, about one month before I published this translation here.

Do I call it dare?

What have I dared this year?

Like a trapeze artist without a backup net, I dared to break off a relationship with a woman who was in love with me (at least she told me so, and it looked like it to me). Why? I did not love her the same way. I was in love with her briefly, but the initial infatuation faded within a few weeks, to be replaced by thoughts of the woman I was really in love with, had loved for close to a year and had attempted to forget by starting a relationship with another.

Alas, my beloved one told me in very clear words that she did not reciprocate (on one occasion) and that she saw no future for us (on another occasion).

Still, I dared to follow my heart and received, in the course of this year, ups and downs galore, a few days of happiness with my beloved and other days of piercing pain.

All in all I often feel like I'm living in two worlds (similar to J. Nash in A Beautiful Mind) that are both cohesive in themselves ... but of which only one is real. Yes, you guessed it, it's the one with the piercing pain.

Hopefully it's all good for something. Some learning experience perhaps.

Daring or idiocy? That is the question.

- Leonard "Truth or Dare" Blumfeld

Written upon inspiration by Sunday Scribblings. Many of the ups and downs mentioned are recorded in this blog in more or less subtly encrypted form.

The without you fib

For A.B.

How
long
will I
find ways in
myself to suffer
spending so much time without you?

– Leonard “Without Her” Blumfeld (© 2009)

Posted as an entry for Sunday Scribblings' Weird. What's the connection – what does this fibonacci have to do with weirdness? Well, it's about the weird game of perceived true love, perceived self-deception, renewed hope, renewed attraction, inability to let go I've been playing with and against myself for close to two years now. What stamina! That is weird, isn't it?