Dinner for eight

Guests invited*

1. Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor (1194-1250), to ask him what the mysterious Castel del Monte was all about, question him about his irreverent religious beliefs and many other things.
2. Saint Francis of Assisi, who lived at about the same time (1181-1226). I assume he did not appreciate Frederick very much (and vice-versa perhaps), but it might be fun having these two facing each other at the table.
3. Plato (428 BC-347 BC), to ask him what he really knew about Atlantis.
4. Sylvia Plath (1932-1963), just to have her back for a while.
5. Frank O’Hara (1926-1966). He, Sylvia, Plato and I could talk poetry, for example. I would imagine Frank to be the cheerful soul of the evening.
6. Kamala Das (1934-2009), to have somebody outspoken from another continent.
7. Léo Ferré (1916-1993), another one unlikely to bite his tongue.
8. I myself, meek and mild, trying to balance the mixture of egos big and small around the dinner table.

I might do the cooking myself – a 5-course south Indian meal, for example, to have these older folks taste something different. I’d serve the best of drinks – Italian table water, red and white wines from Germany, Italy and France, and Calva as a digestif. Should make for an interesting and amusing evening.

– Len “He Loves His Food” Blumfeld

* upon instigation by Sunday Scribblings (task description: Do you ever play the game where you decide who you would invite to your fantasy dinner party?

The rules are:
- you can invite anyone, living or dead
- you have a table that seats eight, but as you are one, you can invite seven people
- you have to explain why you'd invite them

And for bonus points:
- what would you serve them for dinner?)

Cipation

I’m at a curious stage now, where there’s a lull induced by a two-week vacation. Everything’s on hold, sort of, and, apart from a framework of some planned work and engagements, I do not know what will happen afterwards regarding a certain person. Make that two. Nothing might happen. Things might go on as suspended and stop-and-go as they have been. “Keep on patiently, like you have been,” the Italian tarot lady said, “trust your feeling and do not listen to anyone else.” So I keep it up, more or less, wavering, just like anybody else, between hope and disillusionment. Some sort of cipation. Not quite anti.

– Leonard “Antipicator” Blumfeld

Written for Sunday Scribblings and Anticipate.

And they said to each other ...

And they said to each other, "We need
glasses so we can see. Because, as it is
now, we have no vision."
And one of them continued, "We have
been self-indulgent way too
long. This has got to stop."
But where to go in this land
without opticians, and how to slim
down on indulgence?

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2009)

The painting is gouache on paper and dates from 2002

Posted for Inspire Me Thursday and Glasses as well as Sunday Scribblings #171, Indulgence.

The ballad of Art the Fart

When he was little
and in his pants did piddle,

Arthur the Fart,
as he was known,

could not quite tell
a dog from a bone.

In later years,
however,

he became
increasingly clever.

In rooms intended
for perambulation

he’d place what’s called
an installation:

cut-up and dried scats,
degenerated rats,

his grandpas’s shaver
and things even graver,

his and his lover’s
used underwear,

assorted bunches
of pubic and other hair,

plastic bottles emptied
of their content,

in short:
everything that lent

itself to presentation
became an installation.

Art-hungry hordes arrived,
illuminate critics applauded –

Art’s installations
were highly lauded.

Except one nasty soul
from way back when,

who used to play with the
installator in the pen

and then became
an unknown artist,

but counted himself
among the smartest,

to end the farce
swore that he would

make it go up in smoke,
and sure he could.

Henceforth, Art’s
every installation

turned into a pyre
for illustration.

Unperturbed in
his career,

Art said
that all was here

and now,
accepting fire

with a
bow:

Whoever
has a heart for art,

please bear with me –
Art the Fart.

– Leonard Blumfeld

Posted for Sunday Scribblings' Art.

I believe ...

that a great many nasty things are coming to a head now*

... but this may also bring about much needed change.

* For example, individual and corporate greed, all-pervasive commercialism, bickering nationalism at the expense of the world's good, religious fanaticism, idiocy despite or because of the availability of information, crime and fraud on the Internet, to cite just a few.

– Len "Seer" Blumfeld

Posted for I believe ... at Sunday Scribblings.

My style

It’s quite my style
to wait for a while,

to sit back and wait
while holding a bait.

And it’s just bad luck
every once in a muck

that the prey
goes away

without taking a bite.
Nothing caught. Good night.

– Leonard “Amateur Fisherman” Blumfeld

Written for Sunday Scribblings #133, My style.

Forbidden

I knew I had done something forbidden – something terribly forbidden.
The faces around me were solemn and accusing, all those faces of people I'd thought I knew well and that now looked as closed as closed books. I'd even thought that they liked me.
No-one came forward to tell me what I'd done that was so terribly forbidden.
But I was all heated up about it, beet red in the face, cheeks burning, hands clenched, an electric feeling all over my body.
Solemn, silent, accusing faces around me.
No-one would talk.
That, perhaps, was the worst.
Worse than whatever I'd done that was so terribly forbidden.

– Leonard Blumfeld

Written for Sunday Scribblings' Forbidden. An improvisation on some of the guilt nightmares I've had.

Well, I could ...

Do
I
have to?
Nice choice to-
day: sleep in? Go shop?
Paint? Write? Sheer opportunity ...

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2008)

It’s Saturday, so this is all true. For Sunday Scribblings #122.

My nights without you

... are terribly boring.

To give you an idea – last night I ate three boring sandwiches (turkey on bread, nothing else), then ironed five shirts while watching Switzerland and Turkey slush it out.* While you were on my mind a lot. While I was thinking that our nights together could be a lot more exciting. For example, we could do ironing together. Or other things.

– Leonard Nightdreamer Blumfeld

For Sunday Scribblings' "My Nights"

* Actually, that turned into quite an exciting match in the second half. I was rooting for the Turks, so I was thrilled when they got the ball in a second time about one minute before the end.

The entitled to mope fib

This
morn-
ing is
far from soar –
my soul is flat sprat
on the ground and friendless. Go mope,
I tell myself, now
is the right
time for
sore.
Go.

– Leonard “Downer” Blumfeld (© 2008)

Sunday Scribblings #111 soar/sore for personal treatment.

Something you've known all along

There's so much good telephone stuff out there in the music world that I could not even click myself into creative telephone mode for Sunday Scribblings #110. The lyrics of a historical Blondie hit from 1979 follow below. I call it historical because the fundamental situation presented ("I'm in the phone booth, it's the one across the hall") is a historical one. Nowadays we all carry our private phone booths around with ourselves.

I particularly love the cheeky line "I want to tell you something you've known all along" (from which the title of this post derives) – isn't that the gist of many phone conversations?

Here goes (I'm also posting the Youtube video below, which is fun to watch – if only because of Deborah Harry's funny eye and finger work):

Hanging on the Telephone

I'm in the phone booth, it's the one across the hall
If you don't answer, I'll just ring it off the wall
I know he's there, but I just had to call
Don't leave me hanging on the telephone
Don't leave me hanging on the telephone

I heard your mother now she's going out the door
Did she go to work or just go to the store
All those things she said I told you to ignore
Oh why can't we talk again
Oh why can't we talk again
Oh why can't we talk again
Don't leave me hanging on the telephone
Don't leave me hanging on the telephone

It's good to hear your voice, you know it's been so long
If I don't get your call then everything goes wrong
I want to tell you something you've known all along
Don't leave me hanging on the telephone

I had to interrupt and stop this conversation
Your voice across the line gives me a strange sensation
I'd like to talk when I can show you my affection
Oh I can't control myself
Oh I can't control myself
Oh I can't control myself
Don't leave me hanging on the telephone

Hang up and run to me
Whoah, hang up and run to me
Whoah, hang up and run to me
Whoah, hang up and run to me
Whoah oh oh oh run to me

(Written by Jack Lee; from Parallel Lines)

The economical future of the planet

This apocalyptic painting by German artist Norbert Stockhus might depict the future of the planet if the current neoliberal economical trend is allowed to go on. The rich have erected a fortress in which they defend the wealth they have amassed against the poor left in the arid wasteland outside.

A response to Sunday Scribblings #108 - the future of the planet.

Composition in red, blue and gold

Composition in Red, Blue and Gold
(detail, acrylic and ink on paper, 2008)
for Sunday Scribblings #107 – Compose and
Reduce Reuse Recycle at Inspire Me Thursday.

This painting, done specifically to create something titled Composition in Red, Blue and Gold, is the outcome of two done simultaneously on two different acrylic paper blocks using the same colors. I ended up disliking one of them so intensely that I tore it up, but then took some of the pieces and glued them onto the other one. Unfortunately, these two layers are hardly discernible in the scan. Gold and black ink I added after the rip-up and paste-on process.

I got me a fearless heart

For Sunday Scribblings' #106 – Fearless I'm posting the lyrics of a song by Steve Earle from his outstanding 1986 album Guitar Town. Steve Earle's turbulent life is told by music writer David McGee in his biography Steve Earle: Fearless Heart, Outlaw Poet (2005).

As an amusing aside it may be mentioned that Mr. Earle appears to be quite fearless in matters of the heart not only in song but in real life as well, having been married a total of seven times...

Fearless Heart

Don't you worry bout what you've been told
Cause honey I ain't even close to cold
It's kinda soon to fall in love again
But sometimes the best that you can do is just jump back in
I got me a fearless heart
Strong enough to get you through the scary part
It's been broken many times before
A fearless heart just comes back for more

Folks'll tell you that I'm just no good
But I wouldn't hurt you honey if I could
I can't promise this'll work out right
But it would kill me darlin' if we didn't even try

I admit I fall in love a lot
But I nearly always give it my best shot
I know you must think I'm the reckless kind
But I want a lady with a fearless heart just like mine

– Steve Earle

Back then in ca. 1959

Back then when summers seemed an unending sequence of warm sunny days
When swimming trunks were shapeless and high-hipped
When trash cans were made of zinc-plated metal and held some kind of mystery

Posted for Sunday Scribblings # 105 – The Photograph.

Yep, that's yours truly in the picture. I was too young to recollect what I was doing there – all the memories I have of this vacation in the Black Forest are vicarious. Whatever it was, my father felt compelled to get out his Leica and take this snapshot.

L.B.

Morning & Three Wishes

It’s a grey morning out there,
and my wish is: lighten up!

It’s going to be another
high-pressure day at work,
and my wish is: lighten up!

There are some troubled
souls at work, and my
wish is again: lighten up!

– Leonard Blumfeld

Written in response to Sunday Scribblings #102: Smorgasbord. I helped myself to a serving of "Morning" and to another of "Three Wishes."

Experiment involving ladies, leopards and a juniper tree

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper tree in the cool of the day
– T. S. Eliot

And now four Blumfeld variations, to be accompanied by lute and shawm:

Leopard: three white ladies sat under a juniper tree in the cool of the day
Juniper: three white days sat under a leopard tree in the cool of the ladies
Cool tree: three juniper trees sat under a leopard in the white of the day
Cool ladies: a juniper tree sat under the leopard in three whites of the day

Posted in honor of Sunday Scribblings #101 - The Experiment as an experiment in/with/on modernist poetry.

T. S. Eliot, when asked the meaning of the line 'Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper tree in the cool of the day...' from Ash Wednesday (1927), said "It means 'Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper tree in the cool of the day...'".

Questions as to the meaning of the Blumfeld variations are welcome.

Photo courtesy of Snow Leopard Trust, an organization that has been helping to save the Asian snow leopard for 25 years.

Zapping the remote control

Zemi, one of the characters I met during my time zap travels.

These are some of the places and times where blind zapping curiosity took me …

Zap: Ah, it’s mighty damp here, I’ve got sweat running down everywhere after just a sec, and it’s so misty I can hardly see a thing … and what’s this ugly furry creature there that’s eying me from the front (or back?) of its furry head … about 27 feet tall … and feet on both sides of the foot if that makes any sense … now marching towards me through the swampy terrain … don’t like his/her approach …

Zap: I’m in a desert on some planet … surrounded by insect-like robots about 100 times the size of the biggest terrestrial insects … what the hell are these guys doing? … I see, they’re sifting the sand for something … gold? plutonium? planetarium? … I feel hungry, nothing edible around … better leave before they discover me and put me through one of those sifters ...

Zap: I’m in Charles Dickens’ room, looking over his shoulder as he’s scribbling on and on about Mr. Micawber … he gives me a distracted look, but doesn’t really register … let him work … I love David Copperfield the way it is, no sense in interfering …

Zap: I’m in a trench … soldiers that look like frogs, literally, they’ve got these things over their heads that make 'em look like … my God, let me get out of here before there’s a poison gas attack …

Zap: What are these four gigantic columns around me? And that above me – is that someone’s gigantic belly? And those egg-shaped things the size of helicopter cabs … are those balls? Don’t let that plesiosaurus or whatever sit down (on me!) while I’m looking for my RC in the grass …

PS: I made it back home – to my own modest time, my own modest place – as you might have guessed because I managed to survive and post these exploits.

– Len “Time Zapper” Blumfeld

Written for Sunday Scribblings' #100 prompt "Time Machine"

In sleep

In sleep mysteries rise,
mysteries rise in sleep.

Towards morning especially
mysteries rise in sleep.

Air lifts and sudden dives
rise in the morning in sleep.

Corridors and blocked passages,
dimly lit dives rise in sleep.

A forgotten name and a rose
this morning rose in sleep.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2008)

Note
Written in response to Sunday Scribblings' prompt

#98 - Sleep (and/or Teeth)

Sorry about the missing teeth. None have risen in sleep lately.

The form I'm using here is loosely based on the ghazal.

Cold cold poem

In response to today's Sunday Scribblings:

#97 - "Fridge Space"

I know it sounds a little strange, but the prompt this week is: "Fridge Space."

Here's some balm for someone in need I ran into today – can't offer more because I don't know her that well:

Cold cold poem

for an affected heart

Angelica, you are perturbed,
I see it,

your eyes are dark
and deep and dulled,

your short curls
are matted down.

You look demure,
obedient to destiny.

I want to help you.
Do not believe

in fate. Rebel.
Take this fridge-born

poem unbeknownst,
take it to cool

your aching heart
and mind. Expand,

return to life.

– Leonard Blumfeld