In my younger days
all it took was a pen
and a piece of paper
and some time by myself
to write something.
Some record of what
had happened during the day,
some observation, including
stuff that, when told to my
then girl friend Mary B.,
would cause a chuckle.
However, there was also
something about a dog –
a black bulldog I’d seen
in France on a hot day,
when it had collapsed
in the gutter exhausted –
that annoyed Mary B.
She called it a tacky story
that should neither be
remembered nor told.
So there I was – stunned;
my entertaining attempt
had been dealt a severe
blow. And it had all been
because she seemed to be
in a devilish mood, riding
the train across from me
silently and with a black glare.
Oh Mary B., what have you
done to me! Now black
glares tell me to avoid
well-meaning bulldog-in-
gutter anecdotes and best
just shut the fuck up.
I had an empty white
computer page in front
of me, dreading that
emptiness, but then
ended up filling it after all,
with some lengthy bullshit.
– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2025)
Notes
All true, except that some of this happened around 2003, and that part may have undergone some memory mutations. Dreading white space is definitely a problem these days. I might suffer from something vague like writer’s block.
