Scenes from rural Minnesota I

Withergield and Freotheric were driving along the highway somewhere deep in nocturnal Minnesota, when Freotheric, who was the passenger, pointed at something through the windshield.
“See that light there, Wither?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Don't you think it's kinda strange to have that kinda light there with the sun down?”
“Hadn't thought about it. But you're right – it's big.”
“Damn right it's big. It's HUGE. And it goes off and then comes on again.”
“Must be an airport around here.”       
“Idiot. There ain't no airport around Gopher Prairie, Minnesota.”
“Then it's gotta be something else.”
“Damn right. And I'll tell you what it is: A erratic luminous omen. From Minnehaha.”

– Leonard “Minnesota” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written around erratic, luminous and omen from 3WW. With borrowings from Barbara Guest and Sinclair Lewis.

Elucidatory notes
“Gopher Prairie” is the fictitious place in Minnesota where Sinclair Lewis' 1920 novel Main Street is set.
The characters Freotheric and Withergield appear in the poem “Legends” in Barbara Guest's 1976 collection “The Countess from Minneapolis.” The poem is set “in the woods near Minnehaha Falls.”

Rambling on my mind

I've
got
rambling
on my mind

I've
got
rambling
on my mind

Please
be
so kind

Untangle
my mind

Let
me
ramble

and
leave
this office
life behind

– Leonard “Office Rambler” Blumfeld (© 2011)

In variation of the Robert Johnson blues for One Single Impression and Rambling, performed here by Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood:

Qasida of the Lost Tribe

By the time I reached the campsite of my beloved,
her caravan had already moved on.

I contemplated the harshness of Nature
and my self-imposed life away from the tribe.

Tribal life may be blessed, but is it for you?
I smart for the caravan, and for you to diverge.

– Leonard “Heretic” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Notes

In the quest for a quasida according to Poetic Asides I looked at the Wikipedia definition and wrote one that is 100% true to the old concept (quoted here from Wikipedia):

In his 9th century “Book of Poetry and Poets” (Kitab al-shi'r wa-al-shu'ara') the Arab writer ibn Qutaybah describes the (Arabic) qasida as formed of three parts:

• a nostalgic opening in which the poet reflects on what has passed, known as nasib. A common concept is the pursuit of the poet of the caravan of his beloved: by the time he reaches their campsite they have already moved on.

• a release or disengagement, the takhallus, often achieved by describing his transition from the nostalgia of the nasib to the second section, the travel section or rahil, in which the poet contemplates the harshness of nature and life away from the tribe.

• the message of the poem, which can take several forms: praise of the tribe (fakhr), satire about other tribes (hija) or some moral maxim (hikam).

A big part of the fun I have with poetic forms is to distort, overcome or disobey them (hence the “Heretic”). By the way: Federico García Lorca also wrote qasidas (“casida” in Spanish), and if I remember correctly, he didn't give much of a hoot about adhering to the form either.

Mike the Master of Rhymes

“How come you’re so incensed, Alexa?”
“What’s incensed?”
“Mad. Raving mad.”
“I’m trying to write a poem, and nothing rhymes right!” my little sister wailed.
“What have you got so far?”
“Promise you won’t laugh or make fun of me?”
“Would I ever?”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a fork into my eye.”
“All right, here it is.”
She removed her hands from a crumpled piece of paper with numerous pencil scribblings, most of which were crossed out.

“Let me read to you what I’ve got:
(dramatic pause)
    Down the slope she likes to skid
    But her fear she cannot get rid
    of.”
She looked up at me expectantly.
“What do you think?” And in the same breath, “I don’t like that ‘of’ after ‘rid’ – it ruins it all. Do you think I can just do without it?”
“No, it’s required. – Have you got more?”
“Yes, one more. Listen to this:
    Moisture is a kind of damp
    which makes it hard to light a lamp.”
“That one has a perfect rhyme, and it makes sense. Were you going to combine the two in a bigger poem?”
She gnawed on her pencil.
“Yes, that would be nice. Why don’t you help me, Mike. You’re the best rhymer.”
“No, I’m not. What makes you say that? I usually don’t speak in rhymes. In riddles maybe, but not in rhymes.”
“Yes, you do. You’re a, you’re a – I’ve got it – a master rhymer.”
I scratched my head for show.
“How about this then:
    Once of her fears she had gotten rid
    she went down the slope in a great skid.
    However, it had rained a lot that day,
    which is why she slipped on clay.
    Her fancy pants got very damp,
    But her brother said, You’re still my champ.”

“Oh, that’s really neat, Mike! Let me copy that one down on a new piece of paper.”
“Who’s this poem for, anyway?”
“Why, it’s for your birthday!”
I had to laugh.
“And who told you which words to rhyme?”
“Oh, that was off the Internet. Something called Three Word Tuesday or Wednesday, I forget which. I only used two words, though. The third one I didn’t know. It was the one you used before. You know, that word for raving mad.”

– Leonard “Given to Silliness” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Silly and contrived, I know, but it uses all three words from 3WW (damp, incensed, skid).

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' ...

Let’s not talk about love

I don't know if I love you
Or if it's all in my head
I don't know if I love you
Though I know it's what I said

Cuz love is something I don't understand
Can't explain, I can't hold in my hand
But I'll stay here tonight
And I'll keep the flame alight
But let's not talk about love

I don't know if I love you
Though I feel some pain
I don't know if I love you
Or if I'm playing the game

Cuz love is something I don't understand
Can't explain, I can't hold in my hand
But I'll stay here tonight
And I'll make you feel alright
But let's not talk about love

– Heather Nova

From the album “Storm”, released in 2003

So how are things with Juanita

Let’s not talk about love.
– Heather Nova

Should I tell you?
Oh but the risks of that!

I’m afraid I could be overbearing,
heavy-handed,

speak my heart to soon,
clumsily and politically incorrect,

pushing you away
rather than getting closer.

What is the current
universally accepted way

to go about love?
If it’s right, it’ll grow

by itself, I’ve been told.
But also this:

You’ve got to work on it,
and it takes two to tango.

Should I tell you?
Oh but the risks of that!

– Leonard “In and Out of Love” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Posted for One Single Impression and the all-important topic of Love.

Complete lyrics of Let's not talk about love by Heather Nova.

A child's prayer

Please, please give me grace
because I always have the hardest time saying grace
at the table when it's my turn to do it.
And please make my mommy gain weight –
she is too thin,
and that, says grandma,
explains her evil moods.
And please no more dreams of jitter bugs
at night.
They gross me out.

– Leonard "Umpteen Years Younger" Blumfeld

Written to involve grace, jitter and thin from 3WW.

Tabu and Sanjay Suri in Filhaal

Stumbled across this song video in Youtube - must watch Filhaal again!

My secret place

I'm going to take you to
My special place
It's a place that you
Like no one else I know
Might appreciate
I don't go there with anyone – but
You're a special case
For my special place
For my secret place

People talk to tell you something
Or to take up space
Guess I'm only talking
To be talking to
Your pretty face
I don't talk much to anyone – but
You're a special case
For my special place
My secret place

I was born and raised
In New York City
I'm just getting used to Colorado –
Oh street bravado
Carry me
Why did you bring me to
A place so wild and pretty?
Are there pigeons in this park –
Muggers after dark –
In these golden trees –
In the secret place?

I'm going to take you to
My special place
It's a place no amount of hurt and anger
Can deface
I put things back together there
It all falls right in place –
In my special space
My special place

Once I saw a film
In New York City
That was shot in Colorado –
Girl meets desperado
In the trembling mountain trees
Out of all of the girls that you see
In bleachers and cafe windows
Sitting – flirting with someone
Looking to have some fun
Why did you pick me?
For the secret place

Written by Joni Mitchell (this song is on Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm, released in 1988)


Posted here for One Single Impression and Place.

This song came to my mind immediately when I read the prompt and seems like such a perfect contribution that I did not even try to come up with something of my own.

Unfortunately, no Youtube video of the song is available for embedding here.

Love's soft complaint

"Your delightful kneading of my body
will go much beyond cleansing –
it will cause a major melt."

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written around cleanse, knead and melt from 3WW.

My lengthy friendship with Maud

“Often I don’t even want reciprocation,”
Maud said with that contrite and at the same time
capricious look around her lips,
“because I don’t like the things I receive.”

“You are difficult indeed, and quite often
you make sure the entire world knows it.”
To my surprise, she did not take this
the wrong way but actually chuckled.

“What if I kissed you now,” I said with a verve
I was surprised at myself, “and I don’t mean
a peck on the cheek. I mean Hollywood,
smack on those beautiful lips of yours,

and I want to feel your tongue reciprocate.”
Her head moved to an angle, but not exactly
out of reach, and in her face appeared
a mixture of amusement and apprehension.

“You really mean that?”
I did what I’d meant.
Hours later...
“You reciprocated quite nicely, Maud.

But did you want to?”
Amused, contrite, capricious Maud.
Sweeter to kiss – and other things –
than I’d ever, ever thought.

– Leonard “Some things are better done” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written for One Single Impression and Reciprocate

Raga Alhaiya Bilaval Haiku

Ponderous, elegiac,

swaying, swaying, sawing down

to the very heart.

– Leonard "Sarangi" Blumfeld

Written while listening to Ram Narayan play this raga on the sarangi.

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?

Mera Cy Twombly

Talked to my daughter today, who told me she went to the Museum Brandhorst in Munich, where she saw paintings by Andy Warhol and Cy Twombly, to name the two that came to her mind first.

I proceeded to look at some of Twombly's art on the Internet and immediately started my own Twombly. My daughter told me that he worked with layers a lot, so I put down the first layer, in a mixture of Indian yellow and chrome yellow.

The plan for the next layer is still a bit fuzzy, but it could be something in a rusty red, perhaps some scribble-like structure.

Or some writing: मेरा साईं त्वोम्ब्ली 

Last weekend I drew a card that said 'purpose' and got the message. There has not been a lot of that in my life, and it's sorely needed.

One outcome of my purpose-finding mission is that I decided to write a novel, loosely based on Der im Irr-Garten der Liebe herum taumelnde Cavalier (1738) by Johann Gottfried Schnabel*, except that I would be staggering through the labyrinth of the later 20th and early 21st centuries instead of Schnabel's 18th.

Wish me good luck with Twombly and the maze novel.

Yours,

Leonard Cy Gottfried Blumfeld

*Schnabel is best known for his utopian robinsonade Die Insel Felsenburg of 1731.

Optimism

For you

You
have
always
been good at
delivering the
worst for worst case scenarios.

– Leonard "Case Planner" Blumfeld

Elucidatory note
Why did I call this "Optimism"? Well, when you've become accustomed to expecting the worst and it becoming the worst, everything else is a positive surprise, right?
At least we're still on talking terms.
My dedications used to be "For her" – now that we're farther apart than ever I'm getting closer; they will be "For you" from now on.

Scooch over, moon

Move over moon, get out of Uranus
this house is anxious for the sun to come in
– Kate & Anna McGarrigle

I

How do people meet? How do they run into each other, become friends, fall in love?

I still remember the thoughts that went through my head when I saw you for the first time.

You were easy to notice because you and an older woman were the only people besides me on the beach that breezy Wednesday at around sundown.

You had on red shorts, but you were clearly feeling cold because you had your arms tightly wound around yourself and were sort of treading water with your sneakers while standing there with your companion to gaze into the sunset.

Your companion said something about John Charles Junior having had a conniption, and this word seemed to go very well with the two of you, who looked like you had come straight out of a quirky Ann Tyler novel with your normal-to-dowdy clothes, the normal-to-dowdy names you were dropping and the offbeat or cutesy words you were throwing in here and there. I think janky and scooched over were also among them.

Playing my usual mind solitaire, I asked myself whether I’d be able to fall in love with you – going by appearance, experience, prejudice and whim.

Your assets were that you had nicely shaped legs, albeit with knees that were a bit knobby, nice tan skin, thin orangish hair, a pert nose, glitteringly blue eyes, a wideish mouth with fairly thin lips, two mid-sized hillocks cradled in your arms. You were probably in your mid-forties. There was something cheerful, yet quiet about you. You giggled once about something your companion said, and it was a nice throaty giggle.

By then it had gotten dark and a bright moon, almost full, was out. The two of you walked off eventually, without ever having given me anything but a most perfunctory glance.

The outcome of my solitaire was quite clear. No, not that one. Not a chance. Never. Besides: I would never run into her again.


II

But we did meet again, because she happened to live two houses down from the friends I was staying with. Joe and I were putting steaks on the grill in back when Erin came out of the house with her.

“Joyce’s car won’t start – she thinks it’s the battery. Would you take a look at it, Joe?” Turning to me: “Oh, by the way, this is Joyce, our new friend and neighbor, just moved here from Baltimore two months ago. And Joyce, this is Jean-Luc, our friend from France.”

Joyce and I told each other we were pleased, and then some glint of recognition appeared in her eyes. “Weren’t you – somewhere? – I think I’ve seen you before.”
“Yes, I was somewhere.”
All four of us burst out laughing.
“And you have seen me before,” I added.
“Wait – don’t tell! It was, it was recently ...”
“Yes, recently, and?”
“I got it: at the Piggly Wiggly, in the express lane!” she said triumphantly.
“No. I hate to disappoint you – it was nothing that romantic. It was on the beach, on a moonlit night, and you were there with –”
“Oh yes, now I remember! I was there with Darlene, and you were the only one around besides us. You looked lonely.”

Joyce was invited to stay for dinner, we all had a great time, and then I walked her home, also to take a look at her car, where it refused to come alive in her garage. It was the battery all right.

I promised to come over and give her a jump start the next morning, and when that didn’t work, I took her in my rental car to run her errands. At lunch I told her I was glad she hadn’t thrown a conniption about her car troubles.

“You don’t throw a conniption!” she said.
“But you throw a tantrum, don’t you? Then why not a conniption? Isn’t it the same thing, or the southern variant of it?”
“It’s a very different kind of thing. And because you don’t. Throw it, I mean. And I don’t, for sure.”
“Absolutely, positively?”
“Never. Not I.”

We ended up spending lots of time together every day while I stayed with my friends, doing mundane things together, eating out, dancing, seeing sights.

Erin kept giving me extremely meaningful glances. She’d been trying to set me up with someone for years whenever I came to visit them in the U.S.

Now it looks like Joyce will come to see me in Montpellier this spring.

And then?

Who knows – we’ll take it from there.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written upon inspiration by 3WW using conniption, janky and scooch.

The introductory quote is from the song Move Over Moon by Kate & Anna McGarrigle, released on their 1982 album Love Over and Over.

The following youtube video shows the McGarrigles performing the song Love Over and Over from the same album:

One word

One word is one word
in eternity. Say what
you mean. Mean what you say.

– Leonard "Pocket Philosopher" Blumfeld

Written for Sunday Scribblings and 'eternity'. Happens to be a slightly overfilled haiku. One syllable is one syllable. Eternity won't care. At least I don't think it will.

Shopping

For her

I'm
not
that grey
box way back
behind the glossy
brands. No more. Have never been.

– Leonard "Branded" Blumfeld

The signals people send out are largely self-made. The grey box there at the back of the shelf must stop thinking of itself as the ugly grey box at the back of the shelf that nobody could possibly want.

Addendum
What does shopping have to do with relationships?
Ideally it should not, in my opinion.
A year ago or so I got into a discussion with HER about this. She'd more or less bluntly told me to look elsewhere, even citing some eligible females.
To which I replied that it wasn't like a supermarket where you picked a brand from among a few.
But perhaps I'm the one who's wrong.
She appears to choose according to rational criteria (and forget about the ones that really count).
But perhaps she's right – and I'm wrong, hiding my more complex shopping habits behind romantic (or merely sentimental) trim.

Word sham

It’s plossible
even though ‘t ain’t
willingly

– Leonard “Contorter of Words” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written using plausible, taint and willingly from 3WW ... well, using some form of two of them.

How to educate an abject object

"You know, James, that you are an object.

The way you sit here in silence despite all my efforts to educate you!"

Tears welled up in James’ eyes.
He turned his head so she could not see.

And still he would not speak.
Later on he would write.

He would write down that the hurt inflicted by her words was simply too much.
All he could do was sit like an object, while her words were squeezing the air, the life out of him like an iron clamp.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written with educate, object, silence for 3WW, from whence these words came. There are these kids (and eventually they become adults) who are unable to defend themselves against certain people, usually people they love. They should stand up for themselves instead of sitting transfixed and taking the crap dished out by these people who profess to care about them. I know from experience.

The cantankerous fib

Oh

my!

Am I

cantanker-

ous today. What louse

did walk across my liver?

– Leonard Blumfeld

And now to the explanatory part...
When someone is in a bad mood in Germany, one may ask "Was ist denn dem für eine Laus über die Leber gelaufen?" ("What louse did walk across his liver?") – so much for where that second part came from.
And what louse was it that walked across my liver? Mostly myself, I have to admit. I'm working hard on thinking of how to improve and avoid the potholes I've been stepping into in the future. As a first step, I shaved off the beard I'd been proudly wearing since about 1976. Now if that ain't a good or even significant start!

Parasitic ditty

Well, I’m sure glad today’s words are
dabble, lean and utter
instead of
babble, unclean and stutter.

– Leonard “Paraphraser” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Played around with the three words from 3WW CCXIX, and this was the outcome.

Reinventing the dog

This
old
dog has
been barking
up the wrong tree for
years. Another trick is needed.

– Len "Old Blue" Blumfeld

But then there's the saying "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." Ouch.

77 entries

2010 – 77 blog entries so far ...

That's more productive than 2009 already, even though a lot less productive than during the first two years of this blog.

I must have really reported on just about anything back then, participated regularly in just about any writing meme I came across.

Whereas this year I frequently suffered from an "I've got nothing to say" syndrome.

But then again there were those fruitful moments when just about anything, any word, any inspiration triggered an outburst, usually resulting in a poem or ultrashort piece of fiction.

Not so bad, after all, then, this year?

– Leonard "I've Got Nothing to Say" Blumfeld

Sanjiv bhai approaches the boss

“Give me an advance, malik,” I told the boss.
“Why, you’ve probably pandered all your paycheck again, and not even half the month is over.”
“Yes, boss.”
“I bet you lost it all playing shuffle.”
“Yes, boss. That blasted shuffle.”
“You need to quit shuffling, Sanjiv.”
“I know, malik, I promise I will. But you know Mallika and the kids are starving.”
“All right, Sanjiv, one last time. The very last time.”

This boss was so easy. Every time I’d give him the same story, and every time it was the very last time.

But we both knew that very last time would never come. Mallika was his sister. And I was too addicted to pandering and shuffling. Besides being completely underpaid.

– Surendra Sparsh (© 2010)

Written with advance, pander, shuffle from 3WW.

Center, on right foot

One nail not cut. Must
have escaped last campaign. Tall
among short siblings.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2010)

An earth-shattering discovery that simply had to turn poetic.

Magic

For her, again and again

She opened her eyes, and they were all dreamy.
“That was magic!”

“Shall we do it again?”
She blinked her eyes in consent, and we dove into another one that left us utterly breathless.

“I could get used to this,” she said, “that was so –”
“Intimate?”

“Yes. I don’t think it could ever become routine.”
“Shall we try?”

“Let’s.”
And we did. And it still wasn’t.

When we came up for air after a small eternity, she smiled and said, “And after that you expect to take the girl’s clothes off, right?”

I burst out laughing.
“I thought it was funny, too, but not that funny.”

“Well, the funny thing is that I’m obviously kissing someone who has read Raymond Chandler, which is rare nowadays –”

“I love reading Chandler,” she interjected.
“and, if you wish, I’d only be too happy to proceed in the Chandler way.”

“We’ll see about that – eventually,” she cautioned, but with a twinkle. “First we’ll have to get some more practice with magic, intimate and routine.”

And we proceeded to do exactly that.

– Leonard “Raymond” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for Café Writing (Magic) and Option 5 Seven Things, but not quite going by the instructions. The instructions were “Give me seven examples of every-day magic.” Instead, I let myself be carried away by the Chandler quote which preceded the instructions:

“Alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off.”

Echoes

For her (who else?)

Past knocks on door, perturbing –
all a bad dream?

It was like this a long time ago –
an endless, semi-mute coexistence,

ups and downs brought on
by nothing but my imagination

(which is fruitful, very
fruitful, but hesitant to

come to the surface).
“You have a rich interior

life,” my therapist told me,
“it’s just that nobody

knows about it.”
She also told me that anecdote

about walking along
and stepping into a pothole.

That doing it once is ok,
even repeating it once

can be excused. But three
times means you’re

a bad learner. I am.
I can’t seem to wait

to set up the next pothole
for myself to step into.

– Leonard “He Who Suspects the Truth” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for One Single Impression and Echoes.

Fronzy in his new piece of heavy Detroit metal

Pressing the clutch in such a fine car was such delight. And the thrill of hitting the gas pedal, of that roar from the twin tailpipes!

Tomorrow Fronzy’s gonna sign up for a thousand shares of new GM stock. And he won’t tell Tilda about it for as long as possible.

Cause Tilda won’t be happy about it. Just like she wasn’t happy about that bloated gas guzzler, as she calls it, in the first place.

But there are some things a man’s gotta have, and there are some things a man’s gonna do.

– Leonard “Out of Love with Detroit” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written to involve clutch, delight and happy from 3WW.

Daisy and Kuno

(Scenes from a not so reminiscent love story XVI)

“I treasure those immediate gestures of yours,” he said.
She heaved a sigh of relief.

“And I’d feared that those very immediate gestures
were the reason you’ve been silent all week.”

“Why, I love the immediacy of them! I wouldn’t
treasure anything else nearly that much.

Not nearly that immediately or moderately
or even vaguely.”

By that time she had forgotten who he was
and could not for the world remember

what gestures these might have been, and why
anyone would have called them immediate.

Happily, she began to look forward to another
day of grazing. In fact, to many other days of grazing,

to many months, or even years of grazing
on luscious alpine meadows like this one.

Or like another one.
The alfalfa of the future was shining brightly.

– Leonard “Silliness Alive & Well” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written around gesture, immediate, treasure from 3WW.

Semi-Borgesian notes on this one
Borges was always good for a library-steeped, erudite explanation to make something purely imaginary entirely real. To confound my readers, I volunteer the following background information: Daisy was a black-and-white stuffed cow I brought back from a trip to the U.S. for my daughter when she was about 5 years old and going through a stuffed cow phase. Kuno was another black-and-white stuffed cow that my mother-in-law brought from the U.S. for my daughter, who was still going through the same phase, even though by then it was waning. I would tell my daughter bedtime stories about two cows called Daisy and Kuno. Kuno was madly in love with Daisy but occasionally unbearably overbearing. Daisy was capricious and could not make up her mind about whether she loved Kuno, detested him or was merely oblivious to him.

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 late phone call fib

For her, as usual

Late
at
night my
love did ex-
hibit the friendli-
ness of a steel brush when I called.

– Len "Will He Ever Learn" Blumfeld (© 2010)

Reality notes
What is it with her? You call and inevitably get the distinct frosty feeling she'd like nothing better than to shake you off the soonest possible. And it's not like I call at uncivil times, either.
But perhaps I'm only ultraresistant to hints that are as clear as a totem pole.
Started this one with the first words of a song by Joan Armatrading that is among my all-time favorites:

I need you

Late
At night
I feel so lonely
Here's a body next to mine but I'm feeling cold

And baby in the morning light
When I look in some stranger's eyes
It's then I know that the need in me
Is really for your paradise

I dance
I sing
But there's something missing
Every night a different name to call

But you know when I hold 'em tight
I always give the game away
I try so hard to make it right
But it always ends up the same

You know I need you

I need you
Like I needed you
The first time we kissed
I need you
And I need you now
And I can't resist
Standing by your door in case you leave

I miss you mostly in the night
And I miss you through the day
I hate myself for hurting you
Yes I know I drove you clean away

You know I need you
But now I need you

(Written by Joan Armatrading, from me myself I, released in 1980)

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.

55 words or more

There's a story called 55 words or less by J. M. Collinz (here), which inspired me to write this one, titled 55 words or more. Forget everything you've read so far. The story follows below. Hold your breath. Tie your shoes. Adjust your tie. Take your foot off the pedal while observing traffic to see that it's safe to do so.

Here it comes:

More

– Leonard “Dil Maange More” Blumfeld (© 2020*)

*This story is so leading edge, tunnel blasting and futuristic that I’ve put the copyright date ahead a bit.

She used to be an ...

For her, more than ever

Up to twenty-one
things were all pink; at forty,
there are some grey streaks.

– Len “Incorrigibly Hopeful” Blumfeld (© 2010)

For Haiku Heights and Optimistic.

Still life haiku

Work is still for the
duration of this still act,
disturbed by key clicks.

– Leonard “Sunday Morning” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Believe it or not, it's Sunday morning, and I'm working away on gainful work (freelancer's fate).
Oh, and it's grey and drab out there, with drizzle in the air.

Everyone’s dream baby

A hint of lust in
an otherwise perfectly
smooth sheen of beauty...

Oh that’s the way Carmela
Hiller trots down High Street
on stiletto heels,
tired for once from relentless
pleasure seeking.

Wish I could fall in love
with her and have things
uncomplicated like the rest
of the world, having
smooth sheen of my own
and more than a hint of lust.

– Leonard “Vicariator” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written around hint, lust and sheen from 3WW.

Note on genesis
What started out as a simple haiku (1st stanza) spread out into much more of a story than originally thought of, becoming geographically and emotionally situated and, finally, self reflection-saturated.

Soledad en …

Some­‑
times
there is
nothing as
lonely as a crowd
milling merrily around you.

– Leonard "Master of Truisms" Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for One Single Impression and Lonely. The title, added retroactively, alludes to García Lorca's Poemas de la soledad en Columbia University from Poeta en Nueva York (1930).

Try this

“Try this!”

Sunita was my seductress.
With glee she’d ask me to close my eyes and open my mouth. Then she’d insert something and tell me to chomp down.

I got to taste hot green chilies that way, hot mango pickle and burnt brinjal (she was Indian, and her family ate Indian all the time).

All great stuff for sure, but challenging to tongue and taste buds.
I’d be in pain, she’d dance around me, laughing her head off.

Things took a different turn one day, when we were about sixteen.
She warned me not to bite down hard this time, or it would cost me dear.

With eyes closed, I felt the heat of her face very near me and then tasted no vegetable, no chutney, no pickle, no slimy substance, but something alive and soft and warm – the tip of her tongue.

I opened my eyes and stared into hers, so close, so intense. We stayed that way for minutes, but they seemed like a small eternity.

...

She’s off to college in California, where she got a scholarship because she’s brilliant. A few days ago I received a package containing a DVD – an Indian movie called “Ugly Aur Pagli*” – and a card with these words:

WATCH THIS! Your Pagli.
PS: Come see me soon. You still have lots of things to try.

– Leonard “In Teen Mode” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Posted for One Single Impression and Try.

* “Aur Pagli” = “and Crazy” in Hindi. “Pagli” rhymes with “Ugly.”

Information about the 2008 movie starring Mallika Sherawat (as Kuhu / Pagli) and Ranvir Shorey (as Kabir / Ugly) at IMDB:

This Indian film is a remake of the South Korean film My Sassy Girl (2001). Both are a lot of fun. Much more so, to my taste, than the American version: My Sassy Girl (2008), starring Elisha Cuthbert and Jesse Bradford.

2046

For her, as usual

“You say your life is so empty these days, so lacking in purpose and meaning. But aren’t you shortselling your friends, the hours you spend with them, the hours they spend with you, the things you do together, the food and drinks you share? Aren’t you just a bit too much into feeling sorry for yourself and for the vicarious time you spend with the one person who does not wish to spend time with you?”

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for One Single Impression and Empty.

Note
The title is derived from the film 2046 by Wong Kar Wai (2004), which portrays a middle-aged man whose life gradually becomes more and more meaningless as he drifts from one party to the next, from one short-lived affair to the next.

 Scene from 2046, with Ziyi Zhang and Tony Leung

Today's horoscope said ...

You could be interested in psychology right now, Leonard. Perhaps you are trying to unlock the secrets of a complex relationship. You could be romantically involved with someone who is a bit of a puzzle.

Wow! Hardly ever has a horoscope been more spot-on than this. I've been working on unlocking the secrets of this complex relationship with this big bit of a puzzle for years.

Orange in the Rockies

Orange in the Rockies

Posted for 'Orange' at Photo Hunt

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...

Some time, a while ago

For her

Some time, a while ago,
you went out the door
with that twist of waist
and derrière so all your own
that I knew I wanted
to see that back of yours
and you rise from my
bed every single
morning for the rest
of my days – I knew it
with the certainty
of a kick by an angel

– Leonard “Hangs On” Blumfeld

Posted for One Single Impression and ‘Angel’.

She sprang forward

She sprang forward with
her plastic sword, declaring
war on France’s foes.

– Leonard “Spectator” Blumfeld

Wasn’t quite with it last night at the open air theater on the stairs of Lukaskirche in Suttgart. The short version of Schiller’s Joan of Arc play seemed a bit ludicrous, and that’s what the haiku above is about ... in so few words.

The photo is from the show, but from another scene of the play.

Somebody tipped the window

Somebody tipped the window,
and now I've got all the
traffic on B10 for infotainment.

– Leonard "Lone Worker" Blumfeld

My new office at its very best. It's either too hot or too noisy... Thanks to the powers that sent me here.

This was intended to be a haiku but grew a little too fat. I'll call it a bigku (like the BigMac, which also has too much inside).

Roads and roads and roads

Roads
and
roads and
roads I've been
on lately - black and
grey and long. Roads and roads and roads.

- Leonard "On the Road" Blumfeld

Written for One Single Impression and 'Roads' from on the road. I've been traveling in Utah and Colorado for the past two weeks. It's been a wonderful trip, and the roads, even though they were indeed black and grey and long, were great and took us through amazing landscapes.

Love is all around me / he tries again

For her

“Here’s a budge, Lucy. Fresh from the garden.”
“Thank you, Homer. What lovely leaves.”
“You do not seem to be very happy about this present.”
“How can you tell?”
“By the slight wrinkle of your nose.”
“You’re right, Homer, I’m not that pleased. I’d hoped for a pretty little nimble garnished with theory instead of this vegetable, fresh as it may be.”
“Sorry to have failed you yet again.”
“You know me, Homer. Hard to please.”

– Leonard “Still Mystified” Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written with budge, nimble and theory from 3WW.