“Blurtso plans a trip”

 

         

Hmmm, thought Blurtso. The year is almost over and I haven’t even spent half the stipend Harvard gave me. Maybe I should take a trip. Maybe I should go to Europe. I sure would like to see my paintings in the museums over there. 

 

                              “Blurtso arrives in Paris”

 

           

 

    This is quite a town, thought Blurtso. I wonder what it’s called?

 

                    

                         “Blurtso takes his first hotel room”

 

        

 

                             This looks like a nice room...

                       “Blurtso writes Pablo a letter” (I)

                

 

Dear Pablo,

 

I am enjoying my time in Paris. I saw some paintings. The museum was fairly unimpressive, both as a building and an art collection. However, there was a nice Hoot Owl in the tree outside the window.
 

                         "Blurtso lets Paris go to his head"

              

Wow! thought Blurtso, this wine is good! And so refreshing! When I touch the glass, the warmth of my hoof makes the condensation run down the stem. And the base leaves a circle on the table. I wonder if I should drink the entire carafe? It may be the most refreshing wine I’ve tasted. It sure was hot at the Tower. I didn’t think I'd ever get to the top. And all those people, they weren’t even sweating! I think they should install an elevator. Or serve wine. A cool glass of wine would have really hit the spot. I wonder if Picasso drank wine? I wonder if he sat in his museum with his paintings and drank wine. I wonder if he took his easel and his wine to the top of the Tower to paint the view? The view from here is nice. The street is quiet and the café is well-lit and clean. Hmmm, the condensation has formed a puddle around the carafe. I’d better pour another glass. I don’t want to offend the owner. I wonder if he drinks this at home? He said it was house wine, so he must drink it at home. I wonder how he makes it? I wonder if it's hard to make something so good. Or easy. It sure is easy to drink. Wow! This second glass is better than the first! That’s amazing. I wonder if the second glass seems better because I’m drinking it now and I can’t remember the first one? It’s nice when the second is as good as the first, and vice versa. There sure is a lot of pleasure in that carafe. What an interesting word, carafe. I wonder where it comes from? Probably Africa. It has a long neck, and is good when it’s hot, and sounds like giraffe, so it must come from Africa. I think I'll pour another glass. There’s only one left, and I would hate to offend the owner. What a great café. The Tower was nice, but this, this is a great café.


                    “Blurtso takes a night train Paris to Madrid”

                      

 

 

                                    Which way to the WC?

                                              .............................................................

                                       “Blurtso makes a friend in Segovia”

            Hello friend, said Blurtso. I think your country is lovely.
                   Do you know where I can get a pumpkin pie?

 

           

 

            ¿Qué? ¿Qué me estás diciendo? No entiendo inglés.
                     ¿Y eso? ¿Qué diablos es un pumpkin pie?

                       ……………………………………………………………

 

                                “Blurtso meets a crow”

 

      Hello crow, said Blurtso. Would you mind if I nap for a while?

 

      

                            “Blurtso shoots pool in Arles”

 

           

 

               What do you know… absinthe improves your aim.

 

                     “Blurtseau writes a letter to Pablo” (II)

                  

  

Dear Pablo,

 

I trust you are well. I am at a café in Arles. It is fourteen past twelve, the streets are empty, and the café is closed. The waiter has filled my glass before leaving to clean up. My journey is half through, and I am years from home. I have made friends along the way. And lost friends along the way. I have seen beautiful things. Faces, sights, scenery. I wonder at the value of traveling alone. A lone gentleman walks up a shadowed street. Watching him from the café, I sip my wine and go along. I return to the teacup and chair at his table, and the bed where he sleeps, ‘til I wake to the morning sounds at his window. I sit on the terrace and live the life of the waiter, wiping tables and stacking chairs, sweeping, mopping the floor, washing glasses, sorting silver. And then the waiter is gone and the man is gone. And there is only the sound of the buzz of the lights, and the silence of the stars. The solitary stars, filling the canopy of the raven-colored night.

 

Your friend,

Blurtso
                         ………………………………………………………

                  “Blurtso takes a train from Marseilles to Nice”

 

 

           

 

Wow! thought Blurtso. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful! The rocks are the color of pumpkin pie.

                           “Blurtso discovers pound cake”

 

           

 

                      Wow! thought Blurtso. This is incredible!

 

                            …………………………………………………….

 

                     “Blurtso stops in Cannes for the Festival”

 

               

 

Hmmm, thought Blurtso. That pound cake yesterday was amazing. I wonder if I can find another…

 

                          “Blurtso visits historic San Remo”

 

            

                               Is that pound cake I smell?

                   ..........................................................

            “Blurtso has a rendez-vous at Villefranche Sur Mer”

“Ce n’est que votre main, Madame, sur quoi j’ose poser. Gage d’amour certain, Madame, vos doigts de blanc satin. Il faut m’en excuser, Madame, j’ai mis dans le baiser mon âme, Madame…”

    

                “Ma main?" dit elle. "Mais, je n'ai pas de main..."


                  "Blurtso goes in search of a pain au chocolat"

           

 

 

                  Doo dee doo dee doo, dee dee dee dee dee,
                       following my nose, walking by the sea.

                           …………………………………………………..

                      “Blurtso reflects on the price of Rome”

 

       

 

The stone is clean now, and polished in the sun. And there is no sign of blood. But how many donkeys labored away their lives, hoof after hoof after hoof, to build this place?

 

                 “Blurtso considers the enchantment of Venice”

 

         

What is it in Venice that makes us feel we have been transported in time? Is it the ancient buildings and bridges, the palaces with their frescoes and the moss-lined canals? Is it the smooth-worn stones or the fountains of the piazze? Is it the stillness of the water and the echoing barcarole? No, it is none of these, but is rather the simple sound of voices and footsteps, heard, as if for the first time, in a city without engines, in a civilized world before the automobile.

 

  

            “Blurtso takes a moment to enjoy the fruits of Italy”

 

          

 

           Miei genitori non tornano fino a domani, said Beatrice.

                                Davvero? said Blurtso.

                          “Blurtso arrives in Amsterdam”

 

      

         There is something about the light here, thought Blurtso,

                         that makes me think I could paint.

 

                      ………………………………………………………………

 

          

 

          Hmmm, thought Blurtso. Something seems to be missing.

                   .............................................................

                                "The Blurtso Gallery"

        

                             Blurtso au estile de Giotto

 

                

 

                                  Blurtso au Da Vinci

 

              

 

                                Blurtso au Michelangelo

 

 

           

 

                                 Blurtso au Velázquez
 

       

                                    Blurtso au Monet

  

                    

 

                                Blurtso au Van Gogh (I)


       

                               Blurtso au Van Gogh (II)

 

                 

 

                           Il n’y a plus de tarte au potiron!

                                

                

 

                  Quand je n’ai pas de rouge, je mets du bleu

 

 

               

 

                              Pablo descending the stairs

                  ..............................................................

                             “Blurtso reflects on his trip”

 

         

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 wind 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 hoofs were content to remain slippered

and cuddled on the couch?

 

A donkey crossed a dirt road

behind a church in Segovia.

His hoofs 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 hoofs 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.