Paul Blumer

Paul Blumer

Hi there. I am Paul’s web editor and am helping him curate his writings onto a page that encompasses his style and personality. That way, when a hip bar in Baltimore googles Paul after he submits his impressive resumé detailing his history in the service industry, they will be able to corroborate, based on this site, that he is, indeed, stylish and personable.

Could Paul be a writer? Sure. Paul bartends, and so he regularly hears tales of woe, heartache and triumph in undiluted form. Through his training as an English major at the University of Michigan and during a stint he calls a Masters Program at the California College of the Arts, he has learned to never let a good story pass by without writing it down, regardless of its origin. What else makes him a writer besides his habit of writing things down? Well, he’s sort of an enigma. Or, at least, comes across as enigmatic. For example, when I asked him to send a bio for his website, he only sent the following:

“A low moon sat fat over an endless pale horizon. At the edge of her shadow, stars twinkled over long grass undulating like a living thing. Unmarked roads cut through, shining in the moonlight. This was noplace, just a junction north south east and west.

Hands in pockets, a man in boots stood with his back to one of the roads, looking at the array of ways. A raccoon snuffled along the shallow ditch. They made eye contact briefly, each sniffing the air, before the raccoon trundled off. The man sighed. No cars for hours. Not even before sunset.

Nondescript duffel over his shoulder, the man braved the intersection, swiveling slowly to eye each direction. And then lost track of where he’d come from and where he should go. Horizon so deep it was like another planet, like being at sea. Navigation by stars. He looked up. Moon over his shoulder. Big dipper pointing at the north star, southern cross shining over another world somewhere below the horizon.

Try this way. A whisper.

What? What the hell…?

Too much time on his own. Tramp talking sickness. All in the head.

No no, the whisper chuckled. Right here.

The man turned, surveying the hip-level horizon.

…in the grass? he asked.

Right here. A suit-clad man stood in front of him, one hand adjusting a pair of thick glasses and the other on a wide leather briefcase.

Is that…?

A typewriter, the suit nodded. But not just any typewriter.


No. This is Rosetta. And it’s yours.

Mine, the traveler said warily.

Try it before you buy it, the suit said.

The keys flowed like jazz, the receiver rang true, the crank of the return marched across pages of time and pictures of space and moments of communication. Each crisp letter barked sharply, machinegun bullet holes in the blank page, mowing through emptiness. Rhythm so loose even lightning-quick Hermes had to whistle.

Like a pianist, the traveler’s shoulders danced with the music. With a flourish he flung a typed-up notecard at the man whose jaw-slack description was captured in print in 3×5 dimensions, a sideways 8 of prose. Out of the clack-clack-clack on his next page, a solid red laughing buddha figurine formed, chipped from stories of travels, and hopped off the paper onto the ribbon cover. He stared laughing baldly at the writer, who couldn’t help but laugh back at the absurdity of it all.

Hey, the suit said. Hey, don’t forget, this model isn’t free.

How much, asked the writer, not bothering to look up. His fingers danced complicated arpeggios up and down the scale, and the suit raised a hand, smiling.

Stop, he said. Please stop. You’re affecting me.

The writer shrugged. I’m observing you, he said. That means I’m writing you. You’re a character to me. You can’t help but be affected.

But you still owe, the suit said.

How much?

How much you got? the suit considered.

Not much. Bag of ganja. Couple dollars. Deep sensitive eyes. My eternal soul, I guess.

The suit grinned. He said, I’ll take it.

The writer said, take what?

The latter, the suit said cutely.

My immortal soul. The writer’s look was skeptical. Okay, it’s yours.

The two men shook hands firmly. The writer briefly grimaced at the iciness of the suit’s hand, but smiled. The suit disappeared.

Immortal soul, the writer said, looking at the typewriter. Didn’t the fool know the thing was a loophole portal to immortality?”

Anyway. So, that’s Paul Blumer, author.


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