Dear Friends,
Mein blondes Baby [My Blonde Baby]
By Peter Kreuder (1905 — 1981)
Arranged and performed by Ishmael Wallace
Wherever I go, wherever I am, I see blonde hair, dark blue eyes, and a little stupid child’s smile which is ever in my dreams. My blonde baby, don’t forget me! My little baby, don’t do that. You have no idea what you mean to me, for your soul is a baby! My little baby, listen! My dreams are of you alone. Hear my longing which speaks: My little baby, don’t forget me! And life goes on, and you will sometimes walk alone. But my heart goes with you always, and it weeps with you, it understands you. My blonde baby…
(translation by IW; for the German original, please scroll down)
A mother tells her child — or perhaps, as the music suggests, an older man tells his mistress: “My dreams are of you alone! Do not forget me; you have no idea of what you mean to me — for your soul is a baby!”
“Your soul is a a baby” — these words pierce the heart. Indeed, our soul is a baby. Though we have grown up, our soul is still undeveloped.
An old folktale tells of a giant who is hard to kill, for his life is not in his body. It is hidden in a walnut hanging on a tree at the end of the world. Our soul is like this giant’s life. It is hidden in the things we notice, the things we love and hate.
Until we know, “This is my soul”, it will not grow. When we know, “This selfish woman, this rapacious politician, is my soul” — then it begins to develop. It wants to be known.
An Islamic tradition says that this longing to be known is why God creates the world: “I was a hidden treasure…”
Our soul too is a hidden treasure; our soul too longs to be known.
As I come to know my soul, her stupid smile becomes the deep radiance of Wisdom.
But is there not something of value in childhood? Must the baby really grow up?
Marie-Louise von Franz makes a good distinction: what is childish in us must perish, but the Child must not.
That in us which screams to be fed must be hit hard by reality, but that which plays must be given space — must be given a secret garden.
In a novel by P. C. Wren, the hero sees a Freudian. Your problem is simple, says the doctor. You are starved for sex. Choose some pretty girl — doesn’t matter who — and marry her. But the hero knows it does matter. The Child in him knows that life is a story. In a story, nothing does not matter!
As we go through life, everything we see is significant. In everything we see, our soul looks out at us.
Thank you so much.
With every good wish,
Ishmael
MEIN BLONDES BABY
Blonde Haare, dunkelblaue Augen
Sehe ich wo ich nur geh′ und steh'
Und ein kleines dummes Kinderlächeln
Das ich doch in Träumen immer nur seh′:
Mein blondes Baby
Vergiss mich nicht!
Mein kleines Baby
Tu' so was nicht!
Du ahnst noch gar nicht
Was du mir bist
Weil deine Seele
Ein Baby ist!
Mein kleines Baby
O hör' mir zu:
In meinen Träumen
Bist du, nur du!
Hör′ meine Sehnsucht
Die zu dir spricht:
Mein kleines Baby
Vergiss mich nicht!
Und das Leben, das geht immer weiter
Und doch du wirst mal alleine geh’n
Doch mein Herz bleibt ewig dein Begleiter
Und es weint mit dir, es kann dich versteh’n.
Mein blondes Baby
Vergiss mich nicht!
Mein kleines Baby
Tu′ so was nicht!
Du ahnst ja gar nicht
Was du mir bist
Weil deine Seele
Ein Baby ist!
Mein blondes Baby
O hör' mir zu:
In meinen Träumen
Bist du, nur du!
Hör′ meine Sehnsucht
Die zu dir spricht:
Mein kleines Baby
Vergiss mich nicht!
Marlene Dietrich’s recording with the composer
Putto on a sea monster (circa 1857) William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825–1905)