House of Leaves (70 page)

D.

Letter to the Editor

“Seeing’s Believing But Feeling’s Probably Best!”

September 17, 1978

In last week’s article on collectibles, you reported that a man by the name of Kuellster had several World War II Ithaca Model 37 Trench guns for sale. As shotgun aficionados are well aware, this weapon is a rare find as only 1,420 were ever produced.

Fortunately, the WWII Model 37 offers several distinguishing characteristics, including bottom loading, handy shell ejection similar to the Remington Model 10, a commercial blue finish, and standard sling swivels. It also bears some important martial markings: a small “p” on the left side of the barrel; a flaming bomb and the letters RLB (inspector Lt. Col. Roy L. Bowlin’s initials) on the left side of the receiver. Kuellster’s guns, however, all have a parkerized finish, lack swing swivels, and while there is a small letter proof “p” on the barrel, there is also one printed on the receiver.

All of which proves that Kuellster’s shotguns, while Ithaca 37s, were produced long after the World War 11 Trench guns he is currently and falsely selling them as.

On a personal note, I wish to add that as I have been blind for over two decades, I had to determine most of this by feel. Unfortunately when I presented my conclusion to Kuelister, he demonstrated his unparalleled probity by ordering a security guard to escort “this intoxicated indigent” from his store. I suppose in his world if a recently manufactured Ithaca 37 is the same as the WWII model, gingerale must pass for bourbon.

Sincerely,

Zampanô

Venice, CA

Our
apologies to Mr. Zampanô and all other collectors who due to our article visited Mr.

Kuellsrer ‘s store.
Mr.
Kuellster no longer claims to have any WWII Ithaca Model 37s for sale and refuses to comment on anything he might have previously suggested to our reporters.

—
The Los Angeles Herald-Examiner

E.

The Song of Quesada and Molino

The Song of
Quesada
and Molino

[
434—Missing. — Ed.]

F.

Poems

That Place

Summer broke on the backs of children,

even though swings performed miracles

and breezes sang psalms.

For that summer, from the outskirts

of some far off even whimsical place

came the low resolute moo of a dragon.

A child, of course, could not recognize that fabled moo

or the serpentine tail close to her feet,

wound up among the thistle and milkweed like a hose.

Nor for that matter could she recognize

the starry white bone left upright in the sandbox

like some remarkable claw

or shovel.

Not when the sun was out and games continued.

Certainly not when there was summer love

and rootbeer.

But at dusk when the fog crept in,

thick and sweating,

suggesting some kind of burning far off,

down over there,

(where someone once saw two eyes

—
pale as October moons
—

blink)

a child could know the meaning

of fall.

And that August, two weeks before school began,

some children went down to that place

and they never came back.

The Panther

The panther paces.

Waiting reminds him that clarity is painful

but his pain is unreadable,

obscure, chiaroscuro to their human senses.

In time they will misread his gait,

his moon mad eyes,

the almost gentle way his tail caresses the bars.

In time they will mistake him

for something else—

without history,

without the shadow of being,

a creature without the penance of living.

They will read only his name.

They will be unable to perceive

what strangeness

lies beneath his patience.

Patience is the darkest side of power.

He is dark.

He is black.

He is exquisitely powerful.

He has made pain his lover

and hidden her completely.

Now he will never forget.

She will give birth to memories

they believe he has been broken of.

He smells the new rain,

tastes its change.

His claw skates along

the cold floor.

Love curled up and died

on such a
floor.

He blinks.

Clarity
improves.

He hears other creatures scream
and
fade.

But silence is his.

He knows.

In time the
gates
will open.

In time
his
heart
will
open.

Then the shadows will bleed

and
the locks will break.

Love At First Sight

Natasha, I love you

despite knowing love is more

than seeing you.

(Untitled Fragment)

The angles of your
wrists

preserve a certain mystery,

unknown by any lips

or written down in history.

To measure their degree

would solve the oldest questions —

providence and alchemy

answered in your gestures.

But god and gold will never rival

the way your fingers curl.

They hold my breath’s arrival

like a rare and undiscovered pearl.

(Untitled Fragment)

There is only a black fence

and a wide field and a barn of Wyeth red.

The smell of anger chokes the air.

Ravens of September rain descend.

Some say a mad mad hermit man lived here

talking to himself and the woodchuck.

But he’s gone. No reason. No sense.

He just wandered off one day,

past the onions, past the fence.

Forget the letters. Forget love.

Troy is nothing more than

a black finger of charcoal

frozen in lake ice.

And near where the owl watches

and the old bear dreams,

the parapet of memory burns to the ground

taking heaven with it.

(Untitled Fragment)

Little solace comes

to those who grieve

when thoughts keep drifting

as walls keep shifting

and this great blue world of ours

seems a house of leaves

moments before the wind.

La Feuille

Mes durs réves formels sauront te chevaucher

Mon destm au char d’or sera ton
beau
rocher

Qui pour rênes tiendra tendus a frénéie

Mes vers, les parangons de toute poesie.

—Apollinaire

C’etait l’automne. C’était l’automne et c’était la saison de la guerre. Te souviens-tu de la guerre? Moi, de moms en moms. Mais je me souviens de l’automne. Je vois encore les brouillards sur les prés a côté de la maison, et, au-delà, les chênes silencieux dans le crépuscule. Les feuilles étaient tombées depuis septembre. Elles brunissaient et m’évocaient alors l’esprit de ma jeunesse, et aussi I’esprit du temps.

Souventj’allais au bois. Je traversais les prés et je me perdais pour longtemps au-dessous des branches, dans les ombres, parmi les feuilles. Une fois, avant d’entrer dans le bois, je me souviens qu’il y avait un cheval noir qui me fixait de loin. II était au fond du petit champ. J’imaginais qu’il me regardait, alors que probablement il dormait. Pourquoi pense-je maintenant a ce cheval? Je ne sais pas. Peut-être pour Ia même raison je pense a tous ces mots j’ai écrit au même temps.

J’ai garde la feuille oü j’avais note tout ce qui m’etait venu a l’esprit. A l’époque, je croyais qu’ils m’appartenaient, mais maintenant je sais que j’avais tort. A chaque fois que je les relis, je vois que je copiais seulement ce que quelqu’un m’avait raconté.

—N’aie pas peur. Je ne m’arrêterai pas. Je dois découvrir cette clairière. Et je ne m’arrêterai pas tant que je ne l’aurais pas trouvée. Sais-tu ce qui me pousse a la chercher? Eh bien… personne. Ma femme est morte. Ma femme, ma flue et mon fils sont tous morts. Te souviens-tu comment us sont morts? Moi, de moms en moms. Je ne me souviens que du temps. Mes blessures ne sont plus mortelles, mais j’ai peur. J’ai peur de ne pas trouver cette clairière.

Je suis resté quelque temps a regarder les ombres, les feuilles et les branches. Ensuite, quand j’ai quitté le bois, je ne voyais que le brouillard autour de moi. Je ne pouvais voir ni la maison, ni les prés, seulement le brouillard. Et bien sür, le cheval noir avait disparu.

— [illegible]

You Shall Be My Roots

You shall be my roots and

I will be your shade,

though the sun burns my leaves.

You shall quench my thirst and

I will feed you fruit,

though time takes my seed.

And when I’m lost and can tell nothing of this earth

you will give me hope.

And my voice you will always hear.

And my hand you will always have.

For I will shelter you.

And I will comfort you.

And even when we are nothing left,

not even in death,

I will remember you.

Appendix II

Due to the unexpected number of inquiries regarding the first edition, Mr. Truant agreed for this edition to provide the following additional material.

—
The Editors

A.

Sketches & Polaroids