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SEA QUILLS (Paul Klinger's Blog)
Mon 06/12/2006
Lieu of laude
Mood:  bright
Now Playing: The Cheese and the Worms by Carlo Ginzburg
Topic: Letters to Real People


Twaddling Carlo around. I took Charles to the bakery but he couldn't find what he wanted. Marcel soon followed with some talk about what you had gone through and I asked Carlo if he regretted the Z thing.

Circum affairs, map behind. Day signals, caught between the burgee & the pennants. The note on the body before it was rushed after. The peeping out of the boat and the prospect of evening, confluence.

So little thinking, I'm quoting you as I remember. Bicycled to the ceremony, always found that admirable, though he forgot about the large bones next door and missed that show altogether.

So then, Charles again with the Mayans, particularly the figures he is there studying. Enough already, there was an iguana in the trash. So what? That like speaking to the roadside, that I myself missed the thing, her pieces, I didn't mean to but I will get up to them probably the first half of this week. You're not one of them, she said, and it stuck.

Roadside movies. Cider, the boards were part of what I liked about the woman and how the hose was something, I thought about Wendy and her stupid "ambiance," which meant blue paint flecking across the house front. Jesus, my mother thought the apocalypse had taken hold. Eventually, I set the fallen bird back on the rafter and steadied the nest.
Lots of things about the nest. Nest of light with them, to study order of the mind, or warming nest, in Jon's bathroom. The little gold fellows still half tucked and pushing with their sinuses, something I always imagined.

Excellent grouper, excellent time.

Posted by poetry/paulklinger at 12:24 AM MDT
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Fri 05/19/2006
pontormo's letter
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Letters to Real People

ribald figures thumping around, brandied about, no unwieldy, not to be trifled because of the weight of the material, myth safety, no chance of tumping. The base of the figure rocking, sound demonstration of something known all along, as the pattern sinks into the scheme, and besides color, there is the planar aspect, the sliding off the lap, the cleft of the rock, the untenable angles of all these places, all these little maps turned so that the light shines through them and spectacles the picture, just spectacles right into a fine predicament,

simple as the bear cave, sullen as the greys,

Arrow on a card, arrow on a card upon the felt. Carded arrow and ropes upon the arrow and the letters placed below the strings, tightness of the walls, tightness of the walls for letters, for all sorts.
Bedevilment, being what appears to some people as being deprived of tangible meanings. Oh arrow, promise of, oh arrow, the drama of, oh arrow, the foolery of, oh arrow, the comedic turn, oh arrow of harrowing scenes, where the village, where the village itself is drawn, where the arrow draws the village diaries, slipping into rustic hands, slipping out to mark the sheep, the very cover of the bale, sentiments of this passage housed in the folk, delivering them unto thoughtfulness & the rest.

Posted by poetry/paulklinger at 4:29 AM MDT
Updated: Fri 05/19/2006 4:49 AM MDT
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Sat 05/13/2006
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Bartram's Boat

Dear William,

It may have been John. It might have been. A man looked at me today and said the title had a grammatical error, that further was a verb and that farther was what should have been. I didn't say it, but it was also what might have been. The man was older and after. Mostly after, as having asked personal questions relating to professional knowledge and a bevy of suggestions about his own wisdom, i.e. experiences as a listener and literati. What can you say to such folk, who are performing something so poorly it is hard to maintain eye contact? Like a weak animal, like a weak animal broken by years of being observed. Just like that.

You describe young alligators running alongside your boat, comparing their colors to the rattlesnake, which I find to be a dumb name, a medallion that can do little good in my pocket or anyone else's. Simply, you were responding to the yellow. Yes, I know that feeling, though it's not the feeling of being in the canoe by the yellow. It is the feeling of being on protected land and having a leather belt, some pebbles, and a feeling that you can draw them in close enough to see the yellow.

It was May. When were you writing? My brother was beside me, actually engaged with what was going on. One time the road was plugged up with a family riding together in a truck. The rocks were slipping out from under them, it was one of those mountain road scenes, where doors are swinging open and everything looks like a wild shopping cart in traffic. That was how it looked. It was grey, meaning the evening was just setting in and the fishermen were behind us, in white figments, partially reposed from my description by campers that interruped the bay by blocking out the horizontal pilaster.

That family was before me, even though there was someone else in my vehicle. I felt as if I were alone and that the family was aiming something at me, driving that slowly on the road, we had that relationship, where I was bringing something up to them, bringing it up continuously without being pushy . They kept smiling at me, and this suggested to me that somebody knew, somebody knew where I was and how much I liked simply driving on that road. I wasn't hurrying home to fix supper or put someone's fear at ease. I was right where I wanted to be, when the sun was setting. I was right there around something dubbed Shoveler, and the little canals. Those are really popular this time of year, those little canals. They see a lot of traffic. When you think of certain animals establishing themselves in water, having an actual place setting in that element, a territory, the size of which has no easy formula, which makes me think that getting off easy depends on the ability of your spatial sense to deflect light, to deflect it and keep part of your own setting, just so as no one knows exactly the dimensions of the berth you require.

That berth for some people might be signaled as handball or a set of glass walls that simply lead into where you are going. A menu with certain words on it that might not be available elsewhere. Trusting that there are words that still hinge on availability and how I have made those words available to myself.

Even a job that provides access to a new set of words, such as pinch point, halidom. Familiar with the landgraves. A family of them. The line down, the line down the road and the line of clothes. The idea of a ranch being set up and upsetting the homeowners.

Sometimes you see signs telling you that you are doing it. These signs are informational and specific. They all tell you who you are. They are red and they provide names without any prodding. They say violator and they mean you. They mean you. I am the only one I know. I am the only one I know like this and that is of necessity. Subtitled length or heighth of foliage , someone asked the reason for it being there and so a subtitle is provided. Canning the appearance of a tree, canning the epistemology of wooden structures, dating aside, listing aside and to the side.

Ground upon. Water, for the water. Music box, shells and the door. Shells and the door, water upon the door and the grass behind. Sound of a frame, sound of the grass as the frame to the water, the branches whiffing, the branches whiffing, or over, interchangeable, with the shell. Point, bringing to point, bringing to point and from that observing the water, observing the water. Inhaling aside, teetering upon the brink, teetering upon the brink, teetering upon the brink was the thing brought to me, the thing brought to me was lipped.

Looking over the brown and the less brown meeting. The brown and the less brown and the trees that lack obedience.

Sorry, William, I forgot you were there. You should have said something. No, not anything more about plants. Tell me about the alligators and what they looked like in their masses and how shallow the water was and what sort of noises. The dimensions of the nest are also of interest.

You know the hunters used to hang them at the dock for the measurements. I can't believe I never got a picture. I was young. They would hang them up, and the bulls' genitalia would loll out and their tails would make afterthoughts of them. One set upon ice.


When someone dies that way, the way I watch the footage. I am looking very closely at that footage. There is a fairytale that emerges, an enchantment whose use is immediately pronounced. Leisure behind it, always leisure. A sense of the hour comes up, a sense of the hour behind the circumstances, being the primary circumstance, hardly an explanation, more exposition, the same exposition, over and over, a kind of unmerited time.

What often is missing is not supervision but the effect of supervision upon the person. Belief in the transfer from subject to object, that delivery, believe in that, believe in the enticements of that delivery and how it is arrived at simultaneously with outside impulses or coincidences, which ever, which hold nothing. Quite literally emptying the outside impulses to make sure there is nothing to them. In the sense of time, something about chronology actually snapping, after the idea of a vegetable with its unabsorbed water leaking out, with the idea of that water stimulating the finger. That is the same sense as that time which loses its vein and devolves into an object situation. The object and the hour, and how the hour comes to break the object, to return status. It is an hour. It is nothing else.

Posted by poetry/paulklinger at 2:24 AM MDT
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Wed 05/10/2006
Sentences from the Festus Lexicon
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Festus

Chaunt: adown & unshapen,
whereat beck divers quartiles.

Enring diadem, evanish fanes.

Hiddenly amiss macadam.

Gibbous foeman, glozed.

Ken: larch, & blenched ling; yonder spinnies w/
gorse, jacinth & hornbeam riven.

Perforce, a wight wroth, inhelled upon the smaragdine gulph of wimples. Meed nigh guerdon, sate methought.

Wont like gleedlike welkin, to vouchsafe its thraldom. Outdarkles, sculls, & overgets.

Yon soulical sward, swoln w/ unition. Tush.

Posted by poetry/paulklinger at 7:25 PM MDT
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Mood:  bright
Topic: Letters to Real People

Dear Courtland,

Not that it's much to do about anything, but you are in the war. You are in it. I can't believe it. I can't believe you are in Baghdad, in the history of these things being made, in the training of police, the eating of the beef tips and the like. That is you over there, whom I haven't seen in at least 4 years.

I just finished with a reading. That is what I have in comparison to Baghdad. In the latest picture I have, you are holding a chihuahua and your own head is shaved. Cody is getting married?

I feel the war not so often in Arizona. Every now and then, when Cheney comes to town for a fundraiser, I will feel the war, maybe with a single man on a sidewalk with a sign that says something about lies. Maybe that man has a big dog with him. That is the ripple of the war into my life. Of course there's television but I stay away from it, not because I fear inaccuracy or desire to transcend it.

The war here, nesting in the hearts of people connected to other people. The war here is me thinking of you and hoping you don't do anything heroic, that you just do your job and stay low.

It must sound stupid me saying that. The directionality of my language may have nothing to do with your situation. My concern is your protection, though I should be concerned with the safety of civilians and innocents, who may die everyday without coverage.

Do you remember when that man approached you in the mall and offered you a job as his bodyguard or something? That sort of thing happens to you. It doesn't to me. I never have the right shirt on. Often, I am asked to exit the photograph to clear the way for you. You are the right man in most instances.

You saw my picture and told your mother I was going through my hippie stage. I wonder. You may be right.
Though my hair is short now and the beard shortened.
I am unemployed and fairly ridiculous to look at in the mornings. I talk to my dog steadily throughout the day, which seems like a hippie thing to do. You may be right. It made me think of that time we visited Cody in the hospital and you lightly touched his face to wake him. The first thing he said: "Courtland, I hate you. You said it wouldn't hurt."

You were even the right man then, though you lied about the tonsils. For a while, Cody was off meat because of deer hunting. I smelled the firewood in the garage and it made me think that was the smell of the ranch. Was I wrong? Does it puzzle you that I rattle off these obscurities as if they connect with you? I mean the assurance, my self-assurance. Is it too much?

Did you know Andy Hagee got married? That Joel Mulkey is engaged and so is Laneice? That we are all heading into something, some building we've never been in. What is the nature of our connection now? Just old times?

A few months ago, I ran across an article about your great-grandfather's dry goods store. I wish I could have seen it. Your dad, driving me home and listening to Zane Grey audiobooks. It was nice, being in Uvalde, seeing that life. And now I'm trying to peer in at what you're doing, maybe even who you are. How does it change you? Is your sense of humor more brash? I imagine you still smile a lot, rakishly.

How weird it was to be eating with you and Laneice at Rooster's. I was with Jen. That wasn't even that long ago. You lived in Tulsa. I still can't believe that. The praying hands. The service in two languages, that's what stays with me from Uvalde. The interminable speaking and of course the river with the fish darting around and the immigrant caves.

I have driven across Texas many times since then. Many times. I drove to Austin this March. I thought about you when I was near Uvalde, how you were my best friend, how I gave you a little blue plane with propellors in your room upstairs and how we hid from Toby when he came around, how Willie Mae made sure we didn't have to see him. How Cody complained about the broken toys and how we walked on the high walls. How you met someone named Dawn at camp and how I met someone named Dawn in Arizona.

I can only have a finite number of thoughts about you, because of the time off. They feel numbered at this point, and feeling numbered is a particularly effective mode of production.

Fraternity is something I look out for. It's hard when you don't have that, having had it so long. Some people can't be brothers once they're married. That is the truth. One role forfeited for another. My suspicion is that fraternity is a heavy expense at this point in life and that it comes roaring back later, in the loose years, between the recession and the crisis.

My dad is desperate in these terms, sometimes driving an hour just to feel the part. I don't know how far I would drive, yet. You drove down for my graduation and stood with me in a strange kitchen, while they were giving me grief about the length of my speech.

Hitting the deer with your jeep. Jumping off a cliff. Joining the army. This is a progression in my mind, based on where I have and have not been. I have been inside a pool company, I have been standing over a paper cutter, I have been in front of people, reading various poems, I have been monsooned and I have heard about disaster. I have raised funds and edited rants.
I have written things and I have sewn things and that's about it. I have even taught people how to write. And any sense of pride in any experience seems not so much associated with the task performed or the results achieved, as the passing of feelings the weathering of those feelings, the idea of survival as it unfolds inside a person. How many times that has unfolded for you and whether or not there is some acceleration due to circumstances, that is something to consider. Please be safe.

Posted by poetry/paulklinger at 3:53 AM MDT
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