Warm, cloudy, humid. Fires east, fires south. And here I am, recognizing once again the sheer luxury it is to be able, for so long, to pursue my tiny line of thinking — to read my books, to write my notes and poems and then pretend them to the world — for pretending and publishing are much alike — tho’ the mask I wear is nearly identical to what it’s meant to hide — a birth mask, or spirit mask — the wash turned inside out and hung to dry. Or, once upon a time, there was a cocoon, and inside the cocoon, a little boy.
August 18, 2022. Afternoon.
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Categories: A Few More Scratches
Tags: Birth, Books, Child and Man, Clouds, Cocoons, Identity, Masks, Poems, Pretending, Publishing, Reading, Spirits, Thinking, Wildfires, Writing
William Michaelian 