What grew here before this became part of a city? What lived here? Who lived here? How did they live? How do I live? Does my life honor what was lost or destroyed? To put it another way, do I live for profit, or for love? July 21, 2020. Evening. [ 812 ]
How long has it been since I’ve felt a sense of belonging to any particular country? When I was fifteen, though I’d yet to fully work it out in my mind, the notion had already struck me as folly; and to this day, it seems that one’s conscious presence in this world is too great a miracle to waste on such a rude concept as nations, with their ideologies, flags, […]
May 1889. Vincent has just entered the asylum at St. Rémy. Or have I entered it in July 2020? I close my eyes. Careful consideration yields no definite answer; rather, the image of a giant colorful moth is imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, very much in the way stars appear in the night sky. I paint the moth; I paint the sky; and, while painting, I wonder how […]
Robin singing in the dark so human in the art he makes a bird of me July 17, 2020, four-thirty a.m. [ 809 ]
After a hot day yesterday, there was a strong breeze most of the evening. This morning I noticed a tiny spider at the center of its web, suspended between two dahlias about eight feet apart. The sunlight had just illuminated the brave explorer, making it glow. I thought about the instant it had let go and allowed itself to be carried by the wind across the wide chasm, and wondered […]
The third volume of Vincent’s letters. Yesterday afternoon, he cut off a piece of his ear. July 15, 2020 Self-Portrait in White A man and his donkey; a snowy field; a cart full of bones. The wind. Poems, Slightly Used, November 10, 2009 [ 807 ]
Born in 1956 — and again this morning the signs all say this way — at least that’s how I conceive Venus teasing the living daylight out of two old poplar trees. July 14, 2020 [ 806 ]
Is it possible to read about, or listen to, the experiences of others, without filtering them through, or comparing them to, one’s own? I don’t suggest that an unbiased comparison would be of lesser or no value. In essence, that asks the same, or nearly the same, question: Is it possible to consider one’s own experiences non-judgmentally, as other than a series of successes and failures, or a source of […]
The apricots are coloring. I remember early mornings on the farm when the smell of ripening fruit filled the atmosphere — to breathe at that hour meant taking the combined scent of apricots, peaches, and plums deep into the lungs and into the bloodstream. The magic I felt, balanced my practical concerns with the infinite and set me working at a soul’s pace. And though I left behind that life […]
Back again early this morning to Goose Lake and environs, where the fading wildflowers and drying grass are among the first signs of summer. Even without rain, the lake itself seems not to recede, its waters sealed tight beneath a heavy layer of algae and scum. All that’s heard is the deep bellowing of a bullfrog, his voice as loud as any dock worker or boatman. A humid atmosphere, the […]
William Michaelian 