The recorded voice of a long dead relative and the old associations it stirs. How the first fall rain wakens mold in the yard. Leaves in his eyes, moss on his arms. Then you realize that all those years he was alive, you witnessed only the talking version of him, and never, not once, the solitary, the silent. Or, perhaps, that was his silence. As this is yours. Pages and […]
Can you imagine standing on your bare feet in dewy grass, and still thinking you must search for the truth? Sept 21, 2021 . Autumn Fires On the sidewalk after coffee, my dead father appears long enough to inhale the smoke rising from my friend’s freshly lit cigarette. The three of us smile, say nothing. Recently Banned Literature, November 12, 2009 . [ 1234 ]
Being right is such a small, fleeting thing. I would rather be loved, Or unnoticed, than looked up to, respected, and feared. It rained through the night — Shall I tell you about my wet feet? — about her smile when I came in from the yard? September 19, 2021 . [ 1233 ]
Four miles of dusty trails, with side trips down to what is now a very low-running stream. No clouds, no fog, no mist, no smoke. Far off, on the other side of the canyon, the great echoing voice of a raven. The talk now is of rain, and the patience of ferns. Bare feet. Thirty-nine degrees. Even in drought, we outlive our own death. September 16, 2021 . [ 1229 […]
Forty-nine degrees. Bare feet on dewy grass. A bright moon. Stars, as intimate and near as in childhood. Now, what today, shall I do with my thimbleful of knowledge? September 1, 2021 . [ 1216 ]
When the tide is out, one can see the barnacled stumps of an ancient ghost forest on the beach at Neskowin, one of several along the Oregon coast. Seen through the mist, the trees look like spirits — part wood, part rock, part man. They are Sitka spruce, and carbon dating has revealed their age to be around two thousand years. Our feet bare, we walked the beach for about […]
Dewlight and starry grass — a soft blue mist, as far as the toes can see. August 10, 2021 . [ 1194 ]
Imagine a future museum that preserves the furniture of today — the overstuffed chairs, the massive sofas, the acre-wide, bottomless, bloated beds — and its lean and agile visitors looking on wide-eyed, shaking their heads. Why did they torture themselves? How did they live that way? High in the mountain wilderness, John Muir would use the scented branches of conifers to make a bed for the night. The crystal waters […]
Fresh air and a bright blue sky, with just a few thin white clouds arranging and rearranging themselves, all as if there were no fires in the West, or, for that matter, no trouble, land or sea, anywhere in the world. Out of this there comes the loud scolding voice of a crow in close pursuit of a smaller hawk, the birds matching speeds high above the treetops and rapidly […]
It’s been a week and a half since I’ve worn socks and shoes, and even then I had them on for only an hour. I’ve also not worn full-length pants since then. I’ve written in shorts, I’ve made soup and salad in shorts, I’ve tended the garden in shorts, I’ve walked by the river in shorts, and I’ve bought berries in shorts. And yet prior to this summer, wearing shorts […]
William Michaelian 