I didn’t turn on the computer this morning until seven-thirty, after I’d been up for three and a half hours. I exercised, I ran, I sipped my six-ounce cup of pour-over coffee; I ate breakfast; I sat, not thinking or doing anything at all. I took a shower, dried myself, and rubbed some olive oil on my heels. Only then, after making a cup of chamomile tea, did I open […]
Afternoon. Another day, another used bookstore. Don Quixote: Ozell’s Revision of the Translation by Peter Motteux. Introduction by Herschel Brickell, written in 1930 and revised in 1938. The Modern Library, New York. Contains illustrations. The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans. Prefatory Notice by William Michael Rossetti. Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., New York, circa 1900. The Complete Notebooks of Henry James: The Authoritative and Definitive Edition. Edited with introductions […]
What it comes down to, I suppose, is that most, if not all, of my behavior is neurotic. How could it be otherwise? I’m assaulted by the news of killings every day, of mass shootings and war; I’m exposed to incessant, unscrupulous advertising, noise, and to flashing, brightly lit screens; outdoors, I walk on concrete and asphalt, indoors on artificial flooring; I drive a car; I harvest most of my […]
Ninety-seven percent humidity, the stars dim through the smoky, post-apocalyptic haze. The body says wait. . I ran this morning two hours later than usual, after eating, instead of before. Much to my surprise, the world didn’t end. Then again, it might already have ended, and my run might have been a dream. Dreaming after the world ends — yes, maybe that’s what living is really about. Oats, spelt, barley, […]
Now that I’ve scrolled through the daily lies, and interpreted them to suit my bloated ego identity, it’s time to turn my attention to whatever it is I think I want to do and will shore up and further the idea I have of myself and deepen my sense of superiority. Then I will have breakfast. I need to keep up my strength, you know. . [ 1814 ]
Flowers and bees. Computers and clocks. Hmmmm . . . . [ 1797 ]
Ancient man is in me. I see his starry night. I hear him call. Feel him shiver. Wait for light. He gathers food. Seeks a hand to touch. Looks out from the precipice. Dreams his waking dream. A few ripe berries. Finger stains. Computer keys. . [ 1786 ]
The ancient mariner, with a laptop hung around his neck. . [ 1671 ]
A picture of a mountain isn’t a mountain. So with a river, a flower, and those we hate and love. Memory, too, is a kind of picture, as are words. The word mountain isn’t a mountain. But to show each other our pictures, we climb mountains and mountains of words. The memory of something that happened isn’t the happening. Maybe that’s one reason we keep fighting wars. Genocide in books […]
The movement of birds, leaves, and insects; the changing patterns of light and shade; clouds; a walker passing by; all accompanied by subtle changes in humidity and temperature — these are the things we miss when we stay indoors and focus for too long on books and screens. Not only do we miss them, we miss the naturally beneficial medicine of our physical engagement and response to random stimuli, our […]
William Michaelian 