and this is the world in the form of a map mountains are knuckles and nations are blotches of failed pigment and this is my skin and that is where rivers run * I really do forget the drawings, and the poems. I call this a blessing — to be surprised, upon finding them later, and to feel almost as if they were done by someone else, as, in a […]
I can write about the poem, I can write about myself, or I can write about my mother; but it’s plain to see I can’t write about one, without writing about the others, which is why I wrote the poem in the first place — that, and the simple fact that on that day in 2018, it was her birthday, the fifth we marked since her passing. I did, in […]
My father died in 1995, yet I know him a little better each year, one quiet revelation at a time. This is a way of saying I know myself better, for the former cannot happen without the latter. How well he knew himself, though, I wouldn’t presume to judge, for he has surprised me many times, and will likely go on surprising me as long as my memory holds. It’s […]
I still rise around four in the morning, and I still enjoy a sip before dawn. And the time itself is one of stillness, and solitude. It’s not a big cup, but the coffee is black and strong, the way I knew I’d love it even in my childhood, long before I’d tasted of the miraculous bean. The cedar is now large enough to walk under, instead of having to […]
Having been friends with Glen doesn’t make me a hero. And yet it occurs to me now that, in the pieces I’ve written about him, it’s possible I’ve portrayed myself as such, as if my survival of his death from cancer at the age of eighteen, were somehow more important than what he suffered and the price he and his family ultimately paid. And, other than the fact that he […]
Long ago, in my fabled childhood, my piano teacher, Mrs. Crawford, told my mother one evening that I had perfect pitch. This was in my first year, when I used to sing with every note — not because it was expected of me, or that it was part of the lesson; the singing was a spontaneous result of everything that was going on — the sound, the feel of the […]
As noted then in these pages, my brother, Kirk, died two years ago today — an interval which seems much more like one expansive, all-encompassing breath. I see, meanwhile, that it’s been almost a month since I last wrote. During that time, I’ve felt neither the urge nor the need. And I don’t feel it now. What I do feel is the arrival of spring. Why, then, am I writing? […]
Childish notes — some things never change. And some things, are not things, at all. Summer in the vineyard, a small boy sitting under a vine, hidden by all the other vines. Thinking of it still, of the stillness, still that still, nigh sixty-eight years old, in full. One breath in all — one moment, one grand revelation, one sensation, of being. Alive, blue jeans to the ground, the same […]
The long nights, the deep, dark days, the eerie, sublime chill, shadows hidden within shadows, naked limbs, moss in every crevice and seam — if I’m lucky enough to emerge come spring, how can I arrive unchanged? In the street of an early morning, I’m amazed by the relentless human roar, the gasping of brakes, the grinding of gears, the howling of wheels, and I think, What means Sanity if […]
A quiet, meditative morning, passed mostly tending to household chores. Afternoon. A walk in the sun. On his hands and knees, the almost-eighty-seven-year-old woodcutter was pulling his neighbor’s weeds. . The Rambler, Numb. 14. Tuesday, May 1, 1750. Secrets — to tell, or not to tell. The rules therefore that I shall propose concerning secrecy, and from which I think it not safe to deviate, without long and exact deliberation, […]
William Michaelian 