I remember the night our first child was born, and how her hand wasn’t big enough to wrap around my finger. I remember watching my wife’s hand in its weightless caress, communicating with this new life. I remember, too, being patted on the head for my youthful idealism, which I have since learned is an acute form of common sense. Hands Imagine a world where faces and voices are […]
It’s true that in terms of my past, I have not written about everything. And it’s just as true that I have. I might not have written about this or that directly. But what I have learned from my puny struggles in life sheds light on what I do write about, and ultimately choose to preserve. The challenges, incidents, and embarrassments are all well represented. And this is not a […]
In a dream last night, I was visited by one, or two, or three white-haired gentlemen I apparently should have known, but who were only vaguely familiar. They knew my name, but I did not know theirs. They seemed to be waiting for me to remember. Finally, I confessed I was at a loss, upon which one gave me a hint, a rather long and mystical-sounding title of a musical […]
Somewhere in the house — I can only guess where — there’s a sturdy flat box meant to hold a ream of paper, with a patterned lid that fits neatly over the bottom portion; this box contains a long story I wrote for adults who are children, and for children who are adults — a sort of Huck Finn lightly fictionalized family history set on the farm where my father […]
It seems these older pieces are coming together in a way that makes them read as if they’re being written now, one giving rise to the next in a natural progression. I realize this is my impression. I don’t know if it strikes you that way. But I think this feeling is partly due to the pieces I am writing now — those which stand alone, and those which serve […]
I no longer have the arrogance to believe I will live beyond this word, this thought, this sentence. And as for being understood, that hardly seems important. Do I understand myself? Am I even meant to be understood? And if I think I am understood, does that mean I am? And is that really desirable? I go on writing and publishing. None of it is for me to decide. After […]
As I see it, when I remember something, a new version of the past is created, which, however much like the previous versions, is subtly altered by the very act of recall, along with whatever else has happened or not happened since the original was first made and lived. This is why, when I am suddenly confronted with hard evidence from bygone years, I will sometimes go into a kind […]
My personal history, as such, is less important to me the longer I live. The memories are abundant, and my recall is still fairly reliable and clear. I am glad of that. But I don’t dwell on it, or in it, as I once did, and as my parents and their parents most certainly did. It’s almost as if, on the day we first met, we were already going in […]
Today is our eldest grandson’s eleventh birthday. This poem was written not long after he was born. The coat in question is a thirteen-dollar woolen thrift store affair. I bought it in 2001 to wear to a wedding. It was made in Hungary. I liked it so much, and it held up so well, that I wore it regularly for a good dozen years, until it finally gave out. But […]
Now and then, someone will tell me my work deserves a wider audience. The truth is, I used to feel that way myself, and I tried everything I could think of to enter that magic realm. But the years went by, and the need fell away as I came to understand that the perfect number for an audience is one, and that this relationship we have — yours, mine, ours […]
William Michaelian 