I was back from a run in time to see a raccoon family scamper across the street and disappear in the dark between the neighbor’s house and ours. I think I counted two adults and three young ones. . A delightful footnote on the first page of Ozell’s revision of Peter Motteux’s translation of Don Quixote, where we learn, “His diet consisted more of Beef than Mutton; and with minc’d […]
A refreshing run in a driving wind early this morning, and a brisk walk this afternoon. In between, a lot of dusting, cleaning, and laundry. A change of furnace filters. As of three o’clock, no books opened, but several picked up, dusted, and put down again. No borders recognized, no sides taken, no flags raised or waved. November 11, 2023. . [ 1925 ]
When I ran this morning, I wore gloves and a snow cap, yet my bare feet were warm. . I’m aware that I write for a very small audience. I’m also aware that each member of that audience brings something to the writing that it most certainly needs: kindness and wings. . Gutter Journal, Numb. 4. Thursday, November 9, 2023. Cleaned back gutters and downspouts of fir needles and birch […]
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 […]
The body as teacher. The body as friend. The body as substance. The body as dream. The body as sailor. The body as ship. The body as sea. The body as troubadour. The body as flute. The body as song. The body as ash. The body as wind. The body as tree. . Back from an early-morning run in a very warm, dense rain. . Thoreau’s journal, March 9, 1854. […]
The mail was late yesterday, but among the usual junk was a package containing two books from the Library of America — one being the volume by Henry James mentioned recently, Collected Travel Writings: The Continent; the other a collection of early work by Gertrude Stein, Writings: 1903-1932. And so the stacks grow a little higher and a little deeper. . I slept remarkably well last night, and woke up […]
The sunflowers aren’t quite to the skeletal stage, but with the frost upon them, their flesh is rapidly melting away. The birds still come, the scrub jays, nuthatches, and finches. It’s a talkative town, but in stark, fleet moments there’s a blackening sense of the approaching end of conversation, and of new beginnings that must wait their turn in the ground. . If I’m discovered to be mad, what of […]
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, […]
Running in the storm when the trees are rocking and reeling brings as good a feeling as when the weather is balmy and calm. But I’m aware that part of that feeling is derived from knowing I have a safe, warm house to return to. I also know that it might not always be safe and warm, just as I know that I won’t always be here, whatever may come. […]
Fifty-eight degrees. A light, steady rain. Smoke. A four o’clock run. I don’t care to be in a room full of noisy people. A room full of quiet people, I can appreciate and enjoy. People are at their best when they’re quiet. I can move about among them as I move about among rocks and trees, loving them softly, without needing, seeking, or expecting love in return. But I love […]
William Michaelian 