The primitive human in me doesn’t want to be sitting here at a keyboard. It wants to be gathering wood or picking berries. If I must tell stories, let it be near a fire, sung as a poem, or pounded out on a drum. . In life as in the library — may the sweetest, ripest fruit always be just out of reach. . A cloudy morning for the eclipse. […]
In this crazy, desperate, beautiful game we play of human words and contructs, one thing I’ve learned is that I can’t feel gratitude for something and cling to it at the same time. Gratitude disappears the moment there’s a fear of loss. It might be the relative security of having a little money in the bank, it might be health, it might be ability, memory, or knowledge; it might be […]
How much of what I tell is made up? And what part of it is true? All, all. December 30, 2021 . After the Snow A wind has come up — as if somewhere in the earth, perhaps in the ground behind the house, a door, a hatch, previously unknown, has been flung open to admit a sudden gust of hope — gust, spelled ghost, for, just as suddenly, the […]
If, in the end, what we have written or told is only a story, That, too, is well, because it is the very same thing that life has done. And even given our last word, the story goes on. See us in the Index, under Ocean, Under Flight, under Stone. . [ 1294 ]
William Michaelian 