One Hand Clapping – December 2004
— William Michaelian
Note: Each month of One Hand Clapping has been assigned its own page. Links are provided here, and again at the bottom of each journal page. To go to the beginning of Volume 2, click here.
March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003
October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004
April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004
October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005
December 1, 2004 — I will try my best to face this new month like an adult. On second thought, why would I want to do that? Acting like an adult is clearly bad for one’s health, and it has a terrible effect on the children. No, I’ve changed my mind. Instead, I will clear the deck for Santa. Hellooo, Santa! Don’t get stuck in our chimney, we might not be able to get you out! Excuse me, I see a puddle I need to step in . . . there. What do I want for Christmas? I know — a little rowboat for my bubble bath. A rowboat, and a train, and a hammer, and some nails, and blocks, and a gold cigarette lighter. I never smoked when I was a little boy, but, by gum, I’m going to now. So add some gold cigarettes to that list, willya? And I want a pyramid for the backyard, where I can go exploring and find King Tut the Uncommon, or whatever his name was. And I’ll need a shovel and a pail, so I can tunnel under the street and hide my treasure. I want everything! I want a bus ride to the moon, a hollow spoon, and a dragon that plays the harmonica. I want a buffet sweater, a buttered boot strap, a bathysphere, an onion dome, a riverbed, and forty-seven cents. I need forty-seven cents because I only have fifty-three, and that would make a dollar. A pound of flour, the witching hour, gum drops, a big log cabin, and a cellar full of jam and maple syrup. And make sure they’re in bottles, or it’ll be might sticky down there. A horn full of corn, a magazine all torn, and an avalanche would be funny. And last but not least, a field of wheat and a rainbow dipped in honey. Oh, yes! And an honest Joe, whose name is Moe, with a big toe he calls Sonny. Am I forgetting anything? Oh, well. It doesn’t matter. There are still twenty-four days ’til Christmas.
December 2, 2004 — Why, here’s one of them right now. Unless I am way off base, this is the one that comes right after the one that came previously — the one that grabbed me by the throat and shook me like a sack of autumn leaves. Where that one came from, I don’t know. But here I am again, in the same chair, slumped over the same keyboard, at the same table, beside the same window — in short, on the surface, at least, today looks a lot like yesterday. I do see signs of a struggle, though. Papers are out of place, pens, folders, old business cards with scribbles on them, a stack of bills paid but not mailed, a signed check with the name filled out but no amount specified, and miscellaneous mutilated objects that probably once had meaning, and might again, provided I can summon up the courage to examine them. But that’s for later, after I have firmly re-established the crook in my neck, and made certain my shoulders are slumped at just the right angle. In other words, the writing comes first. After that comes the writing, which is followed by the writing, and then I top this off with a little writing. What does a stack of bills have to do with writing? Everything. But no more than that. I go here, I go there, I walk, I drive, I attend, I visit, I stop by, but in each and every case I am writing — not always consciously, mind you, but the wheels of writing continue to turn in the background, as I learn weeks, months, and years later when I am writing, and what went on in the background finally reveals itself in a single clear sentence completely unlike the sentence that we are currently mired in, and which shows no signs of abating, due to circumstances beyond my control. There. Did you notice that period? I put it there not because the sentence ended, but because it was time for it to end. The sentence itself is still going.
December 3, 2004 — Every so often, someone will ask me if writing is really the only thing I do. My answer: Yes. Absolutely. Of course not. How could it be? Do you think I’m some kind of nut? I suppose I could take an “average day” and examine it under a microscope, and subject it to various tests and compare the results against established societal norms, but even if I did, I am sure my methods and research would be rejected. So why bother? Especially when writing really is the only thing I do, despite a mirage of evidence to the contrary. Yesterday I went to the little library book store again. Was I writing? Yes. Did the three women working in the book store think I was writing? No. They thought I was shopping for books. Were they right? Partly, because I did buy a book: Dante’s Divine Comedy, with the masterful artwork of Gustave Doré. Still, I was writing the whole time I was there. I was writing the scene in the book store itself; I was writing the women’s conversation on the invisible tablet in my head; I was writing my trek through the Inferno that had brought me to the delicious moment in time when such a beautiful book would fall into my hands, knowing it would be a gift for our youngest son, who hopes to find several books of poetry in his Christmas stocking this year. Beyond this, what is left to explain? I wrote my way through the traffic downtown; I wrote the brick buildings and the people walking along in front of them; I wrote the disappointed face of a tired young woman pushing her baby in a stroller in the crosswalk before me, the two of them unable to explain what they know and how they came by their knowledge, at the same time seeking someone willing to listen for a day, an hour, a moment — and then they were gone, and I was somewhere else, still writing, which is to say, living, breathing, remembering, pleading, smiling, weeping, singing, and saying hello.
December 4, 2004 — I spent a peaceful hour yesterday evening assessing projects currently under way, and pondering a few others that I hope to tackle in the coming year, circumstances permitting. Where One Hand Clapping is concerned, one thing I found out is that to date, I have been at it exactly 628 days in a row, and have written in the neighborhood of 216,000 words. I don’t what this means, really, and I am almost afraid to find out. During that same period, I have written quite a few other things: poems, letters, short reviews, commentary of a humorous, serious, or sarcastic nature or of all three combined, reminiscences, and a number of checks, all of which, by no minor miracle, were good when presented at the bank. All in all, I would say it has been an interesting and productive time, by which I mean I am still hanging onto my sanity by a thread, and if something doesn’t give soon I am bound to crack completely. The war in Iraq rages on and the death count is accelerating, as I knew it would, and as it must, because of the relentlessly awful thing that has been set in motion. Evidence of U.S. election fraud continues to mount, but is suppressed by the media, which are more interested in Ukraine’s election problems than the ones they are supposed to be exposing in this country. The sad truth is, great numbers of people here don’t know what hit them, and what is still hitting them, and what it is likely to mean to them and their children and grandchildren. To varying degrees, they are snowed under, blind, worried, desperate, selfish, confused, angry, lonely, hungry, and morally bankrupt. This is accompanied by a general coarsening of attitude and behavior, both in public and at home, as well as an increased desire to see things in terms of black and white — a deadly approach to thinking that is encouraged by the religious right and its representatives in the White House, which are working hand in hand to create a nation of frightened, intolerant sheep who don’t question increased poverty, failing education, corporate thievery, and ongoing war. The only remedy to all this is to go on working and living, and to go on learning how to work and live in a way that is not harmful to others and to the home we all share. When enough of us are so engaged, the balance will begin to shift, and people like the president will have to find honest, productive work or starve. There was a homeless man, hat in hand, the former president. In his eyes, where once were lies, were rusted tanks and battleships. A blessing, sir! he cried. Please, a blessing! But the people turned away from the homeless man, hat in hand, the former president. The people turned away.
December 5, 2004 — A couple of weeks ago, the woman who lives across the street and one house down blew the leaves out of her yard and into the street with an electric leaf blower that sounded exactly like a hair dryer, and was capable of only slightly more force. Unfortunately, after her leaves were in a huge neat pile in the street, she still wasn’t satisfied, so she started blowing the leaves out of her neighbors’ driveways and gutters on both sides of the street, and then off the street itself, until she had cleared a space the size of an acre. Except for those immediately in front of our house, the beautiful fall leaves we had been enjoying the previous few days were gone, and the ugly sidewalks and pavement were once again revealed. The job took her a full and very noisy six hours, and I’m sure she would have continued had night not fallen. I still don’t know what prevented her from tackling the leaves in our gutter, since they were closer and more visible from her front window than a lot of those she went after. And then there is the neighbor two houses down in the opposite direction, who recently hollered at our seventeen-year-old because a car loaded with teenagers roared by her house. By the time she came out, the teenagers were gone and our son was standing there alone. He doesn’t drive, and had no idea who the people were who roared by, but the neighbor still had the gall to assume he was responsible, and so gave him a piece of her mind, which she obviously can’t afford to do. Knowing she is prone to these righteous eruptions, he smiled at her and walked away, having long since learned there is no reasoning with some people. Of course, he learned that first-hand from his old man. But as I have told him many times, if you’re going to be a basket case, go all out, don’t hold back. Blowing leaves for six hours and scolding the neighbors for things they didn’t do is mere child’s play. “Look at me,” I tell him. “The very moment I set foot outside, people know I’m nuts. I don’t have to prove it. It’s obvious.” And then he smiles and walks away, the dear, brilliant boy. Even at night, in my dreams, I can hear him laughing, as he watches me kick through our beautiful fall leaves, now turned to brown sludge.
December 6, 2004 — He places his hand on the Bible (which interpretation is hard to say, but it doesn’t matter because he hasn’t read it anyway) and swears to uphold the laws (his friends have written) of his country. My fellow citizens, he says, I will always act in your best interest (even if it kills you), because that’s the kind of guy I am. I’m a good guy, have always been a good guy, will always be a good guy, so have no qualms when I say to you that you must now run off yonder cliff, because it is only mete and right that ye should dash out your brains against the rocks for the Greater Good. And then the heavens open (just in time for Christmas), and a bright light of a suspiciously commercial nature shines upon the scene. No one moves. I said, says he of the knitted brow, his hand still on the Bible but twitching slightly, I said, head for yonder cliff. At this, a murmur arises, followed by a hubbub, followed by a commotion. Just as a revolution is about to begin, he switches to Plan B. Okay, he says, here are some video and pizza discount coupons. Have at ’em. And the anger temporarily subsides. The Bible is steaming ’neath his hideous claw. His lawyer-friends are working overtime. Soon, one of them whispers into his ear, Good news, Sire, revolution is now illegal. To which he replies, Took you long enough. Zot! (This is an old biblical term, used mainly to describe the sound of a bolt of lightning passing through the expensive suit of an evil man who wields great power.) There is a cry, and nasty fumes arise from a pile of ash, from which two gold cufflinks shine like a pair of evil eyes.
December 7, 2004 — Just the other day, a fifteen-year-old boy we’ve known all his life told our son about an interesting experience he had in his high school weight-lifting class. To satisfy their insatiable demand for more bodies, the main branches of the military sent recruits to his class to “explain the benefits of enlisting.” They did this by talking tough and issuing a competitive physical “challenge” to the strongest boys in the class. Then, after the adrenalin was pumping, they collected the telephone numbers and addresses of all the class members, giving them the impression that this was both routine and something they were required to do. When our son told me about this yesterday, I blew my stack and asked him whether the other boy actually gave out his information, or had told the recruiters to shove it. Not knowing any better, he had given out the information. And then our son said the same thing goes on at his school, and at others. And though it wasn’t necessary, I explained to him once again that never, under any circumstances, should he feel obliged to cooperate with such people, and that they have no right to harvest kids’ phone numbers and addresses, and that what they are doing has nothing to do with school and everything to do with preying on defenseless young minds in order to feed the government’s war machine. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it,” I said, “that they don’t send recruiters to your Shakespeare class. I wonder what that means.” When I told my wife about the incident later, I said it was a shame they don’t send the ones who come back from the war in wheelchairs and without their arms and legs. There are so many thousands of them that no class would have to be skipped. But we don’t hear much about those boys, do we? They are no longer of any value to the monsters who used them. And they come home to live their shattered lives, and watch as their big, tough fellow Americans pull up at the gas pumps in their SUVs and proudly say, Fill ’er up — with blood.
December 8, 2004 — There are three basic ways to look at this journal. If you are reading it now, day by day as it is being written and presented on the Internet, you can look at it as a pleasant journey without a destination. If you are reading it “in the future,” as in ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred years from now, you can look at it as a record of the times. Or, if you are reading it now and in the future, which is to say at a deeper, more farsighted level, you can look at it not only as a journey or record of the times, but as a living, breathing, changing thing in which you yourself are included. Naturally, I prefer the latter, but any way you approach this work is fine, even if, as I jump from the frying pan into the fire, you are only having a laugh at my expense. I want you to laugh, and I don’t mind being laughed at. But if that is your main purpose, I feel I must warn you that sooner or later, there is a good chance that you will be asking disturbing questions about yourself and what you think and believe. Quite possibly, you have already asked one or two without realizing it, and answered them in a way that would astonish you if you weren’t so busy laughing at me. In other words, I am not writing with an ordinary hammer. It just seems that way.
December 9, 2004 — In my next life, I will be a stone, a large, speckled granite mass with moss on my back and a cold spring at my feet where pilgrims come to wash away their cares. I will listen to their hearts and give to each my ancient blessing. They will not hear my voice, but they will carry it away with them in their sinews and bones. And they will be glad. In my next life, I will be a stone. But I will still remember what I was before: a man, a poet, and nothing more.
December 10, 2004 — When this journal is done — assuming that glorious day ever comes — I think the best thing to do will be to immediately begin a second journal and call it The Other Hand Clapping. It’s so obvious, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. And then, when the second journal is done, I can start a third journal and call it The Two Hands Finally Meet and Are Gravely Disappointed. At a very modest two years per journal, this would take me all the way into the year 2009. By then I should be able to figure out a more productive way to spend my time. The real question, of course, is, who will be president in 2009? Or will America’s rules have been rewritten to bypass this silly voting business altogether, so that George Hitler Bush can stay on as this country’s first official Marionette Dictator? I wouldn’t be surprised. As it is, I’m already having nightmares in which I am being chased by vegetables wearing suits. It’s very unsettling, especially when the vegetables have cabbage heads with eyes, and say things like “bring ’em on.”
December 11, 2004 — Let’s see here. First I’ll move this pile of papers — hmm . . . here are a couple of interesting drawings I did a few days ago — there. Now. What shall I do with the rest of my life? I can plan for the worst, or I can expect the best, and do everything within my power to see that it happens. Considering the information at hand, planning for the worst might seem wise, but it doesn’t sound like very much fun. And if it isn’t fun, it can’t be wise. Or do you believe wisdom is crusty and dull, and for old people who can’t get around? Granted, you don’t hear too many rappers saying “Wisdom is cool, the world is my school, the fool is the tool of the ES-tablishment.” But they do have strong neck muscles. Well, rapping is an art form. That’s what it is. No. Wait. I was thinking of Christmas wrapping. I always get the two mixed up. Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. I was about to say that living is a lot more fun when you expect the best and then try to make it happen. And it is certainly wise, because pursuing that course benefits everyone. Consider the magical effect a single smile has on those who witness it. If this isn’t proof of the power we have to dramatically change the world, nothing is. Everyone thinks change is complicated. It isn’t. Change has nothing to do with money, or religion, or politics. Those things are just a mirage — an excuse to continue with our sorry behavior. We could change the world this minute if we really wanted to. But we don’t want to. It gets back to something I’ve said many times before: no matter how bad it is, we prefer the known to the unknown. We are afraid to let go and be happy. We cling to our misery like barnacles on pier pilings. Misery is our identity. The fear is, if we lose our misery, we lose ourselves — as if our precious selves were worth keeping in this condition. In other words, blah-blah-blah-blah this guy is boring blah-blah-blah-blah I wish he’d shut up blah-blah-blah-blah. And that may well be. But what amazes me about our situation is that we are so close to the happiness we are meant for, and are only a single, simple decision away. All that’s needed is the courage to celebrate everything, without trying to measure or label the experience. Life is not to judge, but to live. We didn’t create Life, it created us. We are one of Life’s expressions. Life was here long before we were, and, as strange and threatening as it seems, it is quite likely that it will be here long after we are gone. It is incredibly small of us, therefore, to think of Life in terms of win or lose, better or worse, rich or poor, beautiful or ugly, or mine or yours. It’s obvious where such thinking has gotten us, and where it leads. Isn’t it?
December 12, 2004 — A tree, a hand, a waterfall. The night sky, fire, a child’s worn-out shoe. A grain of salt, a breeze, and a stiff paint brush. A painted hand, a stiff tree, a firefall, a child’s worn-out grain of salt, a night breeze, a brushed sky. A worn-out hand, a salty shoe, a child’s stiff fire, a falling tree, a painted nightgrain, and a brushed wet breeze. In the worn-out night sky, a salty hand paints a child’s burning tree with a stiff shoe in the grainy breeze beside a falling waterbrush. Yes, I can see it all quite clearly. Maybe that’s my problem.
December 13, 2004 — That concludes the preface. Now let me tell you who I really am. I am the baby boy who first wailed his grief, joy, and astonishment nearly half a century ago in a small-town hospital at two-thirty on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and whose voice was loud enough to hear down the corridor and out in the street, and in the fields and vineyards beyond. Despite this, there was an upsetting case of mistaken identity when my father looked through the window of the maternity ward and saw a five-day-old Japanese baby and thought it was me. . . . I wasn’t named until the day I was taken home. I wonder about that period of limbo. I don’t question the indecision, for that is entirely understandable. What I wonder about is that blissful time when I was who I was, without barrier or interpretation, before I became William — or, as my mother remembered later in a short poem she wrote commemorating the occasion, “He is a William in miniature, the conqueror of our hearts.” I blush only slightly at her sentiment, and even believe in it — within its proper context, of course. For what child isn’t, at least momentarily, a conqueror of hearts, or doesn’t possess that power? The fact is, I made note of this and other observations on my empty mental tablet after I was taken home. “It seems I have made a good impression on them,” I scribbled. “Off to a good start.” I made other notes as well. “Brothers rambunctious — an encouraging sign,” was one, and another was “Father has a loud voice and smells like tobacco.” Then I woke up screaming bloody murder, for I had understood something profound that I was unable to put into words: I was hungry. And so the world was temporarily, urgently defined.
December 14, 2004 — I don’t remember the first time I met my father’s father, but I’m sure it was an event worth recording, so I will record it here. He was wearing a straw hat when he emerged from the vineyard between our house and his, and was only slightly dusty, for it was still relatively early in the year. In May, the heavy soil on our farm had yet to crumble entirely, and a disturbance more violent than a man’s work shoes grinding against it was needed to raise a cloud of dust. My grandfather’s shoes were dusty, but his pants and shirt were scarcely so. He had also oiled his shoes recently — a detail that revealed Gramp’s practical nature. He smelled good. I mention this because the way one’s grandfather smells is extremely important. His was an honest, uncomplicated, Old Country, working-man’s smell — a smell I eagerly inhaled, and which was effortlessly imprinted on my mind. I was not Gramp’s first grandson. I was his third, and his fifth of eight grandchildren over all. I do not believe he walked to our house that day expecting to be surprised, but he was surprised nonetheless when he first saw me, as I was when I first saw him. We were surprised because we knew each other, but hadn’t expected to meet again so soon. Such is the unpredictably fluid nature of centuries. Neither of us demanded an explanation. We were simply grateful that our paths had crossed again. Gramp made a gentle clucking sound in his throat, and then his strong hands lifted me up, and I floated away from my mother and toward the open plain of his chest, and then willingly let my great, ponderous head rest against his shoulder, over which I could see a warm pattern of painted brushstrokes on the wall near the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen. And there I remained for an eternity, or what might have been, had the moment not been so fleeting. We will meet again, his spirit said to mine as he returned me to my mother’s arms. And he laughed gently to find himself alive.
December 15, 2004 — I do remember the first time I met my father’s mother, for a moment in her presence was enough to awaken the brooding anger she had passed on to me and that would bind us together, even after her death. More than once, my father said it was a shame I didn’t know her when she was young, and especially before she had lost a son in the Second World War. What he didn’t know, or had perhaps forgotten, was that I was present when the telegram arrived from the War Department announcing my uncle’s death, and that I was present when she and my grandfather were given a neatly folded flag as a token of their sacrifice, and that while they wept, I cursed. My uncle died in Italy, and was buried there, but I still did everything in my power to bring him home — to restore him to his mother and father, even if for a moment — and failed. My spirit raged through the rooms, and echoed in the heavy silence. The beautiful young woman who had been engaged to my uncle appeared in the mist, for she knew what had happened even before she had been told. She was surrounded by her unborn children, and I hungrily memorized the limbs and faces of the cousins I would never know. Then I watched as their spirits began to fade, and as their great brown eyes melted into the dawn. But the loss of her child was not the sole reason for my grandmother’s anger. She was angry long before he was born, and restless, and uprooted, and outraged. She didn’t belong in Fresno, California, any more than her mother and father and grandparents and uncles and cousins who had escaped destruction in Armenia at the hands of the Turks. I have always been conscious of this fact, and proud of it, and aware of the pain it caused, and the sorrow it engendered, and the exaggerated forms of success to which it gave rise, and which were rooted in the family’s singularly mad, poetic strain. Oh, yes — I knew my grandmother, in ways my father was afraid to imagine. But let us speak practically for a moment. I also knew nothing, nothing at all. And I know it still.
December 16, 2004 — Gently, gently, I was lulled to sleep. But in my dreams I heard the sound of a million footsteps marching through the desert. And over the clatter of horses, sabers, and guns there arose the cry of young women and mothers and children as they were brutally raped and tortured by the Turkish soldiers who were marching them out to die. The countryside was littered with corpses, the desert strewn with bones. Desperate with thirst and mad with grief and shame, women threw themselves into wells and rivers to drink, and to die with their children in their arms, to prevent them further suffering. By the time I had awakened, their prayers and cries had found a voice in the poem I am writing now. In the beginning, I thought it not possible to laugh, that laughter was a crime. But I quickly learned from my family that laughter is the only way to survive grief and destruction, and is therefore a moral duty. And so I laughed, and in laughing, the poem was given light, and breath, and hope, and those who had murdered a nation were hung forever on a scaffold for all the world to see. In a word, I became mad. Thereafter, each time I opened my eyes, I felt someone had just kissed my forehead.
December 17, 2004 — Do you know what it is to be mad, to hear the whisper of mad angels at night? Do you know what it is to dream by a sacred river one day, only to see it run with blood the next? To slowly die beneath a blazing sun while vultures circle overhead? To have your unborn child cut from your womb and thrust high as a prize upon a bayonet? To desperately hunt for edible grain in horse manure, or to lick a dead sister’s filthy, sweaty rags for the moisture they contain? To rock your dead child while your brain echoes with her cries for milk? To escape, to live, to work in a shoe factory, to weave rugs, to build, to dig, to freeze, to sweat, to bleed, to beg on the streets of strange cities, to rejoice at the sight of an apple though it remains out of reach? . . . And then to be awakened by a kiss on the forehead to a verdant, smiling dream? . . . Or are you imprisoned by your sanity?
December 18, 2004 — There is no turning back. Once something is said, it is said forever. Only time, events, and fading or unwilling memory can blur the lines we have foolishly drawn with our tongue and our pen. But what of sorrow and grief left unspoken? We do not deny a summer breeze, or the smoke that rises slowly from chimneys and drifts like a prayer across the slumbering winter plain. I speak of words as deeds, because all deeds are rooted in words — each kindly and heinous act, each blessing or murder. Long before the Armenian Genocide was conceived and committed, it was written and spoken in millions of minds. Only then did the words have the power to become the act. Now the world wonders about Iraq. It wonders about Israel, and Iran, and the United States, the governments of which all preach hatred so the people will do their bidding. In order for one human being to hate another human being, he must first come to regard the other as something less than himself, something less than human. From there, he is a whisper away from participating in the mass murder condoned by governments and religion. In other words, Jesus was the Prince of Peace, but — and the Lord said Thou shalt not kill, unless — and our bloody ignorance is passed down through the generations. We choose blindness instead of sight, destruction instead of kindness, death instead of life, and then say Merry Christmas, or one of its many equivalents. If we really meant it, there would be no need to celebrate on a specific date. Every day would be a day of brotherhood and peace. Hunger and poverty would end. We would not tolerate them in our midst. We would not tolerate crippled men and women begging with signs on street corners. We would not allow ourselves to be represented by wealthy liars, thieves, and murderers who rewrite the law to suit themselves. If we really meant it, we could write, speak, and sing to each other about the sweetness of Life, instead of the blind sorrow of Unnecessary Death. But even through sorrow, we can arrive at the truth. Even through the sound of mothers weeping after their dear dead children whose bones lie bleached beneath the desert sun, we can arrive at the truth. It is, after all, the road we have chosen. To turn away from it now would be to turn away from Life forever.
December 19, 2004 — The coffee is strong this silent Sunday morning, the sky is calm, the street is dry, and the patient graves have reclaimed their dreams and bones. On the sacrificial altar, the blood has turned to rusted grains of sand, and in the courtyard, flowers have sprung up between the stones. The priest is now a farmer, the king is baking bread. The merchant is a builder, and the judge sails in search of cures. The scientist praises mystery, the rich man serves the poor. And the ragged wandering poet — is the same wise child as before. Have pity on the poet, for it is he who remembers your dreams and calls them forth. When in gentle eventide you hear him knock upon your door, fear him not, and turn him not away. Give him food and shelter, and show him the warmth of your fire. Do so, and your children will be blessed. Do so, and it will be counted as your gift to the future. And in the bright morning when you find the poet gone, and your refrigerator empty, and your favorite shirt missing, don’t blame me. Wisdom, like everything, comes with a price.
December 20, 2004 — There is a marvelous quote by André Gide at the front of a book I am about to read called My Brother Jack. Here it is: “Fiction there is — and history. Certain critics of no little discernment have considered that fiction is history which might have taken place, and history fiction which has taken place. We are indeed forced to acknowledge that the novelist’s art often compels belief, just as reality sometimes defies it. Alas! there exists an order of minds so skeptical that they deny the possibility of any act as soon as it diverges from the commonplace. It is not for them that I write.” Yes, indeed. That’s the kind of talk I like. My Brother Jack was written by Australian author George Johnston and first published in 1964. I know nothing about the book except that it is supposed to be great, and that it is a favorite title of a friend in Australia who just sent it to me. The first paragraph looks promising: My brother Jack does not come into the story straight away. Nobody ever does, of course, because a person doesn’t begin to exist without parents and an environment and legendary tales told about ancestors and dark dusty vines growing over outhouses where remarkable insects might always drop out of hidden crevices. My, my — sounds like an echo of the last few days. Amazing. I wonder if my friend is trying to tell me something? She also sent two other books: The Sound of One Hand Clapping, by Tasmanian author Richard Flanagan, and A Creed for the Third Millennium, by Colleen McCullough, who also wrote The Thorn Birds. The funny thing about Richard Flanagan’s book is that I had never heard of it when I began this journal. If I had, there is a good chance that I would have called it something else, or at least have written to Mr. Flanagan and asked him to change the title in subsequent editions of his oft-reprinted novel. In any case, I am set with a ton of good reading. I must read more. I don’t read nearly enough. I am sick of being ignorant. But the hours slip through my fingers, and the days, and the years, and I am more ignorant now than I was ten years ago, because not only do I not read enough, I am forgetting most of what I have read in the past. Ah, well. And then there’s this One Hand Clapping business. Maybe I should change the title. Maybe I should apologize to Mr. Flanagan and all the Zen masters and rename this work Knowing Is Not Enough. Or here is something even better: ? Has anyone ever used a punctuation mark as a title? Bah! If I read enough, I would know the answer to that!
December 21, 2004 — Late yesterday evening when I was no longer good for anything else — a tragic, recurring condition — I signed onto the Internet and visited the friend of a friend’s friend’s “blog,” and was relieved to find that it still hadn’t been updated — a situation that has continued now for a number of days. I suppose he is busy with Christmas. But really, busy or not, it doesn’t matter. Another thing that doesn’t matter is that I clicked on a link at the top of the page that said “Next Blog,” and continued clicking on “Next Blog” links for ten or fifteen minutes, stopping long enough at each new page to read a few lines, and in some cases a whole paragraph — except, that is, for the ones in foreign languages. What possibly does matter is that I found nothing but consistently rotten, unoriginal, self-absorbed garbage, some of it riddled with cliché filth, all of it echoing television — basically a cross between sitcoms, prime-time soap operas, and a McDonald’s advertisement. And I thought, It’s a shame these people aren’t really living, instead of parroting the trash they are constantly bombarded with. It’s a shame they have become paralyzed members of their media-assigned demographic. Naturally, I’m all for self-expression — which is exactly my point. The people whose words I read think they are expressing themselves. That’s what makes it so sad.
December 22, 2004 — Now that I think about it, an interesting challenge would be to read a hundred or so blog entries like those I mentioned, and extract certain words and phrases from each and arrange them as poems. After all, it is not the fault of the words themselves that they lack fire. They are only doing as they are told — quite reluctantly, I might add, for you can see the embarrassed look in their eyes as you read them and try to guess their meaning. In that way, they are like music in the hands of two-chord trash-metal guitarists, who live their lives a publicist and a power outage away from oblivion. Each causes pain for those on the receiving end. And while real art can and often does cause pain, it should be remembered that the pain it causes is accompanied by new understanding. It can be argued, of course, that most bloggers and trash-metal guitarists don’t claim to be artists. But the truth is, many of them could be if they would slow down, roll up their sleeves, and give themselves the chance. After all, they are alive. And living is what art is all about.
December 23, 2004 — Beep-beep-bee-beep-beep! This special bulletin just in from the Fearless Free and Unbiased Press, otherwise known as the Watchdog of Democracy: Mr. Bush cares about Mr. Rumsfeld. Mr. Rumsfeld cares about the American soldiers killed in Iraq and their families. Mr. Bush cares about freedom and democracy. Mr. Rumsfeld cares about Mr. Bush. That is all. We now return you to that cheerful Christmas tune, “Jingle Bombs.” Buy, buy, buy — buy, buy, buy — bible all the way! Oh what fun it is to buy with a bible every day — hey! Dashing through the sand, in an unarmored open sleigh, o’er the bodies we go, shooting all the way. Bombs on bobtails sing, causing spirits fright, oh what fun it is to ride and sing a slaying song tonight. Oh! Jingle bombs, jingle bombs, jingle all the way . . .
December 24, 2004 — Random thoughts the day before Christmas: What if courage were defined by shaking hands instead of pulling the trigger? . . . Tell me again, Mr. President — how does shooting strangers in their homes and destroying their country lead to friendship and trust? . . . Silent night, holy night, the stores have closed and the people have all gone home — except for the homeless. . . . We speak of Peace, but we don’t know what Peace is. A life of ease and plenty at the expense of others is not Peace. It is thievery. . . . Something must be wrong with me. I can no longer tell the difference between oil and blood. . . . The soldiers on our side are freedom-loving heroes. The soldiers on their side are freedom-hating insurgents — unless you are on their side. Then the roles are reversed. . . . When a child is born, he is infinitely wise. When he forgets what he knows and is imprisoned by words, he is proclaimed an adult. If he remains a child and speaks the truth, he is considered insane. If he persists, he is considered a threat to society that must be removed. After he has been removed or has conveniently died, someone says, “He was right, you know.” Then he goes to bed and forgets all about it by morning. The next day, someone else says the same thing, and then he goes to bed, and forgets all about it by morning. This goes on for a number of centuries, until finally everyone says, “He was right, you know.” But by then it’s too late, even though he was right, though not in the way everyone thinks he was. But that’s okay, too, because they are adults who don’t know what hit them, and are busy, and tired, and can’t wait to get to bed so they can forget all about it by morning. And forget they do. Then they rise, and wish they could be children again.
December 25, 2004 — It’s ten minutes after seven and everyone is still asleep. I also stayed in bed longer than usual: five-thirty. I’ve had a look at the “newspaper,” and taken a steaming-hot shower, and made coffee, which I am just starting on now. At the moment, I feel like I could write for the next several hours, but I won’t, since a day of family activity is planned. We have family activity every day, of course, but it usually isn’t planned. Today it is planned, but it will be very similar to the activity that isn’t. In other words, we will eat and talk. Actually, the only plans that are really necessary revolve around the leg of lamb we will be having this afternoon, and how long it will need to be in the oven. What can I say? We are simple people. My loving bride made two pies last night — one apple, one pumpkin. Later this morning, I will make a big pot of soup with potatoes, carrots, celery, tomatoes, garlic, parsley, and olive oil, and maybe one or two other things, depending on what I find. I might use some lamb stew meat for flavor, or I might not. It’s good both ways. Anyway, that’s later. This is now, and now is what it’s all about, which means that what I just said about it being now is in the past and should be forgotten, because this is now — the real now, the potent now, the wondrous now, the now that contains everything a person could ever want or need, because a moment like this only comes once — and lasts forever, if we could accept such a simple fact, but our wiring makes it difficult, our ability to remember, our inclination to yearn, and to be easily distracted. Now — where were we? Ah, yes. I am writing now, and later when I am making soup it will be now, and then still later when we are eating it, it will be now — the moment and the soup. It really isn’t complicated unless we insist that it be so. The trouble with insisting is, while we are busy insisting, we forget to notice that it is now, and so are blind to the wonder of the moment — which, as I have said, lasts forever, which in turn is a very good thing, because it means we can wake up and catch the train at any time and still be in good shape. Really, it’s hard to think of anything more exciting and wonderful, except maybe the leg of lamb we will be having now, in this fleeting, joyous moment that lasts forever.
December 26, 2004 — I realize I am supposed to be out shopping for after-Christmas bargains this morning, and that I am a lazy, unpatriotic bum for staying home. But as there was nothing in the stores that I wanted or needed before Christmas, I don’t see how there could be anything there that I want or need now. But I do have a new book. It’s called Letters from the Earth, and it contains work by Mark Twain published after his death, all of which I am eager to read. The book was given to me by my long suffering and ever faithful bride, probably with the hope that it will keep me distracted while she struggles valiantly to keep our household running. I’m sure it will do the trick. In the Christmas soup department, I did use a piece of lamb with bone for the base, with excellent results. No one actually cheered, but a brief silence fell over the crowd as bowls on both sides of the table were summarily drained. And the leg of lamb itself was outstanding. My wife’s brother was with us, and we confessed in whispers to each other afterward that the flavor had nearly brought us to tears. Naturally, we noted a similar reaction to the mulberry and apricot vodka my brother brought last year from Armenia. Well, where is a big cigar when you need it? All this talk about Mark Twain, lamb roast, and vodka makes me feel like lighting up — something I haven’t done since August, if memory serves me correctly. Oh, well. It will probably be next August before I am willing to divert money from my used book fund again and invest in tobacco. From what I gather, Mark Twain didn’t have this trouble, though he had plenty of other things to worry and mourn about — as he would if he were alive today. Imagine Mark Twain waiting in the customer lounge at his local car dealership while computer technicians try to locate the source of his automobile’s malfunction. Imagine him smoking outside in the doorway, wearing a white suit, and watching an endless line of cars creep past the drive-up window of the fast food joint across the street. Imagine how strange he would look to everyone. Interestingly enough, I suffered a similar fate last week when I was at the dealership, where I had dutifully reported for regular vehicle maintenance. Everyone there was crazy. They looked crazy, they acted crazy, and they thought I was crazy because I didn’t look and act like them. Some of them were friendly, though, because they thought I might buy a car. That shows how perceptive they were. I was told to eat a holiday cookie or doughnut, or to have some holiday coffee, but as the stuff had obviously been sitting out for hours I politely refused, saying I had just eaten. There were some very fancy, expensive cars stopping at the drive-up window across the street, some costing in the neighborhood of thirty or forty thousand dollars, and a few others quite a bit more. In the parking lot, I saw little children clutching grease-stained bags of processed junk, as their parents casually-arrogantly pressed buttons on their key rings to unlock their car doors while they were still several feet away. Is it hard to imagine what their future holds, the values and herd-minded ideals? I want everything on it. Well, okay. But you still won’t be able to cover it up, my friend. It will still be exactly what it is, despite the secret sauce. My advice is to stay home next time and peel some onions and potatoes, and chop some celery and carrots, and teach yourself and your kids how to make a good stew. It’s not too late. You will feel better, you will be happier, and your breath will smell better.
December 27, 2004 — Twenty-one thousand people have already died from tidal waves caused by a massive earthquake in the Indian Ocean near Indonesia yesterday. India, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia were especially hard-hit, and a number of deaths have also been reported in Thailand and Malaysia, and even as far west as Somalia. One news broadcast last night said that more than a million people have been left homeless by the quake, which registered 9.0 on the Richter Scale. It is amazing, indeed. With a single wave of her mighty hand, Mother Nature has reminded us of our insignificance, and that she could just as easily do without us if she so chose. Of course, some will see the earthquake as an act of God, in which case it is reasonable to think that the Good Old Grump has grown tired of watching us kill each other, and has graciously decided to step in and help. And lest I be accused of being too lighthearted in the face of such widespread disaster, I will record here that my wife’s brother and his family were in Malaysia as recently as the eighth day of this month, and were planning to sail from there for South Africa, and that we do not know where they are at the moment, or if they are safe. We have sent them an e-mail. Now we wait.
December 28, 2004 — My wife’s brother and his family are safe — still in Malaysia, but on high ground. They had just left their dingy on the beach and gone into town on visa business, where a travel agent tried to tell them about the tidal waves, but didn’t quite succeed due to a language barrier. Then, while they were having lunch, they saw a CNN broadcast and found out what was happening. Later, they found their battered dingy in a parking lot, with its anchor wrapped around a tree. The death toll from the earthquake now stands at 44,000.
December 29, 2004 — There have already been several letters to the editor saying what a shame it is that the United States spends five billion dollars a month to occupy Iraq when the money could be used to help the earthquake victims in South Asia, where the death toll now stands at 76,000. This is true. But it’s also important to remember how and why the Iraq situation came about in the first place, and how all such situations come about. The monsters in power must first be given that power by the people they claim to represent. People like the Bushes, who are nothing but low-grade wealthy business weasels in suits, couldn’t get away with what they are getting away with if the man on the street would ponder the outcome of the decisions he makes in his daily life and the actions he takes. Even if he began to ponder, to question, it would make a big difference. But the monsters know this, and do everything they can to keep the masses distracted, entertained, misinformed, and stunned. This is why they have seized control of the media, and jammed the airwaves with right-wing filth, and the papers with patriotic rah-rah articles while skirting the real issues — the election fraud, the war for oil, unemployment, poor education, unaffordable health care, and on and on. That this isn’t plain to millions of people, and that the monsters’ corrupt behavior is even praised and emulated, shows just how successful they have been. How sad it is that even a devastating earthquake isn’t enough to wake them.
December 30, 2004 — When I first sat down a moment ago, I was going to quote a few of the glaring inconsistencies I found in this morning’s paper, first about the U.S. economy, and then regarding the foul lies issuing from the president’s mouth about the so-called election he plans to hold in Iraq at the end of January. But I’ve changed my mind. And I’m not going to talk about the earthquake, either, or about the paltry thirty-five million dollars the U.S. says it will contribute to the relief efforts, or the letter to the editor in this morning’s paper that said thirty-five million is what this country spends every eight hours in Iraq, or the fact that 114,000 lives have now been claimed by the earthquake disaster. The reason I am not going to write about these things is that they seem to be doing a pretty good job of writing about themselves and don’t really need my help. And so I will write about something else, or will try, at any rate. In a little Armenian newspaper that is mailed to my mother’s house every week, there was a short and pathetically written article that begins like this: “What is believed to be the world’s oldest first toilet and sewer system, dating to prehistoric times, has been unearthed in the eastern Turkish province of Van, according to NTVMSNBC.com August 23.” Van, of course, is an ancient Armenian stronghold, and was the setting for some of the most horrible atrocities ever committed by man against man. The article continued: “The sewerage system was found by archaeologists working on excavations at the site of a Urartian castle in Gurpinar region of eastern Turkey. According to Professor Dr. Oktay Belli, the director of Istanbul University’s Eurasian Archaeology Institute, the find was of particular significance. The discovery of a toilet in the western part of Cavustepe Castle built by Urartian King Sarduri II in 764 BC pushed back the dating for such systems, he said in an interview with the Anatolian news agency. ‘We revealed that Urartian architects had formed a sewer system before building the castle. The toilet and sewer system in the castle is similar to today’s toilets,’ the professor said.” And there you have it. Armenian kings used toilets in ancient times. And now back to the present. This is from the front page of the same paper: “Turkish mob attacks five young Armenians in Valance — Five young French citizens of Armenian origin were attacked by a Turkish mob of 15 Turks at the Town Hall of Valance while they were distributing leaflets against the Turkish entry to the EU. After destroying their stand, the Turks started throwing bottles and later attacked the Armenians injuring them. One was hospitalized. Local Armenians who went back to clean up the area were later attacked by another Turkish mob of 50, who were shouting ‘our grandparents massacred you and we will continue.’” And so, my dear friends, we near the end of another year of Human Enlightenment. Tomorrow is the last day of 2004. May we all give thanks and celebrate — at least those of us who have toilets. Those who don’t will have to wait.
December 31, 2004 — The other day, I used the word iceberg in a poem, and it occurs to me now that there was a time when, depending on where they lived, many people in the world didn’t know, and never found out, what an iceberg is. Even now, most of us have to learn about icebergs in books and on television, and have had no personal experience with them whatsoever. And yet there I was, casually using the word iceberg, just as if I were part penguin, and fully expecting to achieve the desired effect. I would like to think that this is an example of the miracle that is language, and it is, but there is also something else at work here, something powerful yet largely taken for granted, and that is our ability to see, feel, hear, taste, smell, and imagine something that is foreign to us, or that has hitherto gone unnoticed, all at the mere suggestion of a word — a word, moreover, that might not even have been uttered and heard, but only seen on a page, and in the company of other words that are each fully ripened mysteries unto themselves. It would be easy to jump to the conclusion that writers and readers are in a better position to understand and appreciate this, but the fact is, we are all endowed with the ability — one might safely call it a need — to be an instrument through which the music of Life is played and understood. Everything around us is a messenger — every blade of grass, every grain of sand, every drop of water, all that beckons to our senses — and then the harmonized vibrations in between, the colors we don’t see but know are there, the sounds we don’t hear but that touch us and move us to tears, and the universal language we have forgotten but still understand at a molecular level, and which calls to us and blesses us and waits for us to respond. We are here not for any of the reasons we think we are. In our fear and puzzlement, we crave an explanation that doesn’t need to be, and in so doing reduce Life to inaccurate, paltry terms, to crippled dogmas and beliefs, and to complicated systems that only serve to entangle and confuse those who adhere to them. We are here to find out. That is our curse, our joy, our destiny.
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April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004
October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005
Also by William Michaelian
POETRY
Winter Poems
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
52 pages. Paper.
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Another Song I Know
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
80 pages. Paper.
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Cosmopsis Books
San Francisco
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