As Plain as the Nose on My Face

As Plain as the Nose on My Face
Some days, I find that I must simply sit by and watch a parade of images. This, too, is part of my work: to remember, wonder, and marvel at what has happened during my strange, insignificant life, and to examine, to the extent my limited faculties will allow, those moments within their own context, and within the context of what is, or what I think is, happening now. Of course, to a casual observer, it might well appear that I am doing nothing but drinking coffee, stretching occasionally, and gazing out the window. I understand this. I also understand that casual observers are not truly interested in anything: if they were, they would be real observers � in which case they would see that I am trying to wrestle not only my experience, but also our collective experience, into some kind of tangible, worthwhile, meaningful, understandable, graceful, and lasting form. Why I should pursue this particular course or method is anyone�s guess. Part of the reason, I am sure, is that writing is so difficult � physically, mentally, and as an art, and also as a way of life. Writing is more than a challenge. It is a nearly impossible, ridiculous undertaking that requires constant vigilance and an enormous amount of energy. As such, literary labor is perfectly suited to my vanity and temperament. Whenever and wherever there has been a more arduous path, I have taken it. Along the way, I have become less and less reasonable in appearance, less employable, and, in public, much harder to ignore. If I were wealthy, I might even be considered an eccentric, instead of the outsider gone to seed that many people think I am � except for children. Children always seem to understand. To them, who I am and what I am is as plain as the nose on my face. We are comrades, cohorts � members of a secret and sacred trust. While their parents are busy rummaging in their wallets and shouting into their cell phones, we nod and smile at each other knowingly. We will meet again, somewhere, somewhen, or perhaps never � it does not matter. What matters is our momentary good fortune, and the blessing it brings to the day. *March 29, 2006* Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author	Also by William Michaelian POETRY Winter Poems ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4 52 pages. Paper. �� Another Song I Know ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1 80 pages. Paper. �� Cosmopsis Books San Francisco Signed copies available Main Page Author�s Note Background Notebook A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Cosmopsis Print Editions Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let�s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation E-mail & Parting Thoughts Flippantly Answered Questions
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