One Hand Clapping – March 2003
— 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
March 17, 2003 — The daffodils my wife planted last fall near our front door are just beginning to bloom. . . . This morning while I was passing through downtown Salem, I saw a young man standing on a street corner, playing a guitar. He had a sign that said “Imagine all the peace.” A woman and a little girl were standing near him, watching and listening. The clouds parted and a miraculous patch of blue sky appeared overhead. A moment later, I saw an unhappy looking woman driving a fancy car with an American flag on the back window. Then, on the sidewalk, I saw a man in dirty old clothes, walking with a bundle on his back. I heard a siren and stopped to look. No ambulance appeared, no fire truck, no police car. I waited. The noise, it turned out, was in my head. It’s still there.
March 18, 2003 — It’s an embarrassing time for the human race, but then again it always has been. The big difference now is that the sorry results of our words and actions are beamed around the globe within seconds — or not, depending on which evil government is doing the talking, acting, and beaming. But one thing is clear: when the dust settles, we are the same misguided, self-centered, self-conscious species we were before, and definitely the worse for wear. We are also the same species capable of building bridges and composing symphonies, and of being plunged into grief by the death of our loved ones, including cats, dogs, and canaries. In short, we feel. And, feeling, we spend much of our time trying not to feel, because when we do it often hurts too much. The trouble is, the harder we try not to feel, the more selfish and miserable we become. What’s needed is a balance: a moment of appreciation of what is going on around us. Life really is in the details. Whether in our judgment they are happy or sad makes no difference. Turning our backs on one only cheapens the other.
March 19, 2003 — I just finished reading a humorously sarcastic and repulsive little story by Scottish writer Hugh MacDiarmid — MacDiarmid being the pen name of C.M. Grieve, who passed away in 1978. The name of the story is “Five Bits of Miller.” In trying to remember “Miller” — a person we can only hope is dead — the narrator can dredge up only five things: the way Miller blew his nose (like an abortive conjuring trick in which, transiently, certain empurpled and blown-out facial data meaninglessly escaped); the way he cleared his throat (a shuttle of phlegm sliding unaccountably in a derelict loom); the way he used his fingers to clean his ears (uncorking himself by degrees); what happened when he trimmed his diseased, brittle nails (he blew them off with his eyes); and his method of squeezing black-heads, which process “gave him some strange dual effect of martyrdom and ceremonial purification.” But these five things, or “bits,” are enough to convince me that the narrator is the one with real problems. He is, though, admirably thorough in his observations — as we all must be, if we hope to get anywhere.
March 20, 2003 — When I went outside early this morning I was amazed at how quiet and peaceful it was. It seemed neither right nor fair. . . . And I thought of the uncle I never met, sleeping in a military cemetery thousands of miles away, and the cousins I never had, and my grandfather weeping alone in his vineyard, and my grandmother trying to extract meaning from the neatly folded flag given her by the government in lieu of her son . . . and my poor father, and his other brother and sister . . . and the song “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and the words When will they ever learn? . . . Then I picked up the newspaper and read the headlines I already know by heart . . . and began wandering through the house like a ghost — and have been wandering ever since, even as I write these words, and as I contemplate a newspaper column I’m expected to write but have yet to begin. In this manner, life goes on. Such as it is. Such as it is.
March 21, 2003 — For some, today marks the beginning of spring. For others, it marks the beginning of a new, hollow life — a life without a husband, son, or brother. And for those victims of human ignorance who suddenly are no longer with us, eternal silence officially begins. . . . Yesterday at the library, I checked out my favorite edition of Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, published in 1970 by Dover and illustrated by the great Gustave Doré. This is something I do every year or so. Studying the woodcuts and reading the poem helps restore mental order, and reminds me that if one can do something well enough, it just might stand the test of time. There are other reminders, of course, like old family photos, or the pleasantly surprising decency to be found in one’s own children.
March 22, 2003 — The little boy in his scout uniform was a sad sight, his face contorted from having endured repeated rejection. “I’m selling candy bars,” he said to passersby. But the truth is, he wasn’t selling candy bars, and it was making him awfully unhappy. What a way for a kid to spend his Saturday — begging in uniform, his mother watching from a safe distance. . . . Later, on our drive home from the grocery store, my wife and I were able to catch a bit of the weekly bluegrass program on KBOO radio, Portland. We were inspired by one particular song, the lyrics of which consisted almost entirely of “If lovin’ you is killin’ me, Lord, what a way to go. If there’s a better way to die, I don’t want to know.” After blissfully killing each other for almost thirty years now, the words really hit home.
March 23, 2003 — For the first time in ages, I wound my father’s wristwatch, which I keep on my work table next to his brother’s old briar pipe. The trusty Hamilton started ticking immediately. The tiny secondhand, set in a circle built into the face where the 6 should be, started making its way around. Now, several hours later, I see the watch is still running — as am I, apparently, though I can hardly claim to be as reliable as my father’s watch. Some days, it takes me several hours to get going. Like a schoolboy, I’m awake, but not really functioning. Luckily, I accomplish some of my best work in this condition. My worst work, on the other hand, is accomplished only with the greatest of effort. This is where true dedication comes in.
March 24, 2003 — Late last night, I woke up to the strangest smell in the house. Since it was smokeless and seemed to be food-related, I fell back to sleep. This morning our youngest son, soon to be sixteen and a fearless chef in his own right, told me he’d been experimenting again. What he likes is macaroni. What he puts on top of it varies according to what he finds in the refrigerator and spice cabinet. Last night he melted butter, chopped in a clove of garlic, and added, of all things, generous amounts of thyme, coriander, Italian seasoning, and chili powder, as well as a bit of cayenne. He said it was great, and I believe him. . . . My father’s watch ran until 2:41 a.m. I just wound it again. Does this mean I should also start smoking my uncle’s pipe?
March 25, 2003 — One bad thing about being dead is that people can say anything they want about you and get away with it. Another bad thing is that you don’t even know it. Or, maybe you do. That would be even worse. Either way, I have yet to solve this problem — mostly because I am preoccupied with making up enough lies about myself to influence opinion after I’m gone. I do this even though, in all likelihood, I am bound to fail. But telling the truth is difficult, almost as difficult as recognizing it. Besides, all too often, the truth is boring. What am I supposed to say? That all I did today was sit here like a lump, tapping the letters on my keyboard? And yet, that wouldn’t be the truth either, at least not all of it. The real truth is that I have traveled thousands of miles — nay, light-years — into the vast and uncharted regions of my brain. Too bad I came back empty-handed. Still, it could be worse. While I was away, I might have discovered a way to keep us alive forever — a scary thought, considering the damage we do while we’re here.
March 26, 2003 — As the killing continues, I am amazed by the arrogant assumption that some lives have more value than others. Anyone who thinks this should try explaining it to the mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, wives, relatives, friends, and children of their so-called enemies who have fallen. What would they say? Dear Mr. and Mrs. Enemy, we are right, you are wrong, therefore your mourning is less significant than ours? Life is life. Blood is blood. Death is death. And one has to wonder: can peace really be called peace if it is built upon a foundation of corpses? The relative calm between wars — how many have there been, and how many yet will there be? — isn’t peace. It is a time for burying, then reloading. Then, again with shattered reason, we inflict our ignorance, fear, pride, and anger on one another. The sad part is, everyone thinks they are right, when it is obvious they — we — couldn’t be more wrong.
March 27, 2003 — Last night I had a dream I think would make a good story. Or at least that’s what I thought at 1:00 a.m. as I waited for my heart to return to its regular dull pace. In my dream the phone wasn’t ringing, so I picked it up. When I held the receiver against my ear, I was addressed in a mocking voice by a man I didn’t know, but who obviously knew me. I hung up. A minute or so later, I picked up the phone again and heard the same voice, which had taken on a more menacing tone. I tried to reply but couldn’t, then woke myself up with tongue-tied pleas for help. I don’t remember what the man was saying. But it occurred to me immediately that if a person was alone, it would be hard to resist picking up the silent phone again and again, and that it might finally be necessary to remove the thing altogether, and that even that might not be enough to relieve one of the fear. Even now, in broad daylight, I am somewhat leery of my evil telephone. Should I pick it up, rip it out of the wall, or move away altogether?
March 28, 2003 — The role we play when we are out in public is often so convincing that even we believe it, which of course makes that role all the more convincing to others. My role as an eccentric nut, for instance, has some people in town believing that I really am an eccentric nut, when the truth is that I am not eccentric at all, but only a nut, and a garden variety nut at that. But as the old saying goes, “Remember that the mighty oak was once a nut like me.” In the grocery store this morning, I told the cashier that the last time a certain clerk had taken out our groceries, we had an argument and came to blows in the parking lot — a bit preposterous, considering the fact that the clerk in question does his job efficiently, seldom talks, and when he does only says “Have a good one.” Well, knowing the clerk as she did, the cashier, along with two of her co-employees who happened to be unoccupied at the moment, started laughing. When the clerk himself showed up to take out our groceries, it was hard for them to keep a straight face. A couple of minutes later, after the clerk had safely stowed our groceries in the back of our van, he said, “Have a good one.” Poor guy. He was completely unaware that we already had, at his expense — and mine. . . . Later in the day, while passing through an intersection, I saw a homeless man numbly holding a sign that said “Hungry” on one side and “Need Work” on the other — a role no one needs or deserves.
March 29, 2003 — The person looking back at me in the mirror this morning seemed a bit grumbly, so I asked him what was the matter. He responded by sticking out his tongue. I said, “Okay, be miserable. It’s your problem, not mine.” Later, during another trip to the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror and discovered he hadn’t moved an inch. “It’s sunny out,” I said. “Why are you still in here?” He didn’t answer. “It’s spring,” I continued in a friendly voice. “It’s even kind of warm. Why not spend some time outside? It will add color to your cheeks.” He lifted an eyebrow. “So?” he said. “Is that something I should be enthused about?” We looked at each other. “In your case, probably not,” I said. I switched off the light and left the room. “Hey, wait,” he called out after me. But I didn’t stop. I’d had enough insults for one day.
March 30, 2003 — I am enjoying a small cup of the “Fero” coffee my brother and his wife brought with them from Armenia when they visited here earlier this year — a large cup would be too dangerous. Armenian coffee, a delightfully potent treat, is prepared in a small open pot with a little sugar, and with the fine grounds left in. During the minute or so it takes to cook, a layer of foam forms on top. When served properly, a layer of foam also graces the top of each individual cup. When a cup is finished, there is sediment on the bottom. If you turn the cup over on its saucer and wait awhile, an old aunt can “read” the resulting patterns inside and thereby reveal your fortune. At the moment, however, there is no old aunt present, and I’m not using a saucer. But I am using an old cup, so that should be worth something. In fact, the cup I’m using comes from an Armenian restaurant my great-grandmother’s brother-in-law ran near the turn of the twentieth century in Fresno, California. Upon its inner and outer surfaces, a delicate webbing of cracks forms its own pattern, telling a story I have been trying to write for years. But it is tough going. So far, all I have is “Once upon a time.” Still, it’s a beginning, and I have every hope of finishing the story someday.
March 31, 2003 — After leaving my son at the nearby college, I set out across Salem on Silverton Road, passed the fairgrounds, passed the Department of Motor Vehicles, passed the building that temporarily housed the public library during the library’s expansion project a number of years ago, and then eventually wound up downtown, where I took the bridge that crosses the Willamette River and leads to West Salem. On Edgewater Street I stopped at the small upstairs office of the West Side, which for the past fifteen or sixteen years has been West Salem’s monthly newspaper. After saying hello to the publisher and editor and picking up two copies of the April issue of their paper, I recrossed the bridge, then turned left on Liberty Street and headed north toward home. The entire journey took an hour and forty-five minutes. But there was also the journey I took while taking the journey — the unspoken part, filled with dozens of questions, mental notes, and reminders. This part of the journey took no time at all. Or did it take forever? I keep getting the two mixed up — something that hasn’t changed since childhood.
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
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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