One Hand Clapping – March 2005
— 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 1, 2005 — We have been buying some gigantic oranges lately. On average, each contains about eight ounces of juice. I squeeze one every morning and leave all the pulp in, which means I literally chew my way to health while waking up my taste buds and reviving my tongue for another day’s duty. My father used to brush his teeth first thing in the morning, before eating, before having coffee. He’d brush his teeth, and then head for the kitchen sink, where he would drink two large glasses of cold water, winter or summer, spring or fall. He did this for years and years. He also loved oranges, as I have mentioned many times here and elsewhere. When I was little and still didn’t care to have wads of pulp in my orange juice, he would strain the juice and squeeze as much out of the remaining pulp as he could. Then he would scoop up the pulp with a spoon and eat it, saying cheerfully, “There’s no sense in letting something this good go to waste.” To this day, I appreciate that valuable lesson. And I make a point of saying the same thing in whatever food-related context I can, for its truth, and to honor his memory. I cannot look at the pile of oranges on our kitchen counter without thinking of him and remembering the orange trees in our old backyard. And I cannot leave food on my plate knowing how consistently he cleaned his, and how grateful he was that there was food on the table.
March 2, 2005 — The trouble with setting high standards and making things look easy is that people quickly take it all for granted and expect perfection at the drop of a hat, when in reality there are times when it is necessary to drop several hats, as well as canes, radios, refrigerators, safes, and pianos in order to achieve the delicate balance that makes the imperfect appear perfect. The trick is to clean up the mess before anyone else sees it, though the debris itself can be interesting and illuminating, to the point that some people spend their entire lives combing through it and looking for clues that will support an idea they have, usually related to increasing their income. But what of the debris of the people searching through the debris, and the debris of those who follow, the myriad collectors and traders in debris? This recycling of the garbage of perfection is going on everywhere all the time, and can be summed up in one handy word: imitation. On the surface, it would seem wise to imitate perfection. But what makes perfection perfect is that it cannot be imitated without the results being easy to distinguish from the original. And again, I mean perfection in a relative sense — universal imperfection, if you will — imperfection that bears the mark of genius. Perfection itself is a tricky word. A lot of people think perfection cannot be achieved, except by God — an amusing thought, since if God exists, He has made such a pathetic mess of things that He obviously shouldn’t be trusted. Then again, His idea of perfection might be different than ours. Or we might just be sifting through His debris. My own opinion is that perfection can be and often is achieved, but that we have been taught that admitting such a thing means we are arrogant, and so we go around kicking ourselves and tampering with things that are done and beautiful in order to prove our humility and fallibility. People who readily admit that they have accomplished something that is perfect are often considered threats to society until after they have died, when their ideas and their perfection are embraced and imitated by others who are afraid to admit or pursue their own perfection. It’s a deadly cycle, that’s what it is.
March 3, 2005 — As I sit here drinking strong black coffee and chewing on the stump of a stale unlit cigar, I can’t help marveling at how lucky I am to have lived as long as I have, and to have done so much writing, and that neither has landed me in the nut-house or jail — though that is not necessarily a good sign, and is, actually, a little disappointing. Now I wonder where I went wrong. But as I am still here, and still chasing words angrily around the room with a fly-swatter, maybe the stalwart Representatives of Good will come after me yet. I realize they are busy trying to decide if the display of the Ten Commandments in government buildings is constitutional and offensive, and that urgent matters of that kind must take precedence. It’s sad, when you consider that long ago they decided that war is not offensive. But what else should we expect of people who ban smoking in public places, but encourage corporate polluters to go on poisoning the environment, and chemical companies to alter the food we eat, and drug companies to peddle unproven pills to the public as if we were laboratory rats? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet we allow them to continue, even though our mental and physical health are at stake, and our children’s futures, and the very future of this amazing planet, which, as silly and sentimental as it sounds, I like to think of as home. It’s interesting when you think of all the people driving around with little flags on their cars, and little fading Bush campaign stickers, and little bumper sticker statements intended to prove they are good little Christians, and how so many of these profound thinkers accept and believe in what the government is doing in their names, and the sorrow, suffering, and destruction that results. How convenient it must be, really, to have God on their side while they pursue their recycled thoughts and dreams, the world burning, children starving, families weeping and killing each other, get out of my way, I was here first, fill it with premium, you owe me big-time, so don’t be surprised when you hear from my lawyer, it’s mine mine mine mine mine mine mine and don’t you forget it. Oh! Did you see what ——— was wearing at the Academy Awards ceremony the other night?
March 4, 2005 — Now, if we were to set this book to music, what form would that music take? Would it be a symphony, or a cacophony? Blues? Folk? Rural? Urban? Urbane? No, probably not. I’ve never been accused of being urbane. Hmm. I need to think about this. It might be important. Someone could ask me about it in an interview someday. B.K. People have said that your writing has a musical quality. This seems especially true in your journal, One Hand Clapping. Tell me. Was this intentional on your part, or did it grow naturally out of the subject matter? W.M. Before I answer, I want to know what B.K. stands for. Have we met? B.K. No, I don’t think so, unless you count the brief meeting we had in the hotel lobby yesterday. W.M. Oh — was that you? B.K. Yes. W.M. Yes? What is that supposed to mean? B.K. Uh, it means it was me, and not someone else. W.M. Ah-ha. Then that would explain why I thought it was you. B.K. Possibly. W.M. But you understand, I like to be sure about these things. So, then. You refuse to answer? B.K. No, it was definitely me in the lobby. W.M. For heaven’s sake. About your name, I mean. What the B.K. stands for. I might not have mentioned it, but I am fascinated by names, and the effect they have on their owners — not that anyone can own a name, mind you. Perhaps renters would be a better word. B.K. Yes, I think it might. Now, about my question. W.M. Question? I thought I was the one who had a question. B.K. The question I mean is the one about your writing having a musical quality. W.M. Oh. That. All right, then. Go ahead. Ask it. It might be good in our interview.
March 5, 2005 — It’s a foggy Saturday morning, and those guitar-playing boys of ours just left to take part in an all-day basketball tournament meant to raise money for an area food bank. They will play at least three games, and more if they win some along the way. It’s an interesting way to feed people in this enlightened society of ours. Every day the newspaper says the economy is on the mend and that more people are finding work — how much the work pays isn’t mentioned. Then, tucked away inside, there is gloomy talk about the rapidly escalating cost of fuel and the toll it is exacting on the economy. Meanwhile, the U.S. military is having a much harder time finding recruits. It seems very few of the sons and daughters of the brave people who voted for Mr. Bush are interested in risking their lives for his glorious ideals. It is only logical, then, that the parents themselves should join. I’m sure their good buddy George will let them take their bumper stickers and flags with them. Brrr — I feel a draft.
March 6, 2005 — Lives, reduced to notes: Sergei Aleksandrovich Esenin (1895-1925). Russian poet, founder of the Russian imagist group (1919). His first wife was Isadora Duncan; the second, a granddaughter of Tolstoy. Esenin became insane and committed suicide. He has been called the “poet laureate of the Revolution.” I found the foregoing in my old copy of The Reader’s Encyclopedia. I wasn’t looking for it, or for anything in particular. Somewhere along the line, I have heard of Esenin. The name Isadora Duncan is also familiar. Tolstoy, too, rings a bell. I have never belonged to a literary group or a school of thought. I’ve never been caught up in a movement. To the best of my knowledge, I haven’t tried to set one in motion. “Esenin became insane and committed suicide.” What a sentence. Imagine all it represents. It has a slightly better ring to it than “Wilson moped for years and finally got a divorce.” Wilson (1942-2005). American shoe salesman, active member of the Watercooler Association. Did without health insurance for seventeen years, until he lost his teeth. Directed the Storage Room Betting Pool (1986), until he lost his shirt. Best known for frequent visits to the car wash. . . . Ah, poor Wilson!
March 7, 2005 — First of all, you want to relieve pain — physical, psychological. You don’t want people to suffer — family, friends, anyone. You say what you say and do what you do — words, actions. You succeed, you fail, you wonder, you think — watching, waiting, listening. You get up in the morning and try again, or resolve to give up and try something else, or nothing at all, no faith in effort, no effort in faith, hypnotized by the dance of grief and hope, held fast by the moment in its glorious ferment. Tomorrow, perhaps, you will tame the malevolent volcano, and green silken grass will clothe the mountain’s scalded flanks. But not today. It will not happen today. You know it, you feel it, you understand it — and yet you cannot help but expect it, because you have witnessed other miracles.
March 8, 2005 — Several days ago, I wrote these words on the back of an old business card: Are you who I think I am? But I don’t know who asked the question, or of whom it was asked. Was I asking myself? Or was I asking someone, perhaps everyone, else? Or I might have been asking on someone’s, everyone’s behalf: Are you who I think I am? If you are, chances are we share a great many things in common. Am I who I think I are? I are who I am, whether I think I are or not. Am you who I think you be? Or is you someone else? And if so, might you not be me? Be we are, but only when we is. Are we were, but only if we be. Come to think of it, I wrote a poem that addressed this very conundrum several months ago. It is called “A Prefix of Obscure Meaning.” I am pleased to say that I reached the same conclusion in the poem that I am reaching now: No one is that isn’t, whether he was or not; no one was that wasn’t, even if he is were when right now. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, but mutually reclusive. I’ve tried coaxing them out of their caves, but they are content to stay where they are, and to be as they are, whither whence begone. Such is the riddle of my existence, such are the words of my song. Such are the answers I arrive at, where others have been wrong. Given to doubt, all things are blissfully certain: I is, you is, when the were was now, and the when we remember is. And how else can it be, really — unless, of course, it is just the opposite, or maybe something else, both silly and profound?
March 9, 2005 — The president says “history is moving quickly” in the Middle East. But all that’s happening is what has been happening for thousands of years: someone wants something that someone else has, and is now in the process of taking it, or as much of it as possible, and everyone else is mad. Those who believe the reasons given by the thieves for their actions are laughed at by the thieves. Those who do not believe are also laughed at, but their actions are carefully monitored, and steps are taken to limit their ability to protest and otherwise be heard. The amazing thing, the sad thing, is that millions and millions of people are completely blind to this simple truth. And if they are blind to that, what else must they be unable to see? What must daily life be like for those who buy into the system and society that produces “American Idol,” Enron, fast food, Martha Stewart, and an unelected president that cain’t neether talk ner spel? The answer can be found everywhere — in conversation, in business dealings, in what is bought and sold and believed and worshipped and coveted and taught and fought over and ignored. Young girls and their mothers, dressing like tramps and smearing pounds of goop on their faces because they were taught by advertising that doing so is a declaration of their individuality and desirability. Young men and their fathers, arrogantly spitting and swearing and wearing their caps backward, being obnoxious at sporting events, playing simulated war games on their computers, proud of their laziness, proud of the fact that they are getting by on a minimum of effort, proud of getting something for nothing, mindless targets of sex-driven advertising. Is it any wonder that there is war in the world, or hunger, or that there are broken families?
March 10, 2005 — Let’s see, whom shall we hate today? The Syrians? The Iranians? The Koreans? I do wish the government would issue little plastic hate cards with schedules printed on the back. It would help a lot. A magnetic hate card to stick on the refrigerator would also be nice. And for the game room, how about a dart board with the pictures of evil dictators no longer behaving according to the U.S. government’s wishes? Bad dictator. Bad. Poik! Hee-hee! Blump! Come to think of it, didn’t the Bush regime issue playing cards with evil Iraqis on them to the media some time back? Was that in this lifetime, or another? “Weapons of Mass Destruction.” I’m not sure why I said that. I guess it just slipped out. “Smoke ’em outta their holes.” Oops. Where did that come from? Is this really real? I mean, is it really really real? Or is it the nightmare I think it is? Here are two interesting figures: 100,000 violent deaths in Iraq since the United States occupied that country two years ago; the number of malnourished Iraqi children has doubled. Freedom is on the march? If it is, it must have some wicked spikes on its boots, because people are being crushed and mangled and turned inside out in the process. Well, then, let’s hate the terrorists — you know, the ones our very actions are helping bring into existence. Not the real terrorists. Not the United States. Not Israel. The trouble is, I don’t want to hate anybody, plastic cards or no plastic cards. There are evil rotten people in the world, but I don’t hate them. What’s the point? It’s a waste of energy. I say, look at them. Look at them, and see them for what they are. Understand what they’re after. Recognize the ways they go about getting it. See the difference between their words and their actions. Look at Bush and Blair and Rice and Rumsfeld and all the rest. Look at their friends, their allies. Do they really represent and try to further noble dreams and sacred ideals? Are murder, torture, starvation, and corruption really family values? Does the Christianity they profess have anything in common with their actions in the world?
March 11, 2005 — Everyone is talking about the dry winter we’ve had, and the unseasonably warm temperatures. The official record-keepers say this winter is the driest the area has seen in thirty years. The news is full of dire warnings: a terrible forest fire season looms ahead; lakes and rivers will go dry; campgrounds will be closed; water will have to be conserved; insects will go berserk, and might even carry off small children. The governor of Washington State has already put her branch of the National Guard, or what is left of it, on alert to battle the fires that are sure to come. To top it off, good old Mount St. Helens spewed ash the other day. I called the mountain Mount St. Helen awhile back. It doesn’t make sense to me for the Saint to be singular and the name to be plural. If the volcano is named after more than one Helen, shouldn’t it be Mount Saints Helen? Anyway, a look at an old map revealed the currently used name, Mount St. Helens, so I guess I’m the odd man out — as usual. And now I think I remember that even further back, I used the pluralized version. But I won’t go back and check. For all I know, I wrote Mount St. Helenz. Is it important? The plume rose 36,000 feet and gentle winds carried it off to the northeast. A crowd of TV news people stormed the nearby lookouts and resumed their wild-eyed babbling, calling the eruption a “significant ash event,” creating in the process a “significant ass event,” while reducing the mighty to the trivial and making geology seem like a rush hour traffic report. Ah, but you’re wondering, what about our precious lawns this summer? If there is a water shortage, our lawns won’t be their usual lush emerald-green. This, too, is being discussed on the news. It is a grave concern. The grass will go brown; the roots will survive; don’t worry, together we can pull through this thing. Support groups are being formed for lawn-waterers and car-washers. Professional counselors are being dispatched, and will arrive shortly in your neighborhood. Our lawn is always brown in the summer. This isn’t Ireland, or the Olympic Rain Forest. For some reason, we are able to accept that. Granted, we accept little else, but that is a different matter — a matter of personal pride, common sense, and survival.
March 12, 2005 — While at the grocery store yesterday, we noticed many prices that were significantly higher than they were the week before, which in turn were higher than the week before that, and the month before that, and the year before that. I said to my loving bride, “It will be interesting to see just how far this will go before it all collapses.” Ever the optimist, she said, “I can hardly wait.” Meanwhile, gasoline prices have gone up about nine cents a gallon in the last four or five days, after a similar jump last week. Wherever we go for the basic things we need — food, socks, underwear, shoes, you name it — prices continue to rise. Around the world, the sinking dollar is being quietly unloaded by investors who see the economic writing on the wall. They are saying, in effect, “Thanks, Bub, it was nice while it lasted.” Recently, a new law was passed which, if I understand it correctly, makes it more difficult for people to declare bankruptcy, and easier for banks to collect the money they are owed by people who are going under. With so many people living on the edge of insolvency these days, this will make those who are hit by an employment or health crisis even more vulnerable. Whichever way you turn, doors are being slammed shut, and there are more people doing without. The cost of higher education has also been going up by leaps and bounds. Colleges are full of kids beating their brains out at full time jobs while trying to study and stay awake for their tests. College has never been easy, and it isn’t meant to be. But if a new graduate emerges only to find himself deep in debt, something is obviously wrong. If a kid does poorly in school because he works too hard to pay his way and can’t concentrate properly on his reading and assignments, something is obviously wrong. When there are billions of dollars to spend each week on occupying and destroying another country and no money for education, health care, and food, something is obviously wrong. We are wrong. No matter how convenient or fun or satisfying it might be to blame the republicans or the democrats or the corporations or the man in the moon, it all still boils down to us — what we do, how we think, what we want, what we are willing to ignore.
March 13, 2005 — The daffodils are blooming again. The lilac buds are swelling. The cherry trees are in full flower. In downtown Salem yesterday morning, I saw yellow daisies growing in a little square planter by the sidewalk. Someone with hopes, dreams, worries, fears, beliefs, memories, and secrets planted them. It makes me think that instead of taking bribes and driving us further into debt, members of the legislature should put on a sturdy pair of shoes and take a walking tour of the city and state and see them as they really are, and see the people as they really are, and keep their mouths shut and senses open and pay attention to what is going on around them. We should all do it. Then we should do it again when summer comes, and fall, and winter. And we should do it in between. We should do it wherever we live, before it is too late and we are dead, dead, dead. We should do it every day. We should do it with our children, and with our neighbors’ children, and with our cats and dogs and chickens and hamsters and goldfish. We should open the prisons so the prisoners could do it. As long as some of us are prisoners, none of us are free. The president should do it, and while he does it, he and his bodyguards should be wearing short pants and funny little caps with propellers on them. We should bring the soldiers home so they can do it. There should be no soldiers anyway, no fences, no bloodshed for oil, or religion, or real estate. There should be no bloodshed for profit. As long as there is war, none of us are free. As long as some of us are hungry, none of us are free. As long as some of us have much and some of us have little, none of us are free. We are not free just because we read it in the newspapers or hear it on TV, or because this or that government tells us we are free. No one is free unless everyone is free.
March 14, 2005 — Our youngest son has taken it upon himself to study the songs of Robert Johnson, the Mississippi Blues legend who “sold his soul at the crossroads” and died young after recording only twenty-nine songs. To the casual listener Johnson’s guitar playing can sound simple, and in some cases almost childish. Guitarists who have tried to imitate him know otherwise. It has taken experts decades to make sense of Johnson’s unorthodox tunings and technique. And then there are the words of the songs themselves, which have a far greater impact than their spare simplicity would seem to allow. But that’s art for you — men and women singing their astonishment and grief in a way that brings others joy, and thereby gaining immortality. Old at birth, young at death, it is the artist who gives his fellow wayfarers the courage to dream, and to ask dangerous questions. It is the artist who exhorts us to see life through our own eyes. Those of us who do not know or care about art are affected by it just the same. We speak differently because of it, view ourselves and the world differently, and act differently. Homer changed the world. Whitman changed the world. Beethoven changed the world. Van Gogh changed the world. It happened because they answered the call and were willing to do their work. Everyone who does so is an artist. Everyone who seeks perfection in what they do is an artist. There is no shame in being a human being. There is only shame when we do not try to understand our humanity and the part we play in something that is mysterious and beautiful and much larger than we are.
March 15, 2005 — In yesterday’s paper, there was an article on the front page about how people with money to burn are building larger and larger homes. In one example, a husband, wife, and child were wandering about like lost souls in well over 3,000 square feet of space. It didn’t say, but I assume the extra room is for lawyers, counselors, and intercom repairmen. Life is tough when you have money and don’t know what to do with it. It’s tough when you decide to teach your children to collect gadgets and insurance policies instead of how to plant and tend a garden. It’s tough when your grotesque dwelling covers almost every inch of your property, leaving scarcely enough room for a professionally installed generic landscape, a golf cart, boat, motorhome, SUV, and a timed sprinkler system. The latest tally of U.S. war-dead was on Page 2. The number of maimed and psychologically destroyed was not given. The number of murdered Iraqis and their starved, frightened children was not given. There was no mention of the latest group of wounded soldiers who were flown back to the United States and shuttled to medical facilities under cover of darkness. I am looking at the palms of my hands. Would they look different if I, too, believed in killing? What do the president’s palms look like? Are they worn from handling his putter and silver spoon? What do a murderer’s hands look like? What about his dreams? Or are they nightmares? I am looking at the palms of my hands. If I were to bring them suddenly and forcefully together, what feeble sound would they make?
About this journal
About another work in progress
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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Cosmopsis Books
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