Recently Banned Literature

On the Significance of Ash

2012-02-10T05:25:00.000-08:00

Most people who “read me” (really,I laugh at the arrogance of that notion) know that I grew up on afarm, and that I lived and worked there until I was thirty-one yearsof age, when, to preserve our health, my wife and kids and I moved toOregon. They also know, if they aren’t completely bored and arepaying any attention at all, that I do not have what is in commonparlance called “a college education.” Truth be told, I was at auniversity just long enough to get drunk and married, neither ofwhich I regret, and which are, in fact, two of the best things I’veever done. While the drunkenness has taken on other comicallyexaggerated forms, the marriage, now in its thirty-seventh year,continues to blossom, thrive, and grow. Soon after our wedding, myfather’s mother wisely referred to us as “two children playing.”She’d be glad, I’m sure, to know that her description is stillapropos.

A few months before, although he wouldnever have put it in those terms, my father was delighted at theprospect of our future life together. When my grandparents weremarried, his father was twenty-one. When my parents were married, myfather was twenty. When my wife and I were married, I was nineteen.But the fact is, I was married from the time I was fifteen or so —life just hadn’t led me to the right girl yet. I offer thisrevelatory tidbit as one who has elsewhere entertained the possibility that his writing life began at birth, or even before. Of who I can besure; how, and where, and when, remain a mystery.

It hurt my father to see us go. Bodily,by doing too much of the work he loved, he had been crumbling foryears. He understood the logic of our departure, which was first andforemost for the benefit of his grandchildren. But without my hands andhelp there was no longer purpose to his farm, and without thatpurpose, and having to endure a steadily increasing amount ofphysical pain, purpose quietly eroded within himself.

I can’t count the times he hasappeared to me in dreams, or that I’ve wondered if our continuedpresence would have helped him stay alive. And I still dream of thefarm, with its big and small jobs needing to be done. Sometimes Ifind I’m late and have fallen far behind: how will I prune twentyacres of vines now that spring has arrived? There’s water in theditch; polliwogs and crawdads teem along the edge. A buzzard drifts;a bullfrog calls.

The other day, I shared a dream inwhich I’d found him spreading ashes in the vineyard. With infinitepatience, he was placing a shovelful at the base of each vine. Ash.Why ash? In my book, Winter Poems, there’s a page-long poemcalled “A Thimbleful of Ash” that I wrote more than six yearsago on Christmas Eve. It ends thus:

The vineyards are asleep.
The neighbors have gone to bed.
In the far distance, a baby cries.
I still remember what he said:
Long lives, a thimbleful of ash.

And so, again, I say I don’t knowhow, or where, or when. But of who I can be sure. He is a child. Heis a man. He is everyone who is, and who has ever been. And I mustsleep if I am to remember him.

Between the Lines

2012-02-09T07:48:00.000-08:00

This blog’s moody background imageonly hints at the importance of books in my life. The room haschanged a lot since the photograph was taken. Each week, anothervolume or two is added, and often as many as three or four, almostall of them old, some many decades, others a century or two. I derivegreat pleasure from handling and perusing them, otherwise I wouldn’tbring them home.

All too often, those of us who callourselves writers speak of the books we read as if their very mentionwere an indication of our learning, depth, and worth. I speak aboutthem because I love them, knowing full well that even after they areread, I will be at a loss to explain the profound or mean effect theyhave had on me, my understanding, and my thinking.

I drift with the current. Some factscling to to me like moss. Most, though, glide off and are lost. WhatI retain, most of all, is a sense of the times and of human thoughtand behavior. One day, I’m loaded into a cart and hauled throughthe streets leading to the guillotine; another, I live in Montaigne’stower, or write Petrarch’s poems to Laura. Never, though, do I killanyone in a duel. I see that as a good sign.

What’s to be gained by keeping mynose in the 1892 Peale edition of the Encyclopedia Britannicaor in Boswell’s Tour to the Hebrides? Why, nothing —nothing at all. If I’m to limit myself to terms of loss and gain,then I’ll be obliged to believe a great many foolish things —even, perhaps, that the past is the past, and the present is mine tocontrol.

I am well

2012-02-07T06:13:00.000-08:00

Quiet, that’s all. Reading,mostly, and deep in thought.

This morning, shortly after oneo’clock, I awakened from a dream. By the south road, I’dreturned on foot to my childhood home. I found my father spreading ashes inthe vineyard, one shovelful at a time. He looked at me and smiled. Itwas his work now, and his alone.

Thank you for your notes.

So I Hear

2012-02-02T10:03:00.000-08:00

A photo from the libraryof Bent Sørensen,

friend and blogger extraordinaire.

Visitors

2012-01-31T09:00:00.000-08:00

The front door of my childhood home —someone has left it standing open. Two cats, the small reclusivecalico that lives with us now and a soft-white stranger with brownishface and paws, are inside playing. When they see me, they dash out. Ifollow them and close the door. To the east beyond the yard, amorning view of the High Sierra. I think of a painter in love withblue, long since buried in the snow. I remember what a lover knowsand is so eager to begin — the taste of one bright apple, andfootprints where no one else has been.

Darwin

2012-01-29T09:00:00.000-08:00

While reading early this morning, asmall leaf fell from between Pages 222 and 223 of my old book into mylap. It was very dry, but not brittle, without the slightest tearanywhere in its delicate map of veins, or damage to the several dozenpoints by which its edges were defined. After I’d finished thosepages, which were about Charles Darwin, I returned the leaf to itsplace, not knowing who had put it there, or in what state of mind,and having no idea as to its future. And then, before I continued on,there came upon me a memory of graves I’ve seen of pioneers, theirnames and dates a lichen stain or mossy smudge, as if the elements intheir persistent art had replaced one kind of writing with another.To which I answer now with the miracle that is my hand.

Testament

2012-01-28T07:12:00.000-08:00

In the eyes of the law, I own so verylittle that my will, if it were written, could fit on the blank sideof a business card and still leave room for a drawing. In truth, Iown nothing, nothing at all. What “belongs” to me is onlytemporarily in my care. Love, like a fledgling poised for freedom inmy hands, is all I have, and all I really have to give.

Canvas 285

2012-01-26T06:54:00.000-08:00

“Canvas 285”

January 26, 2012

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You Are Here†

2012-01-24T08:15:00.000-08:00

The geography of reason,

related in a dream:

You are here,

wherever here might be,

And what you seem

is what I mean.

† an impromptu response to RobertWillson’s inspiring renewal theory

On French Pronunciation

2012-01-23T10:32:00.000-08:00

Being unable to correctly read andpronounce all but a few French words has bothered me only littleuntil now. Now I not only want to learn to read comfortably inthat language, I feel it’s an absolute necessity, and anembarrassment that I’ve put it off for so long. Luckily, my copy ofHeath’s French and English Dictionary (1903) has a guide topronunciation. That will be a good place to begin, as well as Chapter13 of George Moore’s Avowals†, which is a lecture of his presented in French. As I toldmy son this morning in a brief email exchange, how can I skip thatchapter and still say I’ve read the book? Next and simultaneouslyon my list: Latin.

† a book mentioned hereyesterday

Reading

2012-01-22T08:49:00.000-08:00

Think of me not as hungry,

or eager to possess,

but as a statue

in your path,

blessed

by silent snowfall.

Spring is how I turn thepage.

What I know

is the moss that grows

where you stand, and wherewe meet.

Currently Reading†

Avowals

Little Journeys

Ulysses (Armeniantranslation)

A Tour to the Hebrides

† among others

Rain

2012-01-19T07:14:00.000-08:00

We could abandon buildings for streetsand fields,

look up, open our palms, and let ourminds be cleansed;

but that’s too simple, and so we wagewar instead.

Snowflakes

2012-01-17T07:22:00.000-08:00

Think of them, for a moment,

as fingertips of all the world’sdead,

seeking love in faces, hands,

and tongues.

Softly as their peace is borne,

we are among them.

In the interim

2012-01-15T05:27:00.000-08:00

While I chimed like a grandfatherclock, my grandson† watched the movement of my tongue as if it werea pendulum. To his rapt attention, hour upon hour I tolled, until Ibecame a horse’s hooves on cobblestone, and the mist arose, andDickens was at the door. “I’m here!” the dear scribe cried, as if he’djoined us many times before. And, as he eyed us with a pleasure Iclearly understood, the movers came and carted me away. “He was agood old clock,” their foreman said, “back in his day. I wonderwhat we’ll get for him?” The truck roared off. My grandson, agrown man in the interim, looked after us and waved. Or so I imaginedin the cold and in the dark.

† our second, nine months old

Blessing

2012-01-14T05:18:00.000-08:00

Fifty-six come May

and still a child’s throw

of the perfect stone

into an icy

river.

I love you is a song

2012-01-12T17:41:00.000-08:00

If those of us who remain in touchthrough this medium have learned anything about the friendships thatwe’ve forged, it’s that they’ve come about through an ongoingexchange of gifts. Whether what we share is of our own making or isthe work of someone else, we share it because we find it meaningfuland moving in ways we hope will reveal what we’ve learned, how wefeel, and who we are. And the very fact that some of us doremain in touch shows that we succeed.

The cumulative nature of our exchangeis powerful indeed. It coincides with our need to tell, and to betold, stories the endings of which we understand might never beknown, or reached, or resolved. I love you is a song thatnever grows old. Do you love me is a timeless hope that stirsthe soul.

As with our relationships that areconducted face to face, or which began that way, or are steadilymoving in that direction, there is no better way to proceed. Thedistance we travel, and the depths that are revealed, grow in directproportion to how freely our offerings are made. Our eagerness andgenerosity give them value.

The other day, when my wife was outwalking with our four-year-old grandson, he stopped abruptly when henoticed a withered plant nestled alongside the curb. Plucking from itseveral dried seed pods, he told her, “These are for Grandpa.”They were given me later, damp from his hand, and all the winters ofthe world cannot be cold enough or long enough to keep his gift fromtaking root between us.

Morning light: new and not-so-new arrivals

2012-01-12T08:51:00.000-08:00

Catalog

The Oaks

2012-01-11T07:22:00.000-08:00

The oaks are thriving. The oaks aredying.

The path is wide through rolling hills.

My father is beside me.

But he doesn’t care or know.

The oaks are sighing. The oaks arecrying.

Here. There. It’s impossible to tell.

Both. And all. Smoke. A bell.

Water at the sink. A glass for him.

The past for me. Present.

Perfect. Lying.

Wilderness

2012-01-09T07:33:00.000-08:00

A soul-painting from a very old book?Perhaps,

or a love that forgets her name; andthen a leaf falls —

a page, a line, an age of kind andwordless ways,

soft as wind through sage, to sleep, todusk,

to fate — to heal the rock of yourface.

Preposterous and Untenable

2012-01-08T06:52:00.000-08:00

A sublime, medicinal, addictive aspectof doing almost nothing but reading for several days is how far awayfrom, and into, oneself one travels; but this awareness pales beforethe sudden, seemingly accidental realization that, in the process,what formerly was taken for “real life” is now preposterous andeven untenable, and must be appreciated and understood as fiction ifit is to be plausible and liveable at all.

Yes, I have been reading. And to a verylarge degree, reading for me is much as it was when I was a boygrowing up in California’s San Joaquin Valley: a refuge wide as anold shade tree, a sparkling glass of ice-cold lemonade, a log on thefire when vineyards and orchards are ice-bound and shrouded in fog,each savored and held simultaneously in the mind, all to a whisperoffered by the sweet, sensuous lips of an imagined,more-real-than-real Beloved.

The very same, of course, can be saidfor writing.

My computer is running again, new hard drive and all. Onthe technical front, it has been an expensive, trying week, and itwill be a while yet before my system is in full and comfortableworking order. And the same goes for my computer.

Now you see him, now you don’t

2012-01-05T15:51:00.000-08:00

As luck or fate would have it, I’ve been offline since the second day of January, due to some major computer problems. At the moment I’m across town at my son’s house, catching up on (but not really responding to) my email. I’m not sure yet when everything will be resolved. In the meantime, there are three books I’m reading: Samuel Butler’s The Way of All Flesh; Volume 10 of Elbert Hubbard’s Little Journeys (Great Teachers); and Samvel Mkrtchyan’s Armenian translation of Ulysses. I’m also reading around in (and handling, and inhaling the intoxicating scent of) several others....

With Screams and Blood

2012-01-01T05:19:00.000-08:00

Quite often, what strikes me about apiece soon after I’ve written and sent it into the world is howvery weak it seems, in terms of completeness and accuracy, comparedto life on the street. For instance, not long ago after finishingwhat I felt was a fairly nice blog entry, I treated myself to part ofan afternoon in a used bookstore. Well before I arrived, not fiveminutes from home, I was struck by the rich variety of attitudes,mannerisms, postures, gaits, and facial expressions in those I passedalong the way. Immediately I recognized, for what must have been theten thousandth time, that my starry-eyed vision of the world has little ifany practical meaning† in the lives of most people, whiletheir own activities and affairs have everything to do with, and arein many ways similar to, mine. Granted, our approaches in some casesmust be different. But considering the limits of human nature, howdifferent can they be? And, most important, can I honestly say thatmine are any more effective? Or are they only part of an ongoingconversation with myself, a gee and haw designed tokeep me from going insane? Whichever, it’s clear to me that a greatdeal of it is habit. I think the way I do, and wrestle with problemsthe way I do, because my mind is trained along that course. Infollowing that course, I meet with familiar obstacles andfrustrations, which in turn reinforce what at best is a fleetingidentity. Steal my memory, pluck a loved one from my midst, and watchme fall apart. All that I am, quickly becomes all that I was: ananxious child looking for a way to say how I feel. When I was eightyears old, I stepped on a piece of cactus that had somehow made itsway from my mother’s flowerbed into our front lawn. What did I dowhen the long needles penetrated my bare heel? How did I respond?With screams and blood.

I feel I should be writing that waynow.

I handled a great many, and evensniffed a few, but I bought no books that day.

The store was busier than usual,considering it was after Christmas. Without trying, I eavesdropped onseveral conversations.

The eighth volume of Grolier’ssixteen-volume set of William Hazlitt’s Life of Napoleon wasmissing. At eight dollars each, I couldn’t afford the other fifteenbooks anyway, even though the edition was numbered and limited to1,000. Wants and needs? As if anything were ever that black,and that white. Damn fool.

There were two young women upstairs,sitting near the railing. They were so beautifully subject to theirsexual imperative that the books on the table between them werecharged with fantasy and light. Their words reached my ears not asmeaning, but as song.

Further on, not far from where I foundthe Hazlitt volumes, a young man was praising Project Gutenberg. Oneof the girls he was with replied, “Yes, but it’s not the same asholding the books in your hands.”

It’s not the same, in other words, asholding life — as holding a newborn baby, a flower, or awet calf fresh from its sweet mama’s insides.

† I do not say practical application,because I think it does. For better or worse, how we live asindividuals has a direct bearing on what goes on in our world.

My Wish

2011-12-29T09:04:00.000-08:00

Of all we’ve experienced and allwe’ve learned, what of this year is worth bringing with us into theone ahead? This, I think: the understanding that we need only thebarest of necessities that assure our safety and well being — food,shelter, companionship, solitude, love, and the freedom to discoverand nurture the creative spark, in others and in ourselves. In aword, peace. The absence of any of these, for anyone, upsets thebalance for everyone. Our precious energy, when spent in the pursuitof frivolous wants in the guise of pressing needs, is the samenegative force we see at work daily in our schools and in ourstreets; it’s the very war we wage on what is foolishly termed“foreign soil,” when the truth is, there is no soil on this greatwide earth that is foreign, just as there are no foreign cultures,hopes, or dreams, because they are all of us, and we are allof each other, and of the soil. Borders? Fences? They are allarbitrary — embarrassing symbols of our fear and greed. But stillthe world turns, and continues its patient journey around the sun —that very star which will itself one day die. And if something asancient and powerful as the sun must turn to ash, what, then, of us?Do we sincerely believe we are more important than the sun? In eachand every moment, we are, all of us, ripe and ready to fall. By thetime you read this, I could be gone. My wish: may we be asnourishment for those who live, and those who come.

Canvas, notebook, marble, field

2011-12-28T09:30:00.000-08:00

line by line, so muchrevealed

you accept this

Offering

December 27, 2011

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A Christmas Wish (complete)

2011-12-26T08:33:00.000-08:00

For the fun of it yesterday morning, Iposted several links to the following poem on Facebook. “AChristmas Wish” first appeared on my old website back in 2003, andwas subsequently included in my book, Winter Poems (CosmopsisBooks, 2007). As fate would have it, it has been “borrowed” andrepublished online numerous times, in various formats, on scrolls, inframes, or in plain text. As is inevitable, some versions arecomplete, others aren’t. In this way, the Worldwide Web is like agiant refrigerator door or kitchen bulletin board, with messagesoverlapping and pinned down or held in place by advertising magnets.My opinion of the matter: the more fingerprints the better.

A Christmas Wish

What do I want for Christmas?
Nothing to buy, nothing to sell.
Family gatherings. Laughter. Music.
Multitudes of happy children, warm andfed.
An end to the current war, and to allwars.
Water in the well, food on the table.
Companionship for the lonely.
Solitude for those in search of calm.
Understanding for the prisoner.
Compassion for those who judge.
Strength for the belittled.
Comfort for the torn.

I want what everyone wants,
But believes can never happen.
Truth instead of lies.
Generosity instead of greed.
Knowledge instead of fear.
Modesty instead of arrogance.
An open heart, an open mind.
To follow Life where it leads,
With gratitude for hard times
And what they teach,
And, when good times come,
To pass them on for others to enjoy.

But if these things are too much toask,
If I am silly or have somehow missedthe point,
There is still one thing I would liketo see.
A giant teddy bear for the wide-eyedworld.

He Does Not Know

2011-12-23T10:54:00.000-08:00

This year, I think I’ve beenprivileged to share in and witness more joy, pain, and accomplishmentthan any other: the birth of our second grandson back in earlyspring; the battles of friends with self-doubt, poverty, loneliness,mental instability, and terminal disease; the folly of selfishnessand the subsequent harm to and tearing asunder of relationships; thetragedy of sudden, untimely death; new love; inspiring, triumphantworks of art — and all, it seems, coming to pass in the blink of aneye, and just as soon to be swept on by the wind.

The question arises: Whatis a man to do, how is he to respond to such wealth? Mostdays, he begins by brushing his teeth and putting on his slippers orhis shoes, then he continues by washing his grandson’s hands, orwiping the restless boy’s behind while Grandma makes lunch, andthen he moves on to pretending he is a waterfall, made real byshimmering silvery hair. He cannot begin except at the beginning, buthe also knows this is the precipice, the culmination of the entirehistory of the world, the result, the glory, the comedy, the reason,and the accidental, inevitable outcome of all that went before.

And then there is the night, which ishis dream made visible to eyes other than his own, the phantom worldwhere minds cross and bodies pass through walls. Affectionately,proudly, helplessly, he calls this his work.

He does not know — and perhaps thismost defines him — where or if or how he fits into others’ lives,or even if such knowledge is desirable. He does not know where onethought ends and another begins, or if there is but one thought whichencompasses and ultimately confounds all. He wonders if, in the nextmoment, he will be alive. He wonders if he will be missed or brushedaside. He remembers strange things at beautiful, inopportune times.He climbs a tree with his cousin just as someone passes the wildgreens and rice — but at whose table, and in what far-off wreck oftime? He considers, with humility, how he must once have been adonkey or a stone, and that he may well move on to river, bee, orhill. He says, almost without hearing himself, “I knew a man whowas a wishing well.”

And what does he know? That fearand ignorance still bear thorns within his walls.

Outside, all around him, the gifts arepiled high.

He recalls telling a priest once howmuch he enjoyed funerals, and the look of confusion on the poor man’sface when he tried to explain how people are at their best when theydon’t know how to carry on. They were standing in a cemetery.

He is granted insight, and entrustedwith despair. He is given help that chases darkness from his soul.

To know him, is to know yourself. Butto love him, aye, that isthe rub.

Found at Goodwill

2011-12-20T12:41:00.000-08:00

Inscribed on the bottomin pencil

Given to me by

Linda & Lark

May 20th 1956

when I was in

Bremerton

Wash

(that long-ago Sunday, onwhich I was born)

Bookmark

2011-12-20T10:16:00.000-08:00

Catalog

A Concordance to the Plays of Shakespeare (1886)

2011-12-19T16:27:00.000-08:00

Catalog

Also

A special thanks to awonderful artist and dear friend,

Laura Tedeschi, forfeaturing my novel, A Listening Thing,

on her blog, Nouvelles Coleurs. Great photos, Laura!

Silence

2011-12-18T06:56:00.000-08:00

Silence

December 18, 2011

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Verses

2011-12-16T05:19:00.000-08:00

¹ at the center of which is Man,

said the woman unto him, laughing, hersymphony a breath of hands.

² There were walls in thosedays:

³ Thecotton patch on one side, impossible to mend; her father at thewindow,

plotting murder; her mother knittingsandwiches:

⁴ Bolls, half open, scratchyto retrieve; the failed blood of Adam,

crying out to Eve; street signs, curbs,and gutters; the restless night brigade:

⁵ All the milk in heaven

in one swollen pale breast; thewhispering of leaves:

⁶ The preacher in histrundle bed; the plumber with his bottle;

the widow’s magazine:

⁷ Presbyterians; Methodists;Lutherans; Catholics; Baptists;

the Four Square; the two-square;dodge-ball; hopscotch; tops; jacks;

monkey bars; jump-ropes; braids; and ofcourse the scaffold,

⁸ For not all spirits break.

⁹ She sighed:

¹⁰ The birth of fiction; asif yes were a word and the owl

had known; as if need were thebeginning and not before;

as if he were wheat in the field of herpalm,

¹¹ Trembling:

¹² Gently, she eased hisbody down:

¹³ She sang it down, praisedit down,

¹⁴ Cloth to the loin andthorns above,

¹⁵ As if many were chosenand one were called:

¹⁶ And he cried unto her,

¹⁷ I cherish the death that I have been given,

¹⁸ And explained in a breathhow it had been prophesied by trees;

how he had carried a lamb throughwinding streets; how men had looked up

from their work and derided him; andhow they had returned

to their dwellings and hung themselves,

¹⁹ Fattened,

²⁰ On the spit of their ownlives.

It’s Still a Long Walk to Christmas

2011-12-15T05:12:00.000-08:00

I’m hidden away

from holiday visitors,

egg from plates wiped clean,

crumbs up from counter

brushed with efficient palm,

frying pan still warm

and slick upon the stove,

potato peels filed away,

scent of navel orange,

morning paper rearranged

according to topics best ignored.

Outside, rain. Parking lots.

Bell-ringers. Car exhaust. Distanthills.

Stubbled fields. Muddy heels.

We need a dozen eggs. Bags of tea.

Remember marmalade? Local honey.

Oatmeal — mush! the winter chill.

Behold, my empty wallet.

It’s still a long walk to Christmas.

A thousand strangers yet to greet.

A thousand sorrows line the street.

A thousand angels with ragged wings.

A thousand voices softly sing.

Hark the herald, something something.

Upturned faces. Outstretched arms.

Hands held warm around the world.

[From Winter Poems, CosmopsisBooks, 2007]

Note: Through the end of theyear, all three of my Cosmopsis titles are available at a 10%discount. Use the following coupon code in your Cosmopsis Bookstoreshopping cart: H7E99

Here are the store links:

A Listening Thing (Novel, TenthAnniversary Authorized Print Edition)

Winter Poems (Poetry)

Another Song I Know (Poetry)

Thank you.

Worldwide Benefactors

2011-12-13T19:14:00.000-08:00

What worldwide benefactors these“imprudent” men are! How prudently most men creep into namelessgraves; while now and then one or two forget themselves intoimmortality.

— Wendell Phillips, from Speech on Lovejoy

Note:“Wendell Phillips” is the last entry in Volume 7 of ElbertHubbard’s Little Journeys.

Winter Song

2011-12-12T06:45:00.000-08:00

Which mark, which line,which scar,

which dream wouldyou remove?

Winter Song

December 11, 2011

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Samvel Mkrtchyan: Ulysses in Armenian Translation

2011-12-10T13:34:00.000-08:00

What spectacle confrontedthem when they, first the host, then the guest, emerged silently,doubly dark, from obscurity by a passage from the rere of the houseinto the penumbra of the garden?

The heaventree of stars hungwith humid nightblue fruit . . . .

I will go to my grave, no doubt, grateful for Joyce’s Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. Iwon’t say I understand them in any conventional, ordinary sense.In the presence of language of this depth, grace, and magnitude, I seek neither Reason nor reason: I listen with my life, and in mybones. Scholars have their approach. I have mine. In my mind, thebooks are as much music as they are literature. I embrace them as Iembrace the symphonies of Beethoven.

I feel the same way about the Armenian language, which I’ve heard spoken throughout my life and have yet to master; which I taught myself to read when I was in my twenties;and which has always, in ways subtle, apparent, and obscure, informedmy own writing, to the extent that what I write naturally lendsitself to translation. I know this for a fact, having worked directlywith Samvel Mkrtchyan, who has translated my work along with that ofFaulkner, Eliot, Shakespeare, Saroyan, and now Joyce.

In terms of Ulysses,especially, I am staggered by his accomplishment. In giving thismasterpiece of English literature to his native land, Mkrtchyan hasalso contributed immeasurably to world literature. His translation ofUlysses — a labor of many years, replete with notes,illustrations, and photographs, beautifully designed by his own hand— is truly a gift for the ages. When I think of the toil, the longnights spent with aching neck and bones, the restlessness, patience,and defiance that are part and parcel of such a task, I return to myown small life inspired and renewed.

It is, of course, logical to ask if andhow I will read this book. Of the if we will quickly dispense:books live through their readers; it is my joy and responsibility to respond. And of the how: aloud, from cover to cover, in avoice that tells of my own memories and trials, almost but not quitelaughing to the end.

Ulysses

Translated into Armenian

with a foreword and notes

by Samvel Mkrtchyan

“Translation of theunabridged republication

of the originalShakespeare and Company edition,

published in Paris bySylvia Beach, 1922”

ISBN: 978-9939-53-778-8

Yerevan, Armenia

2012

735 pages

Chronology. Forty-eight Color Plates. Pictorial Appendix.

The Habitant

2011-12-06T16:25:00.000-08:00

The Habitant

and other French-CanadianPoems

by William Henry Drummond

Catalog

1818

2011-12-05T14:09:00.000-08:00

The power of religion onthe mind,

in retirement, affliction,

and at the approach ofdeath;

exemplified in thetestimonies and experience

of persons distinguished

by their greatness,learning, or virtue.

by Lindley Murray

Catalog

Old man, look at my life

2011-12-03T05:32:00.000-08:00

I’ve mentioned, of course, the niceholiday discount available on all three of my Cosmopsis Books titles:A Listening Thing; Winter Poems; andAnother Song I Know. To take advantage of the offerthrough the end of the year, simply apply this codeduring checkout: H7E99. Whenyou do, 10% will be subtracted from your total purchase.

Meanwhile, another tempting offer hascome to my attention. Lulu, which handles the printing andfulfillment of my Author’s Press Series, is offering a 25% discounton the print editions of all three volumes: The Painting of You; No Time to Cut My Hair; and One Hand Clapping. This offer, which is limited to $50 in savings, is goodthrough December 14. During checkout, you will need toapply this code: BUYMYBOOK305.

The books do come highly recommended.For comments and links to reviews, visit the Cosmopsis Books andAuthor’s Press Series pages of my website.

Image: Detailfrom an untitled painting by Glen Ragsdale (1955-1974), frontcover, The Painting ofYou

December Sunrise

2011-12-02T07:08:00.000-08:00

As if dawn were the printof a thumb

December 2, 2011

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Questions

2011-11-30T05:29:00.000-08:00

Are intelligence and wisdomtwo different things?

I don’t know. Ask theheart.

And what of knowledge?

Is it a black cat on amoonless night,

or the visible part of amountain?

Think long; think low;

for deep were the eyes ofMaud Rudell.†

† Hillsborough,1881-1900.With thanks to Robert Willson.

Correggio

2011-11-29T06:52:00.000-08:00

A star for a mouth? Canyou imagine the vast regions beyond?

And why Correggio,if not for the sound from your tongue?

Correggio

November 29, 2011

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So Much Like Now

2011-11-28T06:41:00.000-08:00

When you find this grave in the raggedground,

remember me to Winter.

So much like now, it was cold the day Idied:

cold when a carriage rattled by,

cold in bright Missouri,

cold in Kansas and Ohio,

cold on the shores of Maine,

cold in Carolina,

cold in Wyoming and Montana,

cold upon the plain,

cold behind the woodshed,

cold inside the barn,

cold in the bright-red schoolhouse,

cold in the white-washed church,

cold in the corner store,

cold on the warehouse floor,

cold in the mines and mills,

cold on the water, cold in thefactories,

cold on the rails, cold in the hills.

So much like now, it was cold the day Idied:

cold in my bones,

cold inside my collar,

cold in my lungs and fingers,

cold inside my skull,

cold on the marble stone,

cold where good men

walked and talked

and smoked and listened,

cold where liars cheated

and thieves spat upon the ground,

cold at noon and in the star-filledevening,

cold where laughter waited

and grew old in the dance,

cold upon the cross,

cold at the gates of Hell,

cold when the lot was drawn,

cold when my name was called.

So much like now, it was cold the day Idied:

cold but not unforgiven,

cold with beauty unrelenting,

cold with magic all around.

[From Winter Poems, CosmopsisBooks, 2007]

Note: Through the end of theyear, all three of my Cosmopsis titles are available at a 10%discount. Use the following coupon code in your Cosmopsis Bookstoreshopping cart: H7E99

Here are the store links:

A Listening Thing (Novel,Tenth Anniversary Authorized Print Edition)

Winter Poems (Poetry)

Another Song I Know (Poetry)

And here are links to somethoughtful reviews:

A Listening Thing, by PaulL. Martin

On William Michaelian’s A Listening Thing, by Joseph Hutchison

Real and Not Real, Voices, and the Layers in Between,by Annie Wyndham

Simplicity, Sincerity, Sonority: A New Voice in American Poetry,

byRuss Allison Loar

Andfor a few of the shorter comments filed by readers here and onFacebook,

visitthe Cosmopsis Books page on my website.

Thankyou!

Remember

2011-11-25T05:51:00.000-08:00

We call them monitors,screens, pads, devices. But somewhere deep inside, we know they arenothing more than old cave walls.

Dream Face

November 25, 2011

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The Chosen Ones

2011-11-23T05:30:00.000-08:00

If we cannot love everything andeveryone,

can we, truly, love anything or anyone?

In choosing whom or what we love (ifsuch choice were possible),

do we not proclaim that our judgment islarger than life itself?

Is not that choice an illusion?

If we love only what we think we love,are we not, then,

defining love and placing on it certainlimitations?

Would it not be better to be defined bylove,

than to try to define it?

Are we so small in our uncertainty andfear that we must love

only that which pleases us, or which wethink reflects well on us,

or which loves us in return? If so, howcan we call that love?

It is a grave error we make in thinkingthat anything exists

outside of love.

Can you, in your deepest thought andcontemplation,

say which part of you loves and whichdoes not?

If you say the mind loves, or the heartloves,

or that love is harbored in variousglands and organs,

what, then, of the rest of you? Areparts of you worthy

or unworthy of love? Is love necessaryto one part,

but not to another?

Is love a condition that changes withhistory,

time, and weather?

And what of the insane?

Are we love’s orphans, love’sabandoned step-children?

Hubbard on Milton

2011-11-22T08:46:00.000-08:00

From Little Journeys to the Homes of English Authors,

the closing paragraphs onJohn Milton:

Ask yourself

2011-11-21T05:23:00.000-08:00

I, too, could take sides and sharepictures of the violence. But being superior to no one and inferiorto no one, I look at my own heart and behavior instead, and see thevictim and perpetrator there. I also see a tragic, beautiful thingcalled the human race, traveling through space, one part galaxy,another part rock — dust, flesh, and sun combined. Whom shall Idespise? Those who pull the trigger, or those who teach theirchildren that there will always be guns in the world? Those who stealin large amounts, or those who steal in small? To be fair, would Inot have to despise everyone, including myself? When was the lasttime you left food on your plate; took advantage of someone; wereinattentive or cruel to loved ones or friends; accepted pay for lessthan your best work? Ask yourself. If you do, you will understand therepetitive cycle of human events. You will recognize yourself inthose who are in positions of wealth and power, and in the whores andpanhandlers it is so convenient to shun. No, I will not take sides.Because there is only one. It is either we or none.

For better or worse

2011-11-20T14:50:00.000-08:00

It would be a strange biography indeed,

in which we could not find or see ourselves.

Occupy Yourself

2011-11-19T05:23:00.000-08:00

As we drift toward the holiday season — or are dragged kicking and screaming — it seems only right toannounce a money-saving opportunity you might be interested in.Through the end of the year, Cosmopsis Books is offering a 10%discount on purchases store-wide. This makes the beautifully printededition of my novel, A Listening Thing, even more of abargain. It also means that my two poetry volumes, Winter Poemsand Another Song I Know, are more affordable than they’veever been. Buy one, buy two, or buy all three — either way, youcan’t go wrong. I’m proud of these books and stand behind them.They are also gift-worthy in every sense, so these might be justright for the readers among your family and friends. Or, simply treatyourself. I think you’ll be glad you did.

To take advantage of the discount, use the following coupon code in your Cosmopsis Bookstore shopping cart: H7E99

Here are the store links again:

A Listening Thing

Winter Poems

Another Song I Know

And here are links to somethoughtful reviews:

A Listening Thing, by Paul L.Martin

On William Michaelian’s A Listening Thing, by Joseph Hutchison

Real and Not Real, Voices, and the Layers in Between, by Annie Wyndham

Simplicity, Sincerity, Sonority: A New Voice in American Poetry,
by Russ Allison Loar

And for a few of the shorter commentsfiled by readers here and on Facebook,

visit the Cosmopsis Books page on mywebsite.

Thank you!

Time

2011-11-18T07:27:00.000-08:00

To know not if, when, orwhere it’s been,

and almost glimpse itspassing

Time

November 18, 2011

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Adrift

2011-11-17T07:01:00.000-08:00

As happens with dreams,

I’ve lost the part between thepeaceful place

where two roads crossed and softhorizon beckoned all around,

and being chased by a whale along sheercliffs.

When I awoke, I was treading air madewet

by the whale’s breath — saved atfour a.m. by the sound

of rain against the window.

I’ve been up reading ever since.

At the crossroads, my youngest son wasthere.

This house could be a ship.

Stars

2011-11-16T05:45:00.001-08:00

Stars

November 16, 2011, 5:30a.m.

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In Lieu of Content

2011-11-15T17:20:00.000-08:00

For the time being, at least, a grainyblack-and-white version of a photograph I posted here serves as abackground for these entries. The change necessitated a few otherminor adjustments, and perhaps one or two more are needed, althoughdynamite is another possibility.

Leopold Staff: Foundations

2011-11-15T05:18:00.000-08:00

I built on the sand
And it tumbled down,
I built on a rock
And it tumbled down.
Now when I build, I shall begin
With the smoke from the chimney.

We gather insight and take ourinspiration as we go. I’m no different. A lovely poem like this onecrosses my path, written by a man who died the year after I was born.I make no notes, jot down no reminders to investigate further. Quitepossibly I will remember: his name; that he was Polish; his modernistconnection. But I won’t be able to tell you what a modernist is, ora Pole for that matter. In my mind he is another man who lived, andwho tried to make sense of that experience through words. Later, if Ihappen on his name in a used bookstore, if I find it, perhaps, in amusty old anthology, I will take that as my cue to renew myappreciation. And I will remember once again that he was born in thesame year as the poet Carl Sandburg, and the widely unknown farmerwho was my mother’s father, that steady man who chopped kindling,ever wary of his hernia.

What I Know

2011-11-14T05:35:00.000-08:00

I am not a man of knowledge. What Iknow is what finds me, not what I pursue. I’m organized in my work— more so, I’d wager, than most. And yet I have no systematic wayof learning. In school I was a poor student. But my time there wasn’twasted, because it was given over entirely to observation. Thesubjects of that observation included myself, through all kinds offoolishness and mental weather; indeed, I was present even when Itried most not to be, when oblivion called and darkness rimmed mysoul. For I was the source of that darkness, just as I am therecipient of what little light I know. I am a dim lamp in a darkroom; a candle burning down; and yet the candle smiles, consumed andwarmed by what it knows.

What I know will not die with me; whatwill die will be my way of knowing it, my funny way of arriving atthe truth. These lines you read and books I write, if they dosurvive, will be evidence that I tried. They will show how far I waswilling to go, and the limits I placed on my own honesty — myself-made shackles and chains, if you will. And it’s but the rattleof those chains that you hear now. To listen well is to love thesilence when I set them down. To love well is to recognize your own.

Image: Illustration fromDostoevsky’s The Idiot, by Fritz Eichenberg.

Exile

2011-11-13T06:16:00.001-08:00

Loneliness is not inbeing alone, for then ministering spirits

come to soothe andbless — loneliness is to endure

the presence of one whodoes not understand.

From Little Journeys,Vol. 3, by Elbert Hubbard,

on the mother of Alexander Hamilton

We

2011-11-12T11:36:00.001-08:00

Like everything I write anddraw, I, too, am open to interpretation. And like you, I can onlyimagine, and can never quite be certain, what it is, if anything, thatI withhold. And therein lies our strength and bond, which is notundone, even in its passing. Even if they remain unspoken, thedisasters in our lives, the trials and despair, are all revealed inone way or another. If I say I love you, it is because I have alreadyknown love and lost everything, like so much grain in my hand to thewind. And if I share in your joy, it is because joy, too, is myteacher and companion.

November 12, 2011

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A Bright Sun-Shiny Day

2011-11-11T05:17:00.000-08:00

Armen Karaoghlanian andWilliam Michaelian

I really like this picture. It wastaken here earlier this year on the sixteenth day of August, when I hadthe good fortune to meet Armen and his lovely girlfriend, Mary, whowas kind enough to record the moment. Armen and I have been in touchfor quite some time. We met online over a short story of mine called“I Feel Like I’m Falling.” A director with heart and a keen eyefor detail, Armen plans to make a film based on the piece.

In addition to his film work, Armenalso writes for Yerevan Magazine, where he’s in charge of“From the Vault,” a new cinema series in which he discussesArmenian films and filmmakers, and focuses on forgotten gems andclassics.

In Good Hands

2011-11-10T05:30:00.000-08:00

Florian C.A. Czech

A special thanks to Florian Czech forsharing this photo. Florian is the winner of our recent drawing forCopy #100 of my novel, A Listening Thing. As you can see, the book arrived safely and is in goodhands in its new home in Austria.

For those of you who aren’tacquainted with Florian, I heartily recommend that you visit hisblog, where he shows off many of his wonderful photographs. Fischis a recent favorite of mine, but I urge you to spend some time inhis archive, and in the various departments listed near the top ofhis page.

Thank you, Florian!

God

2011-11-08T17:25:00.000-08:00

All the little things — I love

how they break and throw off sparks.

I was a sower once; in my pouch,

there were ten thousand suns.

In those days, I was man

and woman both.

I am still. Hold me

to the light.

Turn me gently

in your palm.

Three Poems and War

2011-11-07T05:58:00.000-08:00

Something I will be thinking abouttoday: my poems “Almanac” and “Traveler” alongside “In Timeof ‘The Breaking of Nations’” by Thomas Hardy, placed in context with a letter by Giacomo Conserva.

Bricklayers, Buglers, and Veterinarians

2011-11-06T08:39:00.000-08:00

From an interview with WilliamMichaelian

by Paul L. Martin, A Listening Thing

A short excerpt, filed, for a while,here.

While Dynasties Pass

2011-11-05T05:40:00.000-07:00

With thanks to Giacomo Conserva

Traveler

I’m beginning to think
like this jade plant in the mist

a jeweled leaf for each
passing kingdom.

From Songs and Letters, November16, 2008

Immortality

2011-11-04T06:33:00.000-07:00

In life he asked forbread; when dead they gave him a costly pile of stone.

From Little Journeys,Vol. 1, by Elbert Hubbard,

on visiting Kensal GreenCemetery, London

Almanac

2011-11-03T07:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon

I put our garden space to bed.

One rake, one shovel, and half a yard

of damp, composted dairy manure.

Sweat on my neck and arms,

back, chest, legs, brow.

Leaves from the neighbor’s dogwoodtree

in my hair and beard.

Today, I am ready for anything.

Even the death

of fear.

A Poet Making Scrambled Eggs

2011-11-02T08:56:00.000-07:00

A poet making scrambledeggs
imagines chickens scratching in the yard,
warm sun upon anever-painted fence,
an old dog napping on the porch
stoicallyresigned to all its fleas.

He feels the breeze on his arms
ashe wields his axe behind the barn
with an angry rooster lookingon.

By the time the frying pan is warm,
a poet makingscrambled eggs
has scattered grain on barren ground
and choppeda pile of good dry kindling.

When he beats the eggs inside abowl,
he hears church bells ringing — looks up,
half-expectsto see his great-grandfather
sitting at the table in somber Sundayclothes.

A poet making scrambled eggs
picks up a lump ofcheese and sees
a meadow and a stream beyond the farm,
sadwillows bending down to shield
young love’s embrace with modesthands.

When he lifts his meal from the pan,
a poet makingscrambled eggs
no longer knows his name or cares.

Instead,he wonders at the years
that led him here, the folly and thepain,
and the food that tastes so good.

[From Songsand Letters, February26, 2006]

She Intrudes

2011-11-02T05:20:00.000-07:00

A new chapbook from Ed

Ed Baker

The Daily Miracle

2011-11-01T08:38:00.000-07:00

Before I announce the winner of our drawing for Copy #100 of A Listening Thing, I would like toshare, with thanks, a beautiful comment left by Joseph Hutchison onan entry by Vassilis Zambaras that I’m sure many of you willremember:

William’s book is hard todescribe, isn’t it? Reading it is like looking into a springtimebrook: the impression is of clarity, motion, depth and reflection,with many layers of sound (a poet’s prose) — such that one looksup from the page with that pleasant sense of disorientation we getwhen we look up from the flowing water and try to take in the treeson the opposite bank. I like that because it reminds me that thewhole Earth is flying on under our feet: the daily miracle. How doesWilliam/Stephen do it? On the one hand, I wish I knew; on the other,I don’t care to know. It’s enough that his book refreshes thehealing pleasures of being and feeling alive.

Frankly, despite this generouscharacterization and others like it, I was surprised that so manypeople entered the drawing for a free signed copy of my novel. We’veall been through it: what we offer, while important to us, oftenpasses without comment, leaving us to wonder at its worth. It mightwell happen with this post. That’s why, anymore, when Ientrust something to cyberspace, I simply let it go as if it were ababy bird or butterfly. I’ve done my best; now it’s time for itto fly or fail on its own.

Briefly, the statistics: twenty-ninepeople entered their names in the drawing; of that number, sixteenare readers new to the book; thirteen have already purchased one ormore copies and have read, or are still reading, or are about toread, the words of our embattled-but-not-embittered Everyman, StephenMonroe.

Also, since I announced the drawingmore than a week ago, one more copy has been sold. This means thatthere are, at the moment, forty-nine copies left of the numberedfirst printing — something to think about, perhaps, especially asthe holiday season approaches.

And now, live from the Used Book Room

at the fabulous Michaelian Club,

here are the names in my hat:

And here, after mixing andstirring and closing my eyes,

is the name of our winner:

Congratulations, Florian!

We’ll make the arrangements, and your signed copy will bein the mail soon!

In the meantime, my thanksto each and every one of you who entered the drawing and made it sucha wonderful experience. I wish you all could have won!

The Book of Lamenting

2011-10-31T05:30:00.000-07:00

“On the back of everytongue in my family

there is a dove thatlives and dies.”

The Book ofLamenting

byLory Bedikian

LevinePrize in Poetry 2010

Anhinga Press

92 pages

Tales of the Alhambra

2011-10-30T07:06:00.000-07:00

Tales of the Alhambra

October 30, 2011

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Songs from Robert Burns

2011-10-29T05:47:00.000-07:00

Chère

If you should choose

to read the thots fromout

this book think not ofits

weight in terms ofsilver,

nor of gold, butrather,

in terms of Friendship,

with its words

breathing sweet

emanations of the heart

more subtle than a

summer breeze

at eventide.

Songs from Robert Burns

Gardening Leave

2011-10-27T17:04:00.000-07:00

Whether the writing is short, long, orin between, I’m inspired each time a reader feels compelled to saysomething about his or her experience with A Listening Thing. And so, in thanking Jonathan Chant, who writes thoughtfully in his new blog of a “wise and generous novel,” I’malso thanking everyone — readers, writers, thinkers, dreamers —for I see at work here an ongoing cumulative process as steady andreassuring as the changing seasons. The book grows witheach mind it passes through and each observation of it that is made,and I change right along with it. Without a doubt, I’m a richer,better person for having met and listened to so many talented,spirited souls.

I’ve been following Jonathan’s blogsince he started it on the seventh day of October this year. I thinkit’s time you joined me. This quiet, modest voice from “acrossthe pond” speaks from a wealth of memory and experience:

My Grandfather as a boy walking througha wood with his father, walking out to see what they’ve killed.England between the wars. The wood is near Dorchester and ThomasHardy has not long been dead. What time of year is this? I don’tknow, but I keep seeing leaves. A carpet of dead leaves. Blackleaves. Leather boots churning the leaves. My Great-Grandfather –Granfer – wearing his weskit over his collar-less white shirt.Their eyes scanning the ground looking for traps. Traps that they hadplanted. Iron teeth to catch a rabbit. But instead, something else,lying in the leaves....

Thank you, Jonathan.

An Experiment in Public Art

2011-10-26T05:33:00.000-07:00

The following is frommy Notebook, dated August 2008. Gosh — I was sure funny back then.

Before he stepped into theshower a moment ago, my youngest son and I briefly continued adiscussion that we began last night at the supper table. My idea —inspired by Jethro Tull’s Aqualung,the artwork for that album, and composer Ian Anderson’s stageantics — is to declare myself public art.

In the first phaseof the experiment, I would sit on a park bench downtown in the lovelyarea near the State Capitol, with a little sign that says, simply,“Sitting on a park bench.” That would, in effect, be my title. Inthe second phase of the experiment, I would play a flute whilestanding in the gutter — the gutter being symbolic of how low I’vesunk, as an artist and especially as a human being, the flute beingmy frantic attempt at appeasing randomly imagined gods (odd,considering I don’t play the flute). My eyes, of course, would berolled back in my head so that only the whites show, symbolizing thelong inward gaze of introspection, Zen, karma, ancient forms of plantlife, the birth and death of planets, galaxies, and stars, shame, badhygiene, etc., etc. The title of this piece would be Thick as a Brick.

Now,it should be mentioned that the police in Salem are a littleskeptical of such experiments, as even young people strumming guitarson city sidewalks are viewed with suspicion and often asked to “movealong,” as if the tempo of their aspirations were somehow laggingbehind that of the rest of the citizenry. My son has experienced thishimself, despite the general interest and approval of passersby,mothers and their little children included, some of whom have goneso far as to drop quarters, dollar bills, and baked goods in his openguitar case to show their appreciation.

And therein lies theproblem. One of the most sacred, straightforward acts — the earningof honest money by working at something someone loves — is notwelcome on city streets. Somehow, it is deemed to interfere with thelegalized theft that goes on behind the doors of so many venerablebusinesses and institutions, which are themselves leech-like androtten to the core.

For instance, let us say that I, sansflute and with all due gravity, were to recite on a busy streetcorner two of Walt Whitman’s best known, most loved poems aboutAbraham Lincoln, “O Captain! My Captain!” and “When Lilacs Lastin the Dooryard Bloom’d.” And let us say I were to do so in sucha profoundly moving way that several people gathered and a few evengave me money. How would this be received by business owners in theimmediate area and the police?

In this Whitman phase of theexperiment, I would, perhaps, need to be handled with slightly morecare — told more politely, in other words, to “move along,” orpossibly even asked todo so. And if thathappened, it would be a victory for artists everywhere: the day oneof our number was asked instead of told, or, as the government reallyprefers, ignored altogether.

Then again, what if no onerealized I was reciting Whitman? A distinct possibility, I’mafraid.

There are, of course, other ways to function as publicart. I might slowly walk the streets of the downtown district with asign that says “Poet,” or “Writer,” or “Human Being.” Orone that bears this thought-provoking message: “Instead of war . ..”

Note: The drawing for a free signed copy of my novel, A Listening Thing, is open through October 31. Don’t be shy — if you’d like to enter, all you have to do is leave a comment on that post or on my Facebook page. Good luck!

I Love You, Whoever You Are

2011-10-24T06:28:00.000-07:00

When I was eighteen and living awayfrom home, I developed a peculiar form of calligraphy. It consistedof graceful curving strokes that began low on the left and ended highon the right, and which made the shorter letters look as if they werebeing protected by the taller ones. The cross on the capital letterT, for instance, began well below the base line on the left, andprovided shelter to the letters that followed.

While an entire page of this scriptwould have been difficult to read, the style was suited to abeginner’s verse. When bad poetic weather blew across the page —this happened even more often then than it does now — the eager o’swere far less likely to get a’s in their i’s, and thethree-legged m’s still managed to keep their feet dry. This meant alot to me. The fact is, it meant far too much, but in those days Iwasn’t quite ready to face myself in cold stark type.

Even so, I knew I had a wealth ofmaterial at my disposal. I had already beheld my fellow human beingsin their competitive rottenness and heartbroken despair, had seentheir lonely lights flickering late at night through undrapedwindows, and been inspired by their spontaneous acts of beauty, love,and grace.

I moved through this world like ahaunted form, drunk with observation, astonished by these spiritualcreatures struggling everywhere around me, arguing, laughing,playing, kissing, sighing, protesting, mourning, deceiving, courting,and always trying their best to explain that which was, by itsprofound nature, unexplainable.

It was a beautiful, lonely time, ahappy time full of wonder tempered by sadness and loss — just as itis today, with its painted autumn leaves and children playing infront of droopy little houses, its disorderly fields of abandonedhopes and dreams, its wars, and its grotesque sanity for sale onevery corner. The flower of Sixties unrest was still a joy to behold,but it had begun to fade. Here and there, resignation and cynicismsprouted in the gutter.

As far as I am aware, no sample of myold calligraphy has survived. A short while ago, I tried to recreateit and failed. I was not surprised, or even disappointed. I am nolonger eighteen. My blissful, lustful ignorance has given way to akind of wisdom that very much resembles hardheaded stupidity. I wouldrather type anyway.

I do remember once tacking one of myhandwritten poems on the wall above my desk. I have long sinceforgotten the words, but I know what they must have said:

Pleased to meet you,

I love you, whoever you are.

[From Songs and Letters,originally published September 29, 2005]

A Listening Thing — One Free Signed Copy

2011-10-22T05:17:00.000-07:00

I have good news: two months after itsrelease, 100 copies of the Tenth Anniversary Authorized Print Edition of mynovel, A Listening Thing, are now in circulation — or soonwill be, as I’m about to explain.

As an expression of gratitude,Cosmopsis Books has furnished me with Copy #100, free of charge,which I will autograph and send, also free of charge, to a luckyperson whose name I pull out of my old gray hat. To get your nameinto the hat, you must eitherleave a comment on this blog entry, or where the entry appears on myFacebook page. I will then write your name on a small piece of paperand add it to the hat.

Everyone is eligible, including thosewho already have a copy and might want to pass one along as a gift.

Entries to this drawing will beaccepted until midnight, Pacific Daylight Time, October 31.

On the first day of November, I willmix the entries, and, without peeking, pull one out of the hat. Iwill announce the winner later the same day.

The Hat

If you would like to enter the drawing but can’tcomment because you don’t have a Blogger or Facebook account, dropme a line via email and I will see to it that your name is included.You can find my email address at the bottom of the sidebar, or on myProfile page.

And that’s all there is to it. In themeantime, here are some useful links:

The Cosmopsis bookstore (includes bookdescription)
Readers’ comments and links to reviews (highly recommended)
My Facebook page (the fun never stops)

Again, this is Copy #100 ofthe limited first printing. The books, 150 in all,
arehand-numbered and printed on archival, acid-free, FSC certifiedrecycled natural paper. They are made to last, and truly a pleasureto read and hold.

Thank you! And now, let the drawingbegin...

On finishing the last chapter: a reader’s notes

2011-10-20T09:15:00.000-07:00

I finished this book, and I lay itdown. The emotion I felt was gratitude.

As with other writers in the past, Ifelt this validation and comfort in knowing that someone else seeswhat I see. In other words, I “get” Stephen Monroe in so manyways, except from the male point of view, which I was lucky to alsoget a glimpse of. It was enlightening to say the least.

Each chapter was a joy to read, greatstorytelling, never dull or meandering, with a delightful cadence,words painting pictures in my mind of the most minute detail. Thehumour and playfulness woven into a tale of angst and redemption, thecomplete likability of your character who laughs at himself yet stillretains his dignity. You are sir, a true artist.

I don’t review many books, in fact Inever have. I just wanted to say thank you, and let you know that Iwas left wanting more….to hear what else Stephen Monroe might sayabout life and himself through the unique lens of his unflinchinglyhonest, very funny observations.

Loved it. 4 stars.

Deborah

From personal correspondence, sharedwith permission.

Lost and Found

2011-10-18T06:06:00.000-07:00

If you doubt the power of this medium,if you question the strength or validity of the friendships that areforged herein, consider this.

Vassilis lives in Greece. We have onlywords between us, many of them unsaid. And yet I have dreamed of being in his kitchen.

Master poet, brother, friend: in mymind, the words he finds bring light, every way I turn them.

From personal correspondence

2011-10-16T10:14:00.000-07:00

I finished the book around eleven lastnight. . . . Stephen Monroe is a man we should all aspire to be in mymind. Everything he went through, put himself through, was for loveand understanding, of himself and the world around him. Mary is agift from the heavens.

The way you brought Uncle Leo into thebook and laughter and this great sensitivity throughout the wholebook was absolutely beautiful. Your views on the futility of wars andthe draft were introduced so naturally.
A masterstroke.

I am all over the map with telling youabout my experience with
A Listening Thing. I am still sovery excited about this novel, this autobiography of yourself and meand countless others.

I am going to make a T-shirt saying,

MY NAME
MY NAME IS
STEPHEN MONROE!

I thank you
for your friendship
your beautiful mind
your eyes that see beauty in the decay.

From Robert, shared here with his gracious permission.

Fra Atlanta til Havet

2011-10-16T05:24:00.000-07:00

Updated Catalogue

The chosen ones

2011-10-15T06:41:00.000-07:00

As of yesterday afternoon, I’veentered 665 titles in my LibraryThing collection, and there are stillseveral hundred books that await my attention. The task istime-consuming and totally unnecessary, and therein lies its appeal.I don’t need to have my books posted online. But inexamining each I’m restored to grace by the names of authors,illustrators, translators, editors, and publishers, and inspired byinscriptions and bits of handwriting, love notes, pressed leaves andflowers, satin markers and lace crosses, old photos, notes, andnewspaper clippings — in short, life itself, committed to thesafety and sanctity of what their former owners knew, or perhaps onlysensed, would outlast them.

Scrolling through the catalogue, manyof the books seem ordinary enough. But I assure you they are not. Iassure you, nothing is when it’s carefully examined.

And while this catalogue isunnecessary, it does serve a purpose. Most of these books are here inthis room where I work. Entering this space is like entering a usedbookshop in which the owner also lives and conducts his day-to-dayaffairs. See and smell the books, know the man — know what heloves, and where he has been. Know, too, that the books have chosenhim.

[My son and I are going to a booksale at the library today — hardcovers for a dollar.]

Between us

2011-10-14T06:53:00.000-07:00

First signs of light here thismorning.....

to the east there’s a band of cloudsrising from the Cascades;

it looks almost like a giant ocean wave

headed our way....

“Let there be calm seas, William.”

Now it’s a blanket;

the mountains are too lazy

to get out of bed.

[From anearly-morning email exchange with a friend]

Mirror Image

2011-10-13T07:01:00.001-07:00

what I imagine

is disturbed

by the rings

around

your ankles

in the water

October Passing

2011-10-12T06:38:00.000-07:00

the moon is out

an owl is calling throughthe firs

perhaps I’ll awaken soon

and find this dream

is yours

Sushi

2011-10-10T08:23:00.000-07:00

This beautiful comment, and theobservation that follows it, was posted this morning by Facebookfriend, Donna Belleson. Such kind words to start the day. And ofcourse I mention Facebook only for reference. No medium, howeverlarge or pervasive, can contain the human spirit.

I just finished William Michaelian’sfirst novel, A Listening Thing. I picked it up and could notput it down (except to let the dogs out — they were grateful).Reading this book was a bit like my first experience with sushi...while taking the first couple of bites, I was not quite so sure ofwhat I was getting into, but I kept eating because it was sobeautiful... and strangely delicious. In the end, I was filled to thebrim, but still comfortable in my jeans. Looking forward to the nextplateful, William. This was a five tilde read ~~~~~

*

Your brand of humor flowseffortlessly... even before reading your book, those who know you canfeel that it comes from ‘beyond thought’. To me, that placebeyond thought is where personal genius patiently, or sometimesimpatiently, resides awaiting our notice. If we are fortunate enoughto find it, and then to be able to tap that gift and present it in ina form that can be absorbed by others, this is art. Thanks forsharing yours...

Thank you, Donna.

Revolution

2011-10-08T09:00:00.000-07:00

Of revolution I do speak.Protests, politics, and war are outward symptoms of inner conflict,as sure as the seasons. Everything I write is a call to revolution —that defining moment when one decides not to change the world, buthimself. As long as we are blind to the connection between what isgoing on in the world and the way we live our daily lives, we aredoomed to fail. Without this understanding, taking to the streets isdangerously akin to the thrill of organized athletics or religion:the moment we return home and our adrenalin subsides, we are aloneagain with our fears, our hatreds, and our doubts. What good are our protests, whatpossible meaning can they have, when we dominate our children andthose we claim to love? What good are our votes, when we aredishonest in our day-to-day business dealings? If we are notresponsible for our actions, why should we expect anything differentfrom our so-called leaders? We arethe society and world we have made. Each starving child starves inour lives and in our minds. Every bullet fired, we have fired. Everybook burned, every inquisition, every raped woman, child, and forest— surely we must see. And oh, how I love the autumn — thiscolorful leaf I am, soon to die, soon to be swept aside, even as thebrowned fiber of me yearns for the next life, and the next, and thenext, eloquent food for worms.

The Life and Times of #84

2011-10-06T08:55:00.000-07:00

The more I read it, the more I enjoythis wonderful review by fellow blogger Annie Wyndham. I love whereshe takes it, and where it eventually takes her:

Michaelian’snovel made me aware that choosing to be who you are can berevolutionary — and life altering, not only for you but for others.

That is the very heart of thematter. And getting there is a matter of life, love, and listening — the very ingredients Annie brings to this and all of herthoughtful “jottings.”

Who I am is of little importance.Stephen Monroe is the one who matters, because in this world he iseveryone I have ever known.

Thank you, Annie.

Passion Music

2011-10-05T06:35:00.000-07:00

1869

one dollar

Eye Talk

2011-10-04T16:44:00.000-07:00

When you’re quiet like this,

it’s hard toprove I’m not a ghost.

“I was thinking the same thing.

Butthat’s when I love you the most.”

[From Songs and Letters, October9, 2008.]

As true today as the touch of your hand

2011-10-01T06:44:00.000-07:00

Brevity is beauty’s sting.

[From a comment I made here, more thana year ago.]

Pen, sieve

2011-09-30T06:39:00.000-07:00

For Vassilis Zambaras

And so it is written:

May the last word be the one / wecome / to understand.

What we bring

2011-09-29T13:35:00.000-07:00

I saw the beggar again today. He was inthe same place. His hair had been cut, and it seemed he’d agedabout fifteen years. This time, he wasn’t strong enough to enterthe roadway and converse with people as they waited for the light tochange. And so he waited and watched and no one gave him any money.

The rest of the way home, I thoughtabout how much he and I are alike. My begging merely takes adifferent form. But what I offer is no better or more worthy thanwhat he brings to that street corner each day: namely, hisexperience, understanding, knowledge, life, and presence. I put minein books and beg for money. He puts his on his sign and does the besthe can in this grotesque society we have made.

Canvas 284

2011-09-28T05:50:00.000-07:00

This drawing was made after a dream,which left me with far more feelings than words. Click on it for alarger view.

Not counting dream-time, which began atmy birth or likely long before, it took me less than five minutes tocomplete. I was present part of that time, and quite interested inwhat my hand was doing, not wholly certain it belonged to me. Nowyou’re here, and we’re dreaming together. I like that.

Crossing

2011-09-26T05:17:00.000-07:00

A new gray pickup was parked beside theroad in front of my childhood home, just past our Canary Island pine.Out of it, one by one, their feet in shoes on the ground, cameseveral dead relatives on my father’s side — old uncles andcousins different now and restored to health, restored from suicide,cancer, and loss.

Lord, I saidfrom a plateau of unbelieving, it’s good to see them again.

And who is thisextra brother, friendly and familiar as all the rest?

The wind blew off my hat. I caught it mid-gust and put it onagain.

I’d crossed the road to get the mail.Our mailbox had been chopped down, so I walked on to a neighbor’shouse that wasn’t there in the past, and found the mail waiting forme on a table outside. When I turned around, the relatives werewalking toward me.

Joyful greetings all around — but notouching, no handshakes or hugs or rugged back rubs.

We all knew, something.

Crossing again — whatever was thereis gone.

Image: My Father’s Side, September 13, 2009, #2 Pencil on Index Card.

Naming The Unnamable

2011-09-25T05:50:00.000-07:00

I’d like to step aside today anddirect you to a beautiful review that is, like all of this poet’swritings, perceptive, instructive, and wise. It contains passageslike these, which are all the more powerful in context:

... A profound vision of the inner life ...Some of the most resonant accounts of dreams in recent literature ...Some of the funniest, most acerbic rants about American society andvalues in recent literature ... essentially a meditation onloneliness, it is profoundly American ... compellingly human: wenever doubt that narrator is telling us the truth. In a society awashevery day in public lies, it’s refreshing to realize that honestexpression is still possible ...

I’m pleased to say that these words,written by Joseph Hutchison, are about my recently published novel, A Listening Thing. His review is proof of something I’ve been saying right along: What a readerbrings, gives a book wings. And it proves something else, I think: that a friend can write about his friend’s novel, and remain true to his calling, and to himself. That is no small thing.

Thank you, Joe.

Anything Helps

2011-09-24T05:17:00.000-07:00

I also want to mention a man I sawbegging at a stoplight. This, of course, is a common sight, buteverything about him was uncommon, and in a very good, inspiring way.If Jimi Hendrix were still alive, he might well look like this —graceful in movement, deeply intelligent, wise in his weathered faceand eyes, dusty in countenance, his presence that of an angel, hispain too great and too beautiful to hide.

This particular light is situated atopa gentle slope at a convenient bend, where the road turning left istwo lanes wide. In our town, most beggars at intersections standnumbly while holding their cardboard signs, which, if I mightparaphrase, say, “Homeless, anything helps, God bless.”

When I arrived, the light was red, andthere were already several cars ahead of me in both lanes. This lighttakes awhile to change, and the beggar was making use of the time. Hewas engaged in a friendly chat with one passenger, who handed himsome money. After thanking him respectfully, he glanced at the othercars, and, making eye contact with someone else, motioned for them tolower the window, which that person did. After another brief chat,the beggar achieved the same positive result. All the while, he heldhis head high. He was also amused by himself, as if he werepleasantly in awe of the life and circumstances that had brought himhere.

Still standing in the roadway, wise andhumble and proud, the beggar was about to try again when the lightchanged. Sign to his chest, he turned around and took his place onthe sidewalk. It was the first time I’d seen him. I might never seehim again. But seeing him was a blessing.

Shower Notes

2011-09-23T08:40:00.000-07:00

In the shower this morning, whilesoaped to the gills and enjoying the steam, I remembered out of theblue how our first grandson, who is nearly four years old now, wentthrough a phase early on when he distrusted everyone except his sweetmama and my wife and me — and, because of my appearance, almostevery long-haired, shaggy-bearded, disheveled person he saw inpublic. I’ve always been proud of that.

I also remembered a dream I had backaround 1989 or so, in which a friend of mine, who was in hisupper-twenties at the time, was an old, homeless, derelict man on asidewalk downtown. He didn’t recognize me. Ever since, with nologic to support it, I have expected someday to find him that way.

I did in fact see him at the postoffice recently after a twenty-year interval. And by “him”I mean someone who looked very much like him, to the point that itcould have been him, that it must have been him, andyet despite that I just couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t homeless, andyet there was already much of my dream in him. He was several peopleahead of me in line. When he finished his business and left thebuilding, I noticed that he also walked like my friend. I’m stillwondering.

To say so, and live so, and be so

2011-09-19T05:09:00.000-07:00

After posting an excerpt from each chapter of A Listening Thing, I wonder if I can, or evenshould pick up where I left off, with drawings and poems and sticksand stones and memories and dreams that go bump in the night. Part ofme — a big part, bigger than you might imagine — would be quitecontent to spend the rest of my days in total seclusion, doingnothing but reading and writing. It’s the part that grew up on thefarm and worked there in the sublime quiet for hours, weeks, andmonths at a time, listening to nature, listening to myself, listeningto my feet on the ground, listening to sorrow and listening to bones,listening to the triumph and failure of the family of man, which isexactly the same as my own.

And here I laugh. Is it really asserious as that? Or is thisjust one more round of exhaustion and melancholy? Stephenwould know. Stephen Monroe. And he would try his best, in thesimplest of words, to say so. He would say what I feel: that we areboth sailing into the unknown.

“You make plain words sing.” Thatis what someone told me the other day.

The fact is, I have friends in thisworld who understand this connection we’ve built on sunlight andair, and who are aware of its strength and fragility. They haveaccepted

A Listening Thing as tangible evidence of what willsurely outlive us all: love and its power to heal. I am tremendouslygrateful to each and every one.

At the same time, in this world ofpreposterous wants and ludicrous needs, I understand that we cannotbe everything to everyone. We can, though, let down our guardand learn to close the distance between us.

Another part of me hungers forconversation.

Another part thrives on your attention.

Another part cares to the point ofdepression.

Still another part remembers things Idid when I was five or ten years old, and how they made me feel likea dew-drenched orange tree waking to the sun.

To say so, and be so, and live so,creates its own urgent demands. I sensed it then:

my life is not myown. And now I’m as much a witness as anyone else.

For now, though, not knowing what tomorrowor even what this day will bring, I send thanks to each and every oneof you who have welcomed this book into your life.

To everyone else, one final note: Theprice will go up soon. If you’ve enjoyed the excerpts, if you’retempted at all, and if you have the money to spare, I ask that youorder a book for yourself or a friend. Upon reading it, perhaps youwill feel as other readers did when they said:

“I can’t recommend thisbook enough.
So unflinchingly honest and human.”

“I can’t think of a bookin recent years that connected with me so.
It speaks to all of us.”

“A wonderful book full ofheart and common sense.
A must read for anyone.”

“A deep journey into the heart/mind of loneliness and hope
told in the clearest voice of true vision.”

“Tender, deeply honest,authentic.”

“Thank you for the gift ofyour words.”

“I’m left feeling lessalone. Thank you.”

“Even in novel form, youwrite like a poet.”

“What a fabulous read,devoured it in a few days....
it engulfed and consumed me.”

“The book is wise and sadand joyful like its creator.”

To which I will add, wiseand sad and joyful like Stephen Monroe.

Observation

2011-09-18T05:19:00.000-07:00

The bed wasneatly made. Since Dad’s death, the bed has seemed larger each timeI’ve seen it. His side is empty and undisturbed, like a fallowpatch of ground. This sight alone seemed almost enough to explain mymother’s behavior.

[FromChapter 24†,AListening Thing]

Note:Through September 22, Cosmopsis Books is offering my novel,

AListening Thing,at the special price of $14.00, plus shipping.

Thefirst printing is limited to 150 numbered copies.

Toorder this tenth anniversary print edition

fromanywhere in the world, click here.

Thankyou.

† thelast chapter

Secret

2011-09-17T04:57:00.000-07:00

Mary let go ofthe sheet. I pulled it up to my waist. She sat on the bed. With thetip of her finger, she made a squiggly design on my chest. Touchingmy ear with her lips, she whispered, “I have something to tellyou.”

[FromChapter 23, AListening Thing]

Note:Through September 22, Cosmopsis Books is offering my novel,

AListening Thing,at the special price of $14.00, plus shipping.

Thefirst printing is limited to 150 numbered copies.

Toorder this tenth anniversary print edition

fromanywhere in the world, click here.

Thankyou.

Love

2011-09-15T05:12:00.000-07:00

I don’tunderstand it.

I don’tunderstand anything.

I never will.

Love isn’twhat anyone thinks it is.

It isn’t whatanyone wants it to be.

It isn’tanything at all.

It’severything.

Nothing canexist outside it.

Nothing cansurvive without it.

And pity thefool who denies it.

[FromChapter 22, AListening Thing]

Note:Through September 22, Cosmopsis Books is offering my novel,

AListening Thing,at the special price of $14.00, plus shipping.

Thefirst printing is limited to 150 numbered copies.

Toorder this tenth anniversary print edition

fromanywhere in the world, click here.

Thankyou.

Advice

2011-09-14T04:55:00.000-07:00

“Stephen,”she said. “Let it go. Just let it go.” She looked tired. At thesame time, she was incredibly beautiful. Not beautiful in terms ofHollywood, or advertising, or the current cosmetic fad. Beautifulfrom the inside. Beautiful from wit and intelligence. Beautiful fromcompassion. Beautiful from having endured.

“How can I?”I said. “How? Tell me.”

[FromChapter 21, AListening Thing]

Note:Through September 22, Cosmopsis Books is offering my novel,

AListening Thing,at the special price of $14.00, plus shipping.

Thefirst printing is limited to 150 numbered copies.

Toorder this tenth anniversary print edition

fromanywhere in the world, click here.

Thankyou.