Poetry, notes, and drawings by William Michaelian
William, I feel I know That Movie so well, though I have never seen it on purpose or in its entirety - I always seem to be watching clips, or tuning in late while channel surfing on the holiday. But as well as I know it, by the end, I also cried, again. I think you have just explained to me why. All the best to you in 2011.
Je sens un peu de tristesse... et c'est un peu celle que je ressens parfois et ces fêtes qui devraient être heureuses nous rendent tristes et nous font réaliser que nous sommes aussi bien seuls... Heureusement, un téléphone sonne, un ami passe par hasard... et tout est remis en question...Je vous envoie plein de bisous, l'être humain est très compliqué, je crois...
Yes, i understand, i cried too. A beautiful classic.Dear William i hope these Christmas days are fine.....
Me too, William. And Melody. And my family (what's left of them—my brother, his wife, our niece—visiting from Oregon for the first time in 20 years), none of whom had never seen the movie all the way through. For years I've thought a good name for a lit mag would be Zuzu's Petals—the scene where (for me) the first tears make their appearance. And it's heartening to think how many of us were sharing that experience at the same time! Here's wishing you a grand 2011, amigo....
And my best to you, Gabriella. And thank you for enriching 2010 with your insightful presence.Really, Martine, your words here are a little poem of life. I give thanks for those beautiful human complications every day. Good wishes to you.Monica, it is indeed a beautiful time, and for me our dear departed ones are near, almost painfully so. But of course that’s part of why it’s so beautiful. Sending bright thoughts your way....As it happens, Joe, my brother and his wife are also visiting us. Neither had seen the movie all the way through, so after catching glimpses of it on Christmas Eve, we brought out the commercial-free video version yesterday afternoon. Zuzu’s petals — I’m surprised there’s no magazine by that name; in fact I want to say that I’ve come across one before. Wait — here’s a reference. Seems it’s in limbo at the moment.... but that certainly won’t stop me from wishing you the best for the coming year, or from thanking you for the part you’ve played in mine this year. Ours. Everyone’s.
Favorite. Favorite. Always has been. This year though it was too painful to bear. When he broke down. When he broke. When his family bore it. It was just too much for me to watch. I believed him in that moment, not only because Jimmy Stewart (oh, I love this man as though I hold his beating heart in an orange platic container with a striated sun on top just to be close to him - ha! I know, a little weird) but because we have all broken. And when we are lucky, our families bear us too, with fear, with trust, and with love.All my best, William. What a beautiful movie to share.Your poem stills me yet again, as most of your poems do.xoerin
Too painful to bear, Erin, and yet there is that recurring need to suffer through it. For when it comes to pass that we are not moved by the sorrows and joys of this world, when our shells have become so hard that we no longer feel, we, in our living death, are capable of unspeakable things.I wonder. Is it possible we met only this year? It seems we’ve known each other much longer than that. Then again, what does time have to do with it?
William, isn't it funny? I knew this even as I turned from the small tv. I have it on video tape but somehow it was more important, more insiduous even for it to appear by itself on this little unit in my dining room on a tiny table, as though it blinked an eye and said, look, look at this sorrow in your life, this sorrow that wears clothes of happiness, the most difficult kind of sorrow of all. And so I turned after pushing the small button. And in my turning, in my pretending to move away, I carried both the happy and sorrowful blinking eye with me. Its lashes brushed up against my sweater, its eye becoming my chest.Christmas day I would receive a quilt. Robert and I would sit on the couch in quiet, generosity all around us, like birds with no voices. I would draw the quilt over my chest, my sweater. Each square was a life, a story. It was one story touching another, even that of my sweater. My sweater was readying itself to one day become a part of the quilt.Yes, it feels I have known you forever, but this year I am glad to hear your voice.xoerin
Genius and a teacher, Rudhi. And some of us are better students than others....Erin: ... thank you again.
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