Saturday, April 10, 2010

Domestic Detail

Not quite awake, my vision blurs just enough to transform a box of tissue adorned with lilac spikes and leaves into Dostoevsky’s beard and eyes. Reaching out, I imagine I imagine I hear his voice, and then his footsteps on the gravel by the road. He stops; looks up. Someone, somewhere, blows my nose.

In the Forum: long ago and nearaway.


Joseph Hutchison said...

I have tried and failed many times to capture moments like these, when the fluidity of self obtains and the wall between perception and imagination wavers like one of those funny vertical water-mirrors in Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast. Lovely!

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Joe! As have I. As have I.

Elisabeth said...

A lovely half dream, day dream or fantasy, William. Long may Dostoevsky visit when your nose needs a blow.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks! That’s the way I feel. He might be hard to meet otherwise.