As noted then in these pages, my brother, Kirk, died two years ago today — an interval which seems much more like one expansive, all-encompassing breath. I see, meanwhile, that it’s been almost a month since I last wrote. During that time, I’ve felt neither the urge nor the need. And I don’t feel it now. What I do feel is the arrival of spring. Why, then, am I writing? […]
There’s nothing like exercise married to a needful purpose — Carrying water, chopping wood, pruning a vineyard, digging a grave, Building a house, hanging clothes on the line, painting a mural, Running to the next village with an important message — I could go on — but not as far as writing a poem. What about singing one? I don’t know. I wonder. Yes, yes — perhaps. . [ 1846 […]
A little purpose, a little play; the purpose is play, the play, purpose; until, finally, play is all there is; except it’s not final, until purpose has its say, which, of course, is not its way unless it’s in the mood; nonsense, true; without glue, without you, there would be no purpose anyway, even if I play so myself — which I do, I do, I do. . [ 1792 […]
I wonder about purpose. Does the universe have a purpose? Does the sun? Do I? Or are we simply here, and here simply, spinning, gently, of this music, and burning bright? Isn’t this enough? Must I impose myself on this miracle and whittle it down to my size? Must I choose one thing or another and say, This is why I am here? Must I be that important? Can’t I […]
William Michaelian 