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July 16, 2003 Formulating the question At my desk on a Thursday morning Thinking about that movie in which it rains frogs And listening to the soundtrack For some hidden message about The meaning of it all. Garbage truck rumbles by outside and I remember having forgotten To put out the trash But the Logical Song is on crying.. Please tell me who I am! Slapping me into thought Thinking.. That although I thought.. This movie was about humanity How all the world Is steeped In frogs-falling-from-the-sky misery What's really wrong with us Is not that we too often plead: Tell me who I am! But that so few of us At any given time Ever even formulate The question. Sitting here folding a grievance letter To some blind corporate giant I tune in to that line: ..teach you how to logical, clinical, intellectual, cynical And suddenly it's clear That my dead in the water pace My go-nowhere but crazy Accomplishing nothing Nothing state of being of late Is somehow tied to the fact that I'm not daily asking That oh-so vital question Who am I? The questions run so deep For such a simple man. Perhaps. But it isn't in the asking That I lose my mind. It's in the not asking. For is it not the job of a writer To ask and ask again? Not to be unhappy with the Here and Now of life But to be constantly alive and curious To be forever Formulating the question And not giving a flying fuck Or a falling frog If the answer Never comes. Ó
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