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A LETTER TO KEN
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A Thought for Today
The quality of the moment is more important than the number
of our days.
Dear Ken,
The moon on the lakes is especially nice in
middle age or otherwise and there are so many moons ahead the ones gone by will seem like
nothing. Not that memories aren't sweet and something to be savored, but they are only
yesterdays. Tomorrow is where the real adventures are. All the surprises hide ahead.
How do I know? Because I've had quite a few more tomorrows than you have and they seem to
be getting better. The laughs are better, love is better and even the trouble I still
manage to get myself into is more interesting. Harder to get out of, but demanding
resources and intelligence I never thought I had. The opponents are tougher, but the
victories sweeter
It took me a long time to appreciate what lies ahead instead of dwelling on the day before
yesterdays missed opportunities. Even now I have a lapse or two, but not for long. I bring
all of this up because today is your birthday. And this one is another milestone.
When I turned fifty I didn't know whether to throw a party or hide under the bed. I
remember looking in my dresser drawer and sighing to myself, "Well, I've got all the
underwear I'll ever need." Not only did I wear that batch out long ago, I switched
from Y fronts to boxers -- more ballroom, and after fifty dancing of one kind and another
is a healthy, heavenly sport.
Hard to believe that we've been friends for such a little time, of course that isn't so.
You are an old soul Ken, and we've done all of this and more together before. There was no
Internet then and friendships had to be forged eye to eye, but ours hasn't taken any
shortcuts due to distance. We share more secrets than most friends do face to face in
daily conversation.
All of this is to remind you again old friend that after you pass fifty, everything else
is a breeze. Mind you I wouldn't trade sixty-six to be fifty again . . . well, maybe
fifty-five.
Love and Happy 50th Birthday, Rod
PS: Below is a poem I wrote just after turning fifty.
- RM 8/12/99 Previously unpublished. |
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Casey Affleck o
Ken Blackie o Cantinflas o Cecil B. DeMille o John Derek o George Hamilton o Oscar Homolka o Kid Creole o William Goldman o Parnelli Jones o Kurt Kasznar o Michael Kidd o Wayne Massie o Buck Owens o Mary Roberts Rinehart o Mstislav
Rostropovich o Robert Soutbey o Porter Wagoner o Jane Wyatt |
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Without friends or
purpose, genius wastes its breath
There will never be too many lit-up mornings when life does
its sorting, makes its decisions.
Silence with friends is comfort. |
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STILL LIFE AFTER ALL THESE YEARS
for Jeri Southern
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How is it now
at a quarter past three -
difficult, lovely, painful, good.
The moon on the lake is especially nice
in middle age or otherwise.
All of the intervals meeting at once,
those in music,
those in time, those that cross
and meld in the mind. Coming together
staying apart, lost in the diversions
dancing starts.
Friends remembered, new friends made,
old friends dependable whatever the hour.
Not every dream fulfilled.
But not every dream thought up.
Always some new door opening
the same day an old one closes.
Mama buried for fourteen years
and still the bush throws off roses.
Still the romantic
believing love
the brick, the mortar, building block.
Handel discovered, Mozart renewed.
Mahler and Bartok at last understood,
and I lived to see it.
My own concertos moving along
(not fully aloft, but not moribound).
Part of the perimeter Rachmaninoff,
but room for Stravinsky,
the Copland crowd,
the widow of Weill, the sons of Strauss,
Ella, et al, both Marsalis boys.
Endless
lists in a life unending.
And what of the fires that burn awhile
and then go out without mystery -
is there regret, a shrug of resign,
bafflement at lack of warning,
a cry, UNFAIR ?
All the above and more.
Bewilderment. Betrayal.
Self-hate swarming.
But, there are the travels
through difficult books,
unfriendly lands,
torment at the hands of experts
with a last minute fall into grace.
However thick the mind gets with thickets
there's always a clearing,
a twang of birds,
a black leopard cat
on his way home from Zion
who'll give you a ride on his back.
Still one more Autumn to crawl through.
Still one more Alice-hole-in-the-wall
to fall through.
And always and ever au suivant.
The next and the next, and the next
after that.
Indelible impressions,
like digital audio tape,
some of the soul is missing
but everything clear and in shape.
Sighs, not breezes. Songs unlike wind.
Nothing coming easy. Everything redefined.
If there's a creed
floating over it all
(this nonsense and stuff
to be gotten through),
It's some kind of love into everything.
Some kind of selflessness
out of self.
A kernel of truth distilled from the lie.
If someone rocks the cradle
be glad it's not the ark.
If someone falls and will not rise,
still
run to help him up.
Because I cannot fill every want
my needs are more.
My wants are greater each time out.
But I have nothing any more
I would not exchange,
or give away,
for a little more talent,
a little more time,
a little more sense of focus.
Focus is the juncture where it all began
to unravel.
Legend says that Li Po tried,
while drinking in a boat one
night,
to reach and grasp and hold
the moon's reflection...
Alas, he lost his balance, fell overboard
and drowned.
Any poet worth his words will tell you
the moon on the lake is especially nice
in middle age or
otherwise.
- from "Intervals," 1986 |
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