Wednesday 8th November, 2006
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A Thought for Today
In friendship, silence is as important as words.
This
One Does It For Me!
Dear Ken,
Though I no longer have a copy one of my favorite books has always been
Alone.
I always felt this work was somehow different to a lot of Rod's other
books and I'd love to see something from it in your column one
Wednesday.
Thank you.
Patricia
You got it, Patricia.
Here's the forward followed by one of the most requested (and one of my
most favorite) poems, Paris. It's appeared in a number of volumes but
can't appear in too many for my liking.
Forward to "Alone"
What follows in this book is a collection of poetry and prose that
touches on a number of subjects; they have, however, the umbrella - I
might have said electric blanket - of being written of and about the
state of alone.
Attempting to define alone is futile, the symptoms and the end result
are always different. It is enough to say that if you believe yourself
to be alone, you are. Seemingly, there is almost no way to set about
with any success to circumvent or avoid its coming - even as you see it
approaching in the distance. But most often alone can be reasoned with
and it passes. Someone comes by and makes it pass. If not, take it as a
partner. We’ve all known worse.
Alone is not the end - or it shouldn’t be. In truth, it is a starting
place. One more square, one for reaching out.
I am not a joiner. Somewhere I once said that people join clubs now for
the very reason they once carried them, a need for security. Maybe I’m
alone more often than I should be, because I try to find security within
myself.
Though I believe very strongly in social intercourse, mentally and other
wise, the man who detailed the advantages of masturbation as not having
to dress up, being certain not to disappoint anyone, done on your own
time and at your appointed place, and, best of all, meeting a better
class of people, did have a point of view hardly arguable.
Alone, like love, regardless of what the primers say, can be a noun,
pronoun, adverb, or adjective - depending on its use and the extent to
which it comes, stays, or returns to your life. Darkness and retreat
have more than once been my cover. By now I’ve traveled deep enough into
the darkness that hiking back through any clearing is a journey not
taken without some thought.
With growing frequency I now plan nightly outings in the morning, await
them through the day, and with approaching darkness work myself into an
apathy that a closing battle line could not penetrate. I am never sure
what I miss by staying home. Doubtlessly, I’ve avoided disappointments
that might have chipped away a little more of my self-confidence.
Possibly on one given night I missed the silver apple that, bitten into,
would have changed my life.
I chose the shadows, they did not choose me. I stay here securely not
just because I feel plain, but because disappearance is by now the easy
way. The habit. The worn path that I can trod knowingly and be assured
safe passage home.
Don’t ask me how it might have been, or what it could or should have
been like. How different all my days would be if I’d strode securely
into public sunlight. More and more I take the sun alone - always at the
edge of the clearing, close enough to the wood to crouch low or retreat
at ease should the beautiful enemy pass by.
I have never said I liked always being alone. I have said I like it
better than being with just anybody. The need to merely touch someone
I’ve seen, or imagined, can be so great at times that it’s as close to
madness as I ever hope to come.
The brushing of two minds, or hands, or bodies together. Even eyes
focused at distance can make the loneliest of us all alive and full of
hope - momentary or otherwise. And I have known two minds and bodies
seemingly compatible in every way to meet in love and be so alone
together you would swear they’d never met. We do meet each other over
and over every day. But centuries can seemingly go by before two people
meet in some special way that causes an end to their individual
loneliness.
Much of this book is new. Since I go on being the same man trying to
find the answers to some of the same questions, some of these poems will
be newer to me than they are to you. Other poems were written years ago,
but never shown or shared, and some are taken from other collections. If
I have to describe them, personal and private come to mind. But those
words, too, have been for me nouns, pronouns, verbs - far more than
adjectives.
If these pages are so personal and private, why let them go? Why not?
There is a chance, however small, that some one will read, understand,
even stop and turn in my direction.
To repeat myself, sometimes someone passes by and stops; then you’re not
alone. Some of these words are smoke signals.
Rod McKuen - 1975
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