THURSDAY 20th & FRIDAY 21st
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Rod on Maui, August 2003.
Photo by John Scoggins.
©2003 by Stanyan Entertainment.
A Thought for Today
No walls can stop the coming of love and no clock can bring it back. Yet letters are still sent on missions armies couldn’t win, for love or country.
GETTING TO KNOW YOURSELF
The more we get to know ourselves
the harder it is to justify our quirks and habits. Fortunately the older we grow the more
at ease we become with who and what we are. That’s how it should be, anyway, some
kind of balance. Boy is balance tricky. I could never be a high wire walker; I’d fall
to ground the first day up. But, God, how hard I try to balance what should be done and
what has to be done. How do others do it? That’s a book I’d pay to read.
Such books exist on miles and miles of self-help shelves, but none have ever worked for
me. Do you continue to ignore a couple dozen letters that should have had an answer three
months ago in favor of work deadlined tomorrow? Beats me. Making earlier deadlines on how
and when a project can and should be done is not the answer. I’m already sixty odd
years late on that one.
- R.M. 10/3/98
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THURSDAY 20th NOVEMBER
Duane Altman o
Kaye Ballard o
Judy Canova o
June Christy o
Alistair Cooke o
Richard Dawson o
Bo Derek o
Mike Diamond o
Chester Gould o
Veronica Hamel o
Richard Kegler o
Robert F. Kennedy o
Evelyn Keyes o
Rene Kollo o
Leadbelly (Hudie Ledbetter) o
Richard Masur o
Rick Monday o
Estelle Parsons o
Maya Plisetskaya o
Emilio Pucci o
Dick Smothers o
Gene Tierney o
Judy Woodruff o
Sean Young
FRIDAY
21st NOVEMBER
Troy Aikman o
William Beaumont o
Bruce Bellingham o
Jim Bishop o
Bjork o
Vivian Blaine o
Joseph Campanella o
B.J. Connery o
Tom Dorsaneo o
Ken Griffey, Jr. o
Coleman Hawkins o
Goldie Hawn o
Steven Alexander James (Blur) o
Rick Lenz o
Larry Luckinbill o
Lorna Luft o
Rene Magritte o
Natalia Makarova o
Ralph Meeker o
Juliet Mills o
Stan Musial o
Franco Nero o
Eleanor Powell o
Harold Ramis o
Jean Shepard o
Nicollette Sheridan o
Marlo Thomas o
Voltaire |
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If you believe misery
loves company, seek your own counsel.
Inattention to ideals is dangerous.
Grudges are boring.
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OURSELVES TO KNOW |
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Our losses are the sores
we box and bottle up
far back, ladder down
amid the unlit chambers
of our cluttered minds,
hoping they’ll stay lost
or unrecovered
like the mother lode
of some as yet uncovered mine.
Those things first dear to us
then lost or yet undone,
no matter what the reason
go unlisted in our wills
and codicils.
No pirates bearing half a map
find the other half marked x.
the interview is over
when the questions
come too close.
Grudges come
and settle in with ease
when losses are the subject.
We wear our gains
like barfly gear
or rows of medals
on an unpatched shirt.
Hurt, like loss,
is no brother
to ill attention,
the more we leave it
unrepaired and unattended
the quicker it will go.
It leaves behind
at most a residue
like sediment
that bubbles
at the bottom of the wine.
Why is it then
that simple sorrows
seem to thrive
as though the weekend gardener
was charged
with keeping them alive.
One snub
and every act of joy
once raised in toast
and sweetly celebrated
is crushed into the never was.
Friends are not immune
to this ill treatment
and lovers bear the brunt.
Acquaintances
remain immune to arson
even as the ashes smolder.
Not yet close enough
for love or final friendship,
they remain unblemished
and unblamed.
Why make tedium
safer than it should be,
constant, crossfiled,
calibrated
dried and dreary
hauled out in a hurry
dusted off and fluffed
like paper flowers
that go unnoticed
as counterfeit and crude
until the posy paper
tears
or the paint upon the plastic
wears thin and peels
enough to warrant touching up.
Reality is square
and easy to make out.
Its shadings are
the works of men
imbibed with building
barricades and battlements.
The more we hide
our summits or our sorrows
the less of what we are
or can be
is reflected or looks back at us
from mirrors.
Pause
before you give up seeking
the exit to the maze
send the guard or guide dog
off to chase a bone.
Be unafraid to leave
some portions of your life
to fate, to change, to God.
Should a friend’s behavior
worry you
you may at last be given
the chance to give
some friendship back.
Some unexpected love
arriving right on time
is more welcome to the ill
than penicillin.
We know ourselves
but we’d know our worth
and, yes, our worthlessness
better if we paused
with more regularity
to take the boards off
the shuttered windows
and let some sunlight in.
The worth of man
is not in how he treats himself
or his dearest dozen friends
but how, when it is offered him,
he treats the treat of giving.
- from "Looking For A Friend", 1980 |
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