Flight Plan


  2nd & 3rd September, 2014











Rod & Boots photographed by Christian Tabor February 13, 2013
2013 Stanyan Music Group. All Rights Reserved

A Thought for Today

Books ought to be a meeting place for mind and heart - they are where we start our journeys.




is not the only reason I am going home
               to the yellow corn
and the grasshopper playing in the tall grass
and the indolent butterfly darting from marigold
       to rose
and back again.
I am going home again to meet the dreaded winter
                         and the unsure spring.
And the girl whose eyes never left mine
when we swam together in the river
                              and made love
below the old brick bridge.

I am going home
to see if such a place is left.

It takes a long time
        for a single blossom to fall
   from a flower tree.
And I have so much time to spare
that I can watch all the flowers fall
from all the trees.

- from "Listen To The Warm", 1967

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notable birthdays

Tuesday 2 September

Laurindo Almeida o Cleveland Amory o Romare Beardon o Terry Bradshaw o Marge Champion o Jimmy Connors o Allen Drury o Mark Harmon o Salma Hayek o Erin Hershey o Lennox Lewis o Christa McAuliffe o Martha Mitchell o Linda Purl o Keanu Reeves o Peter Ueberroth o Giovanni Verga

Wednesday 3 September

Edward van Beinum o Steve Boros o Eileen Brennan o Pauline Collins o Loren Eisley o Tompall Glaser o Wayne Green o Kitty Carlisle Hart o Anne Jackson o Al Jardine o Freddie King o Alan Ladd o Tom Landry o Alison Lurie o Memphis Slim o Irene Papas o Valerie Perrine o Ferdinand Porsche o Dixie Lee Ray o Charlie Sheen o Louis Henri Sullivan o Hank Thompson o Bob Ussery

Rod's random thoughts
Dreams die hard. It's up to you to keep yours alive as long as you can.

Those who suffer together have the tightest bond.

All life is imagery, but imagery is seldom life.


They swoop at you like larks
or quarterbacks in forward runs
of either sex or neither sex
without formation or a plan;
unless the worked-out play
is to make the lonesome cry
                       or cry out,
cause the looker-on to weep
at glimpses and snippets
                   of great beauty
in long distance runner
or the smile of loping jogger -
here then gone forever in the crowd.
Headband, headset firm in place,
dodging honking autos and the cursing tourist,
hearing music from some other sphere.

Distant eyes and yet aware, aware
of damage done by muscled leg
                         and thrusting arm.
Such sleek machinery coming from,
moving from such supple trunks.

I tell you just the sight of them
can cause pedestrian heart to pound,
can set off bells in heads
that were not there or never rang before.

If age-old steeples toppled to the ground
                             at their mere passing
I would not feign surprise.
Should traffic stop and drivers die
                           while shifting gears.
As these sprinters sprinted traffic lights
                                 and bounded corners,
it would not make the papers
                                        or the nightly news.
These runners are the body commonplace
and so uncommon as to melt the sidewalk,
                                            wilt the rose.

I would I were the vendor on the street
dispensing water and refreshment
                                        to the sweated brow,
if only just to gain another momentary look
at Venus and Adonis too in colored underwear.

The joy to be stone pony on the carousel
awarding rings to every arm-stretched runner.
Oh, I have seen the future
                 running in each retina -
it is brown bodies tumbling in summer games,
and afterward more summer games,
                                               and afterward...

You, runner, coming at me
catch my breath and eat it up.
Wipe your forehead on my chest
with knifelike slash that draws
a cup of blood to prove I have one.
Smother me with arms and legs
                            and piston trunk.
Trample me with feet
that do not touch the ground.
It would be easy death to one
who having trod a dozen blocks on summer days
now returns to unlit rooms
and to such memories that kill a man
with the slowest kind of passion poison.

                                - From "The Sound of Solitude", 1983


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Webmaster: Ken Blackie • Media Consultant & Sound Supervisor Eric Yeager • Birthday Research by Wade Alexander • Poems from the collection of Jay Hagan • Stanyan House: Ben McMillan • Editor at Large: Bruce Bellingham • Emeritus: Melinda Smith

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