Gallop to Grace

You know there's a lot going on. I'm listening, by complete coincidence, to the Rolling Stones "Wild Horses"--courtesy of an Amazon gift certificate that finally allowed me the free opportunity to invest, as it were, in this 5-decade stalwart of Rock n Roll. Joey and I often wonder: is it in their top 5, 10, 15? No one would say "Wild Horses" is in anyone's top whatever. But it is wonderful to hear as I pressed the 'save' button on this morning's effort.

Which you'll see in a moment. Before that, let's have some comments on Stan's legacy. Josh, please copy-and-paste your excellent email on to the Symposia, and others, please weigh in. We're not here for the pragmatics of funereal forensics; we're here to remind ourselves of common bonds with our heritage and beyond. You may not know what Joey and Ben and I have in mind with 'the horses inside'--the first composition, by the way, that the Fender Stratocaster has 99.99% to do with--but still it informs our heritage (and beyond). Because heritage is never consigned to historical archives.

The poem below is, as ever, a draft. Of the 7 colleagues departing ISP this spring, I'll miss most Tony Ackerman (see "Dadly Advice"), Then Lawrence Wayne Shackleford, aka Shack, then Patrick Green. The latter two have been nominally standouts in our IT department. They are super in the ways of our IT world. But they are more. To whit:

I’m thinking, in stride, of

writing a poem about horses—the

horses inside, the wayward

courses our instincts may take, if

never departed from courses that

are, and must be. I have many

friends in this world. I hope always

to have. Among them I’ll count—

in terms true and abstract—the

gallop of Shack and amiable grace

of Patrick (and yes, you can horse

trade ‘gallop’ and ‘grace’).

I love these two men. It’s not very

nineteenth-century to say—I don’t

know that I remain a nineteenth-

century type of guy. I said so before

Web two-point-oh. My universe was

well set with Dickinson, Dostoevsky

and those who would demur Nietzsche’s

brilliant, indisputable dementia, that

ever we might be even fuller than

ourselves, that Übermenschen emerge

somehow on their own, that ever

we’d want what they’d construe.

My friends, Lawrence Wayne Shack

and Patick Green, are leaving our

stable. They have perhaps greener

pastures to tread and to teach. They’ve

taught us well. They’ve journeyed us

well beyond Web-point-who-knows.

So, back to those horses. Yes,

Josef and Ben and I are writing a

song about them. Not about studs,

which don’t span enough the need to

write about horses. We’ll sing about

them, about Patrick and Shack

and anyone else who have horses

inside. Gallop in grace, strike your own

stride, go to Montana and, unbridled

island that’s there, conjoin with wild

horses within Flathead Lake. No limits

exist. No courses to take. Just

freedom to run and to be and be

seen, if anyone sees. It’s lovely to

live on an island—take here—and to

be free. And that’s what you’ve done:

you’ve made us feel free. Technology,

Mr Postman, has soul (we have seen).