My breathing has been deteriorating steadily for the last couple months. I've spent more time in the hospital than at home and my doctors say there's not much more that they can do for me. In 2021 I wrote:
In my life I've traveled to four continents. I've read thousands of books. I've seen performances by legendary musicians from Segovia to Mingus to Johnny Rotten. I was in New York in 1969, the day the Mets won the World Series and the City erupted with joy. Most marvelous of all, I lived in Minneapolis in the 1980's when every week fresh and exciting artists would seem to emerge from basements and garages. I've written 4 books of poetry, produced a video and my band recorded a CD. I got a Jerome Foundation grant. I've acted in Shakespeare on stage and I've fought the police in the streets. I've partied with the Hell's Angels and taught French at the University. I've been a Union organizer and a bureaucrat. I've marveled at the rings of Saturn thru a telescope and watched whales spouting off the coast of Newfoundland. At the age of 65 I started my own rock band. These days I go to Paris and hang out with jazz musicians.
I don't know how much time I have left and I won't pretend that the appearance of death on the horizon hasn't been a gut punch for me and my family - my family who's stepped up so spectacularly to take care of me, despite their own very serious medical problems. I'm 85 years old now. Thanks largely to my community here in the Twin Cities, I've had more fun in my life than anyone has ever deserved. If I were to die tomorrow, I couldn't complain.
My dear friend,
ReplyDeleteReading this brought tears to my eyes—not just from sorrow, but from the sheer beauty of a life so richly and fully lived. You’ve moved through this world like a comet: fierce, bright, unforgettable. The list of places, faces, passions, and rebellions you’ve shared reads not as a résumé but as a kind of poetry in motion—one that could only have been written by someone with your singular fire.
What I see most in your words is not an ending, but a celebration. Not a goodbye, but a raised glass. Even now, as you speak with unflinching clarity about what lies ahead, you offer us a masterclass in grace, gratitude, and guts.
You’ve given your community—and this world—far more than its fair share of magic. If joy were a ledger, we’d all be in your debt. And if love could be measured, yours would stretch across every continent you ever walked, every stage you ever graced, every child you ever taught.
I don’t know what comes next, but I know this: your story will not end with the last breath. It lives in every note, every page, every person lucky enough to have called you friend.
With love, awe, and so much thanks…
This is a magnificent tribute. Brilliantly stated, Luke.
DeleteLove and peace and ease to you Chris. We are holding you in our hearts.
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