footprints in the same sand

After ten years of phone conversations, writing letters and exchanging
emails, I finally met my good friend Ken Rubenstein in the flesh and
blood.

Ken was taking advantage of the school break by flying out to Boston
from Iowa (were he's presently study advanced mathematics) to rehearse
some material for a future project with bassist Ed Broms.

I'm reflexively hesitant to meet people and famous for squirreling out
of such commitments--on Masashi Harada's invitation, I once had a
chance to meet Cecil Taylor, but I went home during the intermission
instead...it's pathological and I'm beyond redemption!

With Ken it was even worse still. I mean we'd gotten along nothing
short of magically to date, and being the furtive sort of hermit that
I am, I was quite reluctant to mess with that. It's just too damn
rare. Ken on the other hand, while surely no socialite, is by nature a
bit more gregarious than I am, and he was pretty intent on making a
get-together happen. I'm glad he was.

We met halfway at my mother's place in Duxbury on Green Harbor. Green
Harbor is a ghost town this time of year, and we braved the howling
winter winds and walked the abandoned beach in a light rain.

It was surreal and mundane, and it was beautiful and a bit melancholic
as well. On its best days, so is life... today was one of those days.

Several years ago Ken asked me if I'd like to play on his (then)
upcoming CD, Is that my world that hovers? As I'd long admired Ken's
work, I jumped for it--I played in thirteen-tone equal temperament and
Ken played in twelve, together. Clash? No they didn't clash, they left
footprints in the same sand we walked in today.

I'll miss my friend Ken Rubenstein.

--Dan Stearns

Dear Dan (who regularly makes list-reading a warm reward),

{you wrote...}
>Clash? No they didn't clash, they left footprints in the same sand we >walked in today.
>
>I'll miss my friend Ken Rubenstein.

I'd say he's with you most of the time...

Cheers,
Jon