Perhaps to be human is to forget. Perhaps every culture survives by forgetting. In America we have forgotten so many things that we are sometimes called a people without a memory.
I won’t go on at length about Lax’s fascinating biography or the wonders of his minimalism and documentary poetics, because I’ve come to know his work only recently and I don’t have a grasp on its range, but along with George Oppen, Anne Carson, and Ernesto Cardenal, he’s already up there as one of my favorite 20th century meditative writers
I’m about halfway through Martin Amis’s novel Money, relentless, repellent, ridiculous, exquisitely crafted Money, a 1980s period piece written as if it were destined to be a 1980s period piece.
Despite my best intentions some writing days, perhaps too many writing days, become other sorts of days.
I was talking about blogging with one of my undergraduate editors at Mandala Journal, and it seems that, as far as blogging goes, we may operate in parallel universes by virtue of the technology generations into which we were respectively born.