finishing CITIZEN today.  I used to challenge students to imagine a book that required googling in an interesting way, now that reading so often includes googling anyway.  So surprised how long it took me to look for the videos.  I am not interested in the fiction NBAs at all.  Well, one of them sounds like it might be good to read.  Maybe mainstream poetry is being like what mainstream fiction used to be (imaginary used to) in terms of trying urgent broad relevance and maybe mainstream american fiction belongs finally unabashedly only to the marketplace, this is not news, but for some reason this year it seems particularly baldly apparent, on the heels of all this alt-lit crap, that american fiction wants to win within itself and that writing within the culture/s of american fiction is not about writing for anything like urgent relevance it’s writing for your NY party friends or for your internet scene friends, it is not about reach or about scope or contending in a serious way with your singular yet interconnected soul– and that culture can produce a few good books, I guess, but maybe not for long, for a moment that documents this moment, and maybe this moment has run its course.  God, please be a blip.  I keep thinking about Lillian Hellman saying “writers talk too much” and now in fiction I think “writers write too much” or “writers write too much as if they’re talking”.  What the genres think they’re being for.  I don’t usually pay attention to the NBA but this year I knew all these people involved so I paid attention and it was such a giant warped fucked up etc.  Dan becoming this emblem of the whole NBA establishment trying to be all updated and fixed and so blatantly exposing how deeply fucked we are — we here = white artists with our good intentions, desperations, incapacities, never-ending terrified bigotries.  Still can’t stand in front of a powerful black artist and not be freaking out inside “I love the black artist, now it’s time to show I love the black artist, don’t drive into the brick wall, don’t drive into the black artist I mean the artist I mean–[crash]”  Can’t set yourself aside for this other person.  I wonder if Eileen Myles will write anything about it.

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