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two kids on my shoulders

Wish I could have made it to Raleigh on Saturday to hear Aaron and hit the used bookstores. Sounded like a great time.

I am wondering about the idea of artists getting better. To my ears R.E.M's first and second (Murmur and Reckoning) are their best albums.

Seems like this may be true of some poets.

How can we know we are NOT deceiving ourselves with thoughts of improving? Does life get better? Is better always a deception?

For every progress there's a slow slip back. The world a better place for our efforts?

Well, maybe we need the idea of progress. Deception. Hope. Maybe it's all matter.

I smell bubble gum. Orange flavored. Bubbalicious.

A few months after I landed in America I started eating Now and Laters and trying to breakdance. We ate Hamburger helper every night. But it was all for the promise of a better life.

For my parents that promise quickly turned into mere survival.

But when I think of my life it does seem to improve. I like where my head is now versus even four years ago. I hope to live in a hip co-op happy town by the sea with a dog and a stick and maybe two kids on my shoulders etc.

I suppose the point of progress is that it never ends but I have to look carefully at what drives the progress what drives the chariot.


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I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).

Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…