22-68-14

Reading Kevin Jackson’s superb Constellation of Genius, about all the extraordinary artistic, cultural, political and scientific jiggery-pokery that happened in 1922, Ulysses, The Waste Land, Pound, Stravinsky, Stalin, Chaplin, Satchmo, Kandinsky and all. And a random but telling bit of arithmetic pops into my head: the mid-point between that year and this year is 1968 — the year I was born and another that’s had whole books written about it. For some reason I find this disquieting. And I can’t decide whether I ought to write a poem or start a revolution.