The Way of the Dreamcatcher: Spirit Lessons [sic]
with Robert Lax: Poet, Peacemaker, Sage
by Steve T. Georgious

I found this book a little disturbing. I love Robert Lax’s poetry, his way of looking at life, his calm–all of the things that Steve T. Georgiou attempts to capture for us in this book. On the other hand, Bob Lax would be the last person to opt for sainthood. He was far too modest–far too intelligent–far too understanding of human nature–and far too much of an artist and creator to allow himself to be painted into such a corner unless he were indulging someone he truly liked. That’s what this book appears to be–Lax indulging his young friend. The questions that Georgiou plies Lax with are well-meaning, but rather simple minded and one-dimensional. He seems intent on the business of portraying Lax as sage and holy man–even down to the manner of the cutting of his vegetables and the eating of his yogurt, and he doesn’t let up. Although it would be interesting to hear the tapes from which these interviews were taken, it’s obvious that Lax is playing along, and in several cases suggesting just the opposite interpretation that Georgiou seems almost desperate to make. The end result is a two-dimensional portrait of Robert Lax that does not do justice to the man or the artist. In addition, Georgiou adds a few Lax-based dreams and miracles into the narrative, which moves this book into the category of “New Age” writing, in my opinion. On the other hand, there are a few good points about the book. Lax discusses some of his influences and drops a memorable line or two. For that reason alone this book should find a place on the shelves of anyone at all interested in this fascinating poet. My hope is that a real study of the man and the work will be written in the near future.

Give My Regards to Eighth Street: Collected
Writings of Morton Feldman, by Morton Feldman, et. al.

Morton Feldman’s essays and liner notes are every bit as challenging as his music. In fact, I would like to turn one of Morty’s quotable lines on its ear and say that “Feldman couldn’t write a note unless it was literary.” Of course, I’m inserting Feldman’s name for the orginal Ives (see page 165 of this book), but I have to say that this composer provides in these pages the “narrative dark matter and coherent strange attractors” for his–in the main–disjunctive sounds. With this book Feldman positions himself in the same great tradition of writer-musicians as Berlioz, while all the while disparaging that very tradition! In fact, I would say that of all the recent experimentalists–Cage included–Feldman had to have been the most literary.

What a fine mind, and what a great loss to have only one side of Feldman’s legendary conversational powers in this book, but, until everyone in the world has sense enough to stop what they’re doing and applaud Morton Feldman’s brilliance and the END of TIME COMES and Feldman himself descends from on high seated on a golden bar stool, ready to take on all comers, they will have to be content with this written fossil. And of course the music…but that’s another story.

This book includes an appreciation of Morty and his work by Frank O’Hara, another person I wish I’d met.