David Berman died. We don't need every single person to comment publicly on the death of every single semi-public figure, but I have something small to say about Berman that I'm not even going to finish saying right now. I was just re-reading his book "Actual Air" this week; little poems I like quite a bit. A book I picked up a decade ago based on its title in the old Borders bookstore where I made so many of my burgeoning adulthood's happy accidents, whose spine still glimmers in the edge of my eye. Twenty years older than me. I didn't know that much about him, but his poems were a private pleasure. I had been thinking, "Thank you, David," after reading his poems. I know he didn't hear me, and it seems like it wouldn't have been enough if he had. Still, it's nice to say thank you, out loud if you can, but a little mind-whispered gratitude never hurts.
I have a couple of interviews lined up to read, but a friend highlighted the end of this one, pictured above.
