There’s such a magic in a pile of books
unarranged
hiding their treasures in a precarious balance
rising up fiercely and messily
Like Hogwarths Sorting Hat
it could plunge on you
and you would know nothing else
for God knows how many days
just living other people’s lives
adventures and times
you would suck it through to the last page
I want to swim deep in this fantasy world
forget my name, forget my blame
In this immaterial life
I can roll and jump and fly
all animals are my friends
all objects are alive
I ride horses till I’m out of breath
I waltz and my dress floats around
I fly a plane like Porco Rosso
and bow to Cleopatra
Let the magic never end
for I don’t want to get real again
« I have a pile of spiral notebooks about five feet high that begin around 1977, my early years of writing in Taos, New Mexico. (…) A friend who lives upstairs says, « Don’t get rid of them ». I tell her she can have them if she wants.
I pile them on her stairs leading up to her appartment and leave (…) When I return she looks at me oddly (…) « I’ve been reading your notebooks all weekend »
Nathalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within
