automatic writing after a visit to Powell's Books, Portland

What would things look like if we didn't look at them? This is the kind of stuff I think about. I know--I'm talking to you--it's not worth much, it's only an idea, somthing to start from and build on.

I always have a good time at Powell's Books in Portland. By now I pretty much know where everything is. I looked first for Philosophy which I believe is upstairs in the Purple Room. They didn't have the book I was looking for--Naming and Necessity by Saul Kripke--and I was disappointed. Then I thought that if they'd had it I would have bought it, read the first chapter, and put it with the pile of books I've always been meaning to read. Then I went to Sports and found an old book on Scottish courses, full of diagrams of course undulations and b&W pictures of places I want to place that have names like Braid, Crail, Cruden Bay, Blairgowrie.

Literature was next. I'm reading Herta Mueller and they had a copy of her first novel, Nadirs, but it was a paperback so I passed. Joyce Carol Oates was on sale for $4.95 (hardcover), My Sister, My Love. Michael Hannon, the poet laureate of my heart, said it was pretty good so I added it to my stash. Poetry is right near literature and I picked up a lot of old favorites--Frank Stanford, Z. Herbert--and settled on Ron Padgett's newest volume. I really like Padgett; he's everything Billy Collins is and isn't.

It was almost closing time. The line at the check-out counter was 4 or 5 deep. I paid for the books and walked out into the night. It was still warm and the tiny streak of light left in the sky shined from somewhere near Iceland. Cezanne said an artist should see as a dog sees. That's stuck in my brain ever since I read it.