For book worshipers in America, the ultimate temple for adoration is Powell’s Bookstore, in the Pearl District of Portland - the largest independent book shop in the world. The hardware-store exterior appearance, unchanged since the 1970's, belies the treasure trove within. Entering Powell’s is akin to a medieval laborer entering a Cathedral: you gasp in awe at the towering walls around, filled with visions of angels and glittering glass.
The books talk to me, hundreds of them; they are lost souls looking for a good home and I want to adopt them all. Within minutes I have transcended into the airy, wonderful otherworld of wordcraft. All those saintly publications on the shelves telling such epic stories of love and life, redemption and fulfillment, longing and acceptance. I want them all. I want my name on them all. Half an hour later, I am overwhelmed and need to sit down with a coffee in the reassuringly unhurried purgatory that is World Cup Coffee and Tea, right next to the Graphic Novel section - perfect for the Peter Pan men, like me. At this point my head hums and my eyes flicker. I hear my own terribly distracted ego wishing to write the future books that will appear on the shelves - a dream that has festered for years. Now I am more like the medieval flagellant, beating himself with a whip made of half-written projects, fetal ideas and unrealised notions clamouring to be heard. I have to unfold my wings and flee heaven. It's not so easy getting back down. I pass back through the cloudy sections and I'm distracted again, drawn in, blanketed by the brilliance of the books. I pull sharply away and beat my wings hard. I'll just buy one, no, two books today, maybe three. No nothing – I angrily reject all the purchasing ideas. Leaving the shop, I immediately fall back down to earth, to the sidewalk, to the field to toil away. I spend the rest of the day nursing myself, groaning at reality, hearing the faint echo of all those desperate souls. I will now look forward to returning, to suffering the whole bitter-sweet experience all over again.
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AuthorA poetic-essay style blog with a limit of 365 words. 365 like the days of the year - my name being one of those days! Archives
March 2020
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