"There is no invention to it, there is no trick, there is no fake; you simply lie down in a coffin and breathe quietly." Harry Houdini
I just found this quote. Weirdly enough in my first book of poems. It's the epigraph. I have no recollection of it whatsoever.
But I can tell why I put it there. I dig it.
We write from the coffin -- the shallow air of invention, the ever-present notion that we'll die one day, oh and all the greats who've come before to wind up in a box or a book. We try to find air holes. We try to drum up fields and -scapes. We wonder what's the trick. There's got to be a trick.
But it's just this ... breathing quietly. The in and out of air. One word penned and then the next. Our minds not in a coffin.
One breath and then one more ...