More poetry, and that’s an order!

Slept late (yay, Moon Day!) and woke to a dream of being at led practice. Lots of new people, who kind of clustered in a corner of the room, with very disorderly mats. We were doing a new pose that required a bed pillow for a prop. Everyone was doing some kind of headstand to… well, I’m not sure what the pose was, ultimately, because I had my head on my pillow and couldn’t see what the final expression of the pose was. I couldn’t get the headstand going on with the pillow, so tried folding the pillow in half, which didn’t help. So I bagged it and decided to go get a bottle of water. Cut to the place where I went for water, a nearby Starbucks, which was in Singapore and which, architecturally, looked suspiciously like the second storey storefront of my local tattooist.

Now that I write this, I am highly amused by the pose that I kept trying to do but couldn’t understand. Dreams. Just like real life.

All of a sudden I have a hankering for a tattoo on my inner wrist. [Oops. Note: this last sentence isn’t the dream anymore. This is waking consciousness speaking. I think. 😉 ] I might as well just get this over with and write things all over myself.

Speaking of which. Writing. Yesterday morning, I thought a bit about associative thinking. Or, more to the point, about my moratorium on associative thinking. For the past ten years, I have been pointedly focused on reasoned, discursive thinking patterns. Which is all well and good, and I’m quite good at thinking this way, and I am rewarded heartily. But man, do I miss associative thinking. Sure, I still think associatively; I’m still creative. I still say things at work that make everyone tilt their heads and go, “Huh?” and “Wow, I never thought of it that way.”

I think I’m tired, though, of always being at the service of reason. I mean, really. Reason? As if it’s not as arbitrary as anything else…

Go ahead, test this out. Read a good poem. A really good one; not one of those sentimental narratives with line breaks. Or look at a painting that doesn’t try to hide its brushstrokes (sorry, Boodiba, but abstract works best for this experiment). The aesthetic choices, the flights of fancy, lie in the associations: be they word images or visual images. The relationship of word to word or phrase to phrase or line to line. The relationship of brushstroke to brushstroke or shape to shape or color to color. The astonishing ones, the ones that look so natural and yet so unlikely: therein lies the magic of association. It defies the frontal lobe.

I think I need to go eat some granola, put on my hippie hat and take a walk in nature. I have a stack of books to read for work, but I’m going to limit myself to poems and maybe a nice Art in America.


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