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Poetry in motion

March 27, 2014

When I’m awake late at night, I often “doodle” proto-poem-lines as tweets, but I’ve been off Twitter for 99 hours.

I ended up avoiding poetry for the past 3 weeks, giving me a breather before the poetry festival I’ll be attending this weekend, but now I feel like I haven’t written any poetry in . . . . . . a long, long time. (Even though before my more-recent-spates, I usually went weeks or months in between working on poems.)

Is churning through all these narcissistic musings (in prose) clearing the way for poetry? Or diverting my energy away from it? Or . . . well, the usual artist’s fears that the creative wellspring might have dried up for good this time, and I’ll never write anything meaningful again.

Hasn’t helped that the weather was getting warmer there for a while, and now it’s back to 30s F (which is 20 degrees colder than usual). When I can’t /don’t take my usual neighborhood rambles, because it’s too cold / wet / slippery, I feel out-of-sorts right away. Maybe the walks are sort of like vitamin supplements? That sounds drearily prosaic, but I’ve lately been working with a bunch of interconnecting metaphors, trying to come up with ways to conceptualize the needs I have that aren’t getting met (so I can figure out ways to improve that). So, in that spirit, maybe 2-3 daily walks/week (during winter; more in summer) is like magnesium, or potassium, or some other kind of mineral that you need in at least trace amounts, or else you get very apathetic and/or depressed. Obviously I don’t know very much about nutrition (or I’d know which mineral or vitamin would work for this).

I’ve been wondering lately if my synesthesia has a . . . proportional? . . . component to it. Lots of things work, or don’t work, for me based on their proportions/volume, or their configurations. Kind of like . . . those nearest neighbors collages I did a few years ago, I just realized. Huh. Anyway, for instance, my wyxzi Amelia needs certain volumes of colors before the endorphin rush activates. Pretty much any amount of yellow-green, or certain shades of pink, even on their own, will do it. But if it’s orange, yellow, or blue-green, they have to be smaller amounts, there has to be yellow-green too, and the yellow-green has to predominate.

Without Amelia activating, I can still feel good in an outfit, or surrounded by colors, but seeing an Amelia combination in the right proportions (even if I don’t consciously recognize it) sets off a cascade of happy-feel-good brain chemicals. And I’ll probably have a loopy grin on my face too.

Daily walks aren’t quite equivalent to Amelia, but they’re . . . something similar? Hmmm. I didn’t realize that.

When the weather’s nicer, and I have my camera (or even when I’ve left my camera at home), there’s always somebody interesting to look at, and possibly examine in greater detail. There’s questions to ask, stories to ponder. There’s happy rambling, looking for signs of whatever season we’re in. Do I smell anybody? Who? (I don’t always know.) Who’s blooming? Who’s got leaves? Baby leaves? (Baby leaves are . . . yellow-green, so Spring is excellent for Amelia.)

The photo on my phone’s locked screen is of orange flowers from last summer’s garden, against a backdrop of green leaves. The colors, and their proportions in the photo, make my (unconscious) brain happier than a photograph of any person would, because people are mostly, well, pinkish (but not the right shades), beige, or brown. I like true pinks, I like browns; I dislike beige. But I really like greens, especially yellow-greens, and blue-greens. If human beings were green, I’d probably like them 100% better, even if they were still difficult to talk to.

Spouse has beautiful green eyes, a dark, mossy shade I’d never seen as an eye color before. They’re especially interesting because no one else in his immediate family has green eyes. Green eyes run in my mother’s family, but they’re “cat green” (a light shade, similar to sea green). Both of my parents, and all of my siblings, have blue eyes, and I was born with them too. As a kid, I was sorry I hadn’t inherited those green eyes, but around puberty my blue eyes somehow turned blue-green, and I’m well-satisfied with them.

Winter is hard on me, not just because it’s cold and snowy/icy (and I probably have Seasonal Affective Disorder), but also because . . . everything’s dull and brownish. I do like shades of brown, but always in moderation, and preferably, mixed with other, brighter colors.

I really wish I’d understood, oh, any of this stuff much earlier in my life.

(I don’t have any idea why my unconscious mind insisted I title this post “poetry in motion”, but every time I contemplate changing it, somebody gets upset. So here we are.)

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