I find myself questioning much of things I have resisted over years, the acts and thoughts that I held as concretely impossible or philosophically diametric to who I am, and the limitations I had to respect. Now I wonder about my nearly violent opposition to poetry, a form that I feel I can't understand, and I can't express myself. Okay, I might not like poetry. That might not change, but why do I fight so strongly against, and my make my antipathy so well-known? What is poetry really? Nothing more than a painting in words, a verbal sculpture, encapturing a singular moment, not in objects, but in emotions or unconventional thought. It holds not only the moment described or imagined, but the perspective of the viewer of those moments. Don't I desire to capture that same unified vision, of the viewer and the viewed, and create images in words whose complexity is confounding in their simplicity?
I finally finished reading my blog from begin to end, and many of my most powerful entries are the least crafted. I let go into a stream of consciousness, trying to express on so many levels the experiences of the questions of my life. I'm uneasy, because because maybe I rail against poetry because I distrust my perceptions, unwilling to couch them by more pure means. I sat on the bench on the back deck of the houseboat, watching an old black and white cat serenely use a planter as a litterbox, with the most peaceful look of release, as tiny wake waves rock the boat beneath my subtly, and I continue to mistake the sound of vehicles passing over the grates on the huge bridge nearly above me like distant rumbles of thunder. A boat airhorn squalls tenor in demand for the smaller bridge, off to my west to draw up and let it pass. Isn't that poetry? What do I find so wrong in allowing these perceptions to simply exist as ephemereal moments of life unbound? These perceptions are my reality, not the preconceptions. If I can trust myself to accept the uncontrolled input of the world around me, why shouldn't I trust that anything I do to express them is honest? I've come so far, and I understand so little about what I need to do to follow a dream woven blatantly into my blog, the dream to write and to trust what I write with joy.