Yesterday I went to the presentation of a book, it was introduced by my cousin Helen. The book was produced by an artist-couple, one a musician and the other a poet. She was a slim morena of arabesque factions, he was a long-haired Canadian güero with that appealing combination of well groomed hippy vibe. They made a beautiful couple.

The book detailed their self-directed artist residence in Ghana. It had photography and poetry intertwined in a well-produced small volume. It was too expensive for me to buy at this time, and I would have only bought it to support their work. After the presentation there was a poetry showcase-reading from various women. Poetry inevitably makes my mind wander, though occasionally something resonates.

I tried to prevent my mind from wandering by picturing whatever I was hearing. I won't remember the exact words, but I remember some images. I was laying on a clear pool of cool water. Fire tongues were licking my naked body. The images were dream-like and mostly non-sensical, but at least I was present and not thinking about... whatever I was thinking (probably when I would scurry away to go back home).

I ought to do this more when I encounter poetry. I've learned that my capacity to appreciate expressive art-forms acts as a counter balance to my rational endeavours. Charles Darwin comes to mind:

If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once a week; for perhaps the parts of my brain now atrophied would have thus been kept active through use. The loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may possibly be injurious to the intellect, and more probably to the moral character, by enfeebling the emotional part of our nature.

Meta-comment: I didn't intend to write anything today... yesterday's outing didn't seem worth a write-up. But--as I haven't written in a while, I forced myself to write the second most relevant thing that happened in the day. The most relevant thing I'll keep for myself. I observe that writing helps me process experience. The insight that I can better appreciate poetry through active imagination would have never occurred to me had I not sit down to write this experience.