Perceptive Synaesthestia

Well, I've had my fill of feeling for a bit (no doubt you have perceived that I don't emote by half-measure), and have decided to return to thinking for a bit, which is at least something I know I do well. By way of brief personal update, I am moderately content today, and do not anticipate a scena for the perceptible future.

It seems to me that the nature of successful poetry is synaesthesia, an orderly upending of the senses. At its most basic level, we are all synaesthetes and, by extension poets. We instinctively speak of loud ties, soft aromas, and juicy chords, all synaethetic combinations to which we can relate without much trouble. Perhaps this is simply a trick of language, whereby we conflate vocabulary for all of the senses to expand our adjectival capability. I prefer to think that when I say "he embraced me with his eyes," or something else suitably poetic, I am really conveying that a certain visual sensation touches the same part of my brain as another, otherwise unrelated tactile sensation. To think of it this way eliminates an unnecessary intermediate step in language. I needn't justify my comparison of a certain painting to cordurouy or pimento; I can simply say that the three things strike me in the same way.

This explains the allure of such ridiculous questions as, "If you were a tree, what sort would you be?" Since all sensory expressions are purely arbitrary, and are simply cultural agreements for denoting the activation of a certain synaptic path, I am perfectly justified in saying that Nathan (yes, I'm still a bit hung up on him) reminds me of Rodin's Age of Bronze, even without any real resemblance. He simply touches the same part of my brain. Elizabeth Barrett Browning reaches in and touches the nerve that is also attached to lace and fractals. Mustard is connected to stainless steel and snare drums, and writing this blog is like listening intently to a fugue or folding wool socks.