Playing The Pauses


I haven’t done one of these prose poetry stream of consciousness things in a long time and I thought one was due. It is also a little bit if my own process given a bit of verbal grandeur. Enjoy all, and cheers.

I find myself dwelling in the spaces between things. Each and every moment is in and of itself a concrete thing but my mind obsesses over the pauses, the transitions, the strange gaps between. I am mindful of them, I see them connecting all the comings and goings until my vision is clouded by smeared webs, a constant extending time lapse photograph capturing the changes. I like to play the pauses, try to hear what sits in the middle of breath. It’s these places were the strange and the everyday collide, the unmarked blanks in the constantly unfolding geography of life where “here be dragons”. All of the secret things whisper to me from the cracks, show their magic, where the dreams collect and nightmares pool between the raindrops.
I try to capture this weirdness, describe the ghosts in the candle flame flicker, articulate the landscapes of oddness I see unfolding from the folds and wrinkles. Focus always seems to be on the action or the aftermath yet my eyes are looking for the invisible, not the death or the dying even but the pin point turning, not conception or birth but the bridge spanning the divide built from all the shifting, roiling energy glowing in the one instant that marks the absence of on or the other.
I’m always fumbling for those words that can pin down the weirdness I see all around, the sudden showers of sparks, inexplicable chills, the rustlings, impossible angles, my lips dripping ink. There are bits and pieces falling in windrow drifts from my fingertips, dusting a patina of wonder over plain breakfast table cups of coffee, tilting the picture contrast tint saturation of a million comfortable, safe, familiar conversations or walks down the lane, altering the perspectives to include all of the vast void between now and then, here and there, cataloguing the nothing brim overflowing the nowhere of everywhere. Even awake I dream as my eyes alight on the seams splitting open, mundanity splitting like a ripe peach between my thumbs, spilling rich juices to reveal the seed of all impossible possibilities beneath the flesh.

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3 Responses to “Playing The Pauses”

  1. in stillness lies truth Says:

    you are blessed
    in the spaces between thoughts, infinite possibilities exist
    cast up a well-defined wish of benefit to those nearest to your heart
    let it loose in a pause
    see what happens

  2. hooz 2 know Says:

    this piece expresses a BIG idea and it is very useful to re-read it for additional insight
    finding a deer moving through the woods is very difficult until the point where, instead of demanding that our brain deal only with a complete shape, we take a moment to peer through the vertical “noise” of tree trunks at the spaces between them and discover subtle shapes and movements as the beautiful creature slowly reveals itself

  3. altered perspective Says:

    I often find myself feeling disconnected.
    I don’t know how I got here.
    I am aware of the path but not things that happened on the way to now.

    I’m not sure of my past.
    I fill in the gaps.
    I am aware of being, but little else.
    I drift from thought to thought.
    How did I get here?
    I try to recall birthdays, conversations, anything even unpleasant stuff.

    I can conjure up a memory of looking at pictures.
    When I was ten we drove from Ontario to Newfoundland.
    I know this happened.
    I had a close circle of friends.
    We used to hang out but I can’t put myself there.
    We spent hours talking.
    Some of the best moments of my life.

    All I have are snapshots.
    My first love or the story about it.
    I’m entirely fiction.
    A narrative of comedic, pathetic inaccuracies.
    Like listening to a fish story.

    I was at the park today.
    For one terrifying moment didn’t know if I was really there.
    The trees and the sunlight blurred.
    Not sure whether they were seen or remembered.

    Why I’m writing this down?
    I need an anchor.
    I look back on every word I’ve written.
    Not sure if I wrote them, if they exist outside of me.
    There may be no me.
    Perhaps there’s nothing for me to exist in.
    What I perceive is the story I keep telling myself.
    Keeping nothingness at bay.

    I think I died a long time ago but my brain kept rambling on.
    Making an attempt to stave off the realization that everything is gone.
    When one runs out of things to say, the lights go out.

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