Poetic Archaeology

I want to capture that feeling when the words slide off your pen effortlessly, as if they had always existed in that unique combination. They only use your hand to bring themselves closer to permanence. Like painting watercolour over a message scribbled in white crayon, the script was always there it just needed to be noticed, to be uncovered. And so I’ve blissfully resigned myself to a life of poetic archaeology.


The moment when you realize we don’t live in a culture of reflection. When you realize you’ve lived each passed moment in an instant, but as nothing more. It is a fleeting sentiment or apparition and then it is consumed, replaced, left to dissipate. We live in a culture of movement and forward progress, a world where the smart ones are looking forward, and the ones with their gaze reversed are pitied. Looking back is a sign of weakness, doubt, or an indication of pining over what is already gone. How are we expected to move forward without looking back. How can we understand our experience and feel its significance without seeing it more than once, without revelling in the feeling, and asking ourselves why. We may be moving quickly, but I worry about the direction in which we are headed.  Getting there fast isn’t any good if there isn’t where you wanted to end up.  We are afraid to see the imperfections and look back at our mistakes, so we mindlessly march into the biggest mistake of all.

An In-Between Place


It’s funny how the moment I stop moving, rushing, circling thoughts finally flow into my mind. Like the sea breeze, these ideas are fleeting and sometimes cloudy, and they only exist when you sit still long enough to notice and feel their presence. There are some moments where, if you’re lucky and you close your eyes and quiet your mind, the feeling of the wind on your eyelids and lips becomes easier to articulate and naming the idea becomes easier. The winds slow and you catch the meaning of the breeze before its momentum is lost and there is complete stillness.

Sometimes I feel as though I exist on two separate planes. There is the physical world that exists around me, the one that I participate in by going to events, cleaning, interacting with others, and living as I am expected to.   And then there is the world that is reflective, creative, and hidden, which is bursting out of me.   At times this world takes over and I retreat out of the world of daily activities and immediate needs. Recently, my creative world has remained hidden and buried. It has been overtaken by the physical world, the places and people around me.

It is my process of floating in between the world of being a writer or being a human, being an observer or being a participant. I don’t know how to be both and I don’t know which I am made to be.