The Inscrutable Muse - Feb 13 2026

 

The Inscrutable Muse

Feb 13 2026



The human brain’s default state

is not idling

like a parked car

choking on its own exhaust. 

Nor is it mindfulness;

observing the passage of thoughts

the way a good anthropologist

keeps his distance,

an impartial watcher

crouched behind a hedge

taking notes.

It’s cross-talk,

parts of the brain

that for who knows how long

haven't had a decent conversation

or even a rote exchange

of formal niceties.

This is where creativity happens

the muse resides;

in stale synapses

and under-used pathways,

the lively friction

of different points of view.

Like a long divorced couple 

running into each other

in a supermarket aisle,

who recall how love once felt

even if they don’t rekindle the spark.

Or a college roommate

from some foreign country

you can’t pronounce,

who learned English

by watching sitcoms

and believes in different gods.

Perhaps it’s a taciturn sulcus

in some quiet cortical fold

in a sleepy part of one hemisphere,

shocking the usual talkers

with some transgressive thought

or grating oddity.

When the teacher’s droning on,

you’re walking alone,

or ironing clothes,

lulled

by the hiss of steam

and steady to-and-fro.

My mind often wanders

and I’m surprised by where it goes.

But wherever

in that bracing state of drift

words come to me

and I diligently take them down.

So I’m less writer than typist,

less author than stenographer;

taking dictation

and signing my name,

but unworthy of praise

and not really to blame

if I cause offence

or happen to get it wrong.

I don’t like writing about writing. Too much “inside baseball”, and I imagine not of interest to most readers. But since most of this poem has nothing to do with me or my process, I can only hope it’s engaging and rewarding enough to keep a reader’s attention. Maybe the challenge of writing a good poem about neuroscience — of all things! — is a good enough reason not to turn the page.

Recently, wellness experts have been celebrating the idea of cultivating boredom and walling off unstructured time. The wandering mind, scattered brain, and daydreaming have been rehabilitated! This state is called the “default mode”, and appears to be fertile ground for creativity. If you recall ever being in the so-called “flow state”, you’ll get the idea:  time disappears, the mind feels agile and fluid. 

But it can also time travel to less fruitful places, ruminating on the past (which is more likely in older people) or anxious about the future (more common in the young).

Here’s one definition, brought to you by A.I.:

The brain’s default mode network (DMN) is a large-scale network of interconnected regions that is most active when you are awake but not focused on the outside world, such as during daydreaming, mind wandering, or quiet self reflection.

  … The DMN is defined functionally as regions that decrease their activity during demanding, externally focused tasks and increase activity during rest or internally focused thought.

And another, from Psychology Today:

The default mode network (DMN) is a system of connected brain areas that show increased activity when a person is not focused on what is happening around them. The DMN is especially active, research shows, when one engages in introspective activities such as daydreaming, contemplating the past or the future, or thinking about the perspective of another person. Unfettered daydreaming can often lead to creativity. The default mode network is also active when a person is awake. However, in a resting state, when a person is not engaged in any demanding, externally oriented mental task, the mind shifts into “default.”

You know the feeling of walking to the train station for your morning commute, but your mind checks out and your body operates on autopilot. Your body goes through the motions of getting you to work without taxing the brain, all of which sounds beneficial. It is indeed useful, but only up to a point. The problem: You do not remember much about that commute because your default mode network kicked in, you may start with daydreaming, but you start to ruminate over what happened the day before and what will happen in the days to come. You are anxious about past performance, and you are anxious about upcoming performance. The default mode network can hijack the mind to mull over worries.

Echo Chamber - Feb 11 2026

 

Echo Chamber

Feb 11 2026

I have spent the day alone.

No vow of silence

but no need to talk; 

the only sounds

the turning of pages,

a medley of jazz,

my random puttering.

How many people

haven’t spoken aloud

for 24 hours or more?

I suppose, for a social animal

such solitude is not just unnatural 

but impractical;

after all, we are attached

and the demands on us don’t stop.

The determined hermit, perhaps,

a congenital introvert.

And the odd reclusive oligarch

who can afford

a private island in the warm south seas

or a glass-walled penthouse above the clouds,

peering down

at a cottony white expanse

as far as he can see.

But I’m good by myself.

I don’t get bored

require company

need to be heard.

    … Or so I tell myself. 

When I do return

to the outside world

my voice will start a little rough,

like a car

that sat unplugged

through a cold winter night.

The sound will surprise me,

hearing my voice mouthing niceties

to the clerk or cashier.

And remind me how untried it is

how out of practice I am;

an old man with a young voice

used lightly,

like a vintage car

that's hardly driven

except to church and back.

But while my vocal cords

will be full, smooth, and pink

and speak with the fluency of youth,

my voice will also betray

a certain immaturity;

sounding naive,

and imbued with the urgency

of a callow young man

eager for life to start.

It sounded different in my head;

a monologue

that’s never contradicted,

a litany 

circling back on itself

in futile rumination,

and an echo

hammering against the hard bone

 of my sealed skull.

Like an inmate, unjustly imprisoned

tapping out morse code,

or rattling the bars

with a dented metal cup;

but no one there to listen

or let me out.

Mostly Somewhere Else - Feb 8 2026

 

Mostly Somewhere Else

Feb 8 2026

On our usual walk

the dogs are out front

scouting with their noses

and darting off into the woods,

excited by smells

far too subtle

for my crude receptors. 

While I trail behind,

trudging along

lost in thought

focused on the path.

Which I regret;

my inability to be present,

my monkey mind

swinging from tree to tree

and chattering incessantly,

distracted by some ripe fruit

or a glimpse of a rival.

It wallows and worries,

whipsawed

between a conflicted past 

and anxious future,

while the succession of “nows” recede

in an unremembered blur.

I suppose this is one difference 

between a visual creature like me

and my olfactory dogs —

I’ve become jaded

by the same familiar sights,

while their world

is repeatedly renewed.

We know the route by heart;

the dogs

occasionally looking back

just to be sure,

and me on autopilot

looking down at my feet

on the uneven path.

Since our last outing

a little fresh snow has fallen,

softening the ground

and smudging our prints.

But they persist;

the dogs’

criss-crossing like chicken scratch,

and mine

wandering a bit

but still purposeful.

And although now not so sharp

they're undoubtedly mine,

their unique tread

exact size

and matching gait

as forensically accurate

as my own DNA.

Which strikes me as an apt metaphor

for how the sands of time soften the past,

remembered

but instead of photographic

more impressionist art.

Just as all of history 

is essentially revisionist,

depending less on any actual truth

than on where you stand

and what you bring to it.

My old prints are also a rebuke,

reminding me how easily

I fall into ruts,

taking the path of least resistance

choosing the safest route.

How, like ploughing the same old furrow

I could step into them, stride-for-stride

and feel perfectly natural;

following myself

in a closed circle

that simply takes us back 

to where we began.

Retracing the usual walk

my enviable dogs 

find endlessly exciting.

While I will never be so mindful;

too lost in thought

and mostly somewhere else. 

Father at the Wheel - Feb 5 2026

 

Father at the Wheel

Feb 5 2026

They remind me of those long drives

after dark

in my Dad’s immaculate Buick. 

The 3 of us

in the big back seat

well past my bedtime,

eyes half-closed, half-asleep

half in-and-out of dreams,

lulled

by the heater’s steady whirr

and the rumble of the road

as tires hypnotically turned. 

The windows were frosted, street lights blurred,

and securely tucked

in fitful slumber

we gave no thought to drunk drivers

punctured tires

black ice,

breakdowns

white-outs

or blind-siding deer.

With our father at the wheel of the family car

we were safe,

and the trip

felt more like levitation

than hard-earned miles.

The night is black

on the icy lane

that winds its way home.

My two tired dogs

are curled-up in the big back seat

that’s become their own, 

so it’s hard to tell

which nose and tail

belongs to whom.

In the ghostly glow

of the dashboard light

I glance at my hands on the wheel

and see my fathers’ there;

the past repeating,

but now

with me in the driver's seat.

And while the  precious cargo is different

it really hasn’t changed.

I think of what one slip

near the cliff-edge might mean,

or a heavy foot on the pedal;

but my girls

fast asleep

are their usual oblivious selves. 

Is their faith in me

beyond question?

Or are they so sublimely naive

that there are no questions?

I envy them,

simple animals

who live so much in the present

there are no contingencies or collisions,

no accidents

or future tense

to unsettle an innocent soul.

Perhaps they think the car stays still

while the world turns,

home appearing

like a rearing wooden horse 

on its circling carousel.

But more likely, their natural state is surrender

to whatever fate decrees,

too passive

to act for themselves,

too trusting

to survive in the wild

without human help.

I recall looking out with half closed eyes

as reality spooled by

and fitful dreams intruded.

But theirs are tightly shut

and their sleep is deep,

fully contented

and lost in doggie dreams.

I ease my foot off the pedal,

peering out

through the scrim of gauzy frost

with extra wary eyes.

I realize that “cliff- edge” may sound overly dramatic, but there actually is one: a sharp bend in the two-lane road just a couple of feet inside a steep drop-off; no guardrail, not even a warning sign. 

Evanescent - Feb 4 2026

 

Evanescent

Feb 4 2026

In the ice hotel

artists have carved 

aspens and poplars into the walls,

sculpted free-standing trees

beneath the high arched ceiling

and glazed chandelier.

An enchanted forest

in bas relief,

at least for now.

An act of creation they know from the start

can’t last.

It’s like birthing a child

you know you’ll outlive,

but still can’t resist 

your natural urge.

Because we are makers.

Because we create

just for the sake of it.

And because beauty is all the more beautiful

knowing how ephemeral it is.

Like a fragile waif

with transparent skin

who breaks your heart,

beauty passes;

ageing as you watch

in real time.

Ice, of which there is less and less these days,

and trees

on a heating planet

susceptible to fire.

A work of art

where the medium, and what it contains

say much the same;

that time is short,

and that our birthright 

is being squandered

by short-sighted greed.

They could have worked in stone,

carving marble

casting bronze.

Could have made grave markers

or played around in abstract art,

sculpted heroic men 

on rearing horses

on granite plinths.

But they chose ice;

a vehicle that’s brittle

unforgiving

and even more short-lived

than we are.

Because even though we know 

we’re not here for long

and that our works not much longer,

we make meaning

in whatever time we have.

If nothing else

to make sense of ourselves.

I imagine the clients of the ice hotel

will marvel as they walk,

echoing down the hall

and gazing overhead.

Their misty breath

will condense on the cold hard surface,

softening it

with a dull rime of frost. 

Will they appreciate this work of art?

Will they know how privileged they are

to be first and last

to take it in?

Their presence

the beginning of the end

of its brittle beauty.

You wonder why they do it, pouring heart and soul into a work of art that will last at most 3 months. 

But then why do I write poems that will never be read?  Because the pleasure is in the process, not the result. 

And because even for a nihilist like me — who doesn’t believe life has any meaning in this cold indifferent universe beyond the first accidental cell and its primordial legacy of the basic biological drive to survive and reproduce — I’m still free to create meaning; to take advantage of this short and monumentally improbable gift of consciousness. 

Here’s the story that inspired this. If you’re unable to open the link, I’ve excerpted some photos. All credit for them goes to the artists, Dawn Detarando and Brian McArthur.

Forever Dust - Feb 2 2026

 

Forever Dust

Feb 2 2026

Dust accumulates.

It settles invisibly

and as methodically

as the passage of time.

It’s like the slow steady drip

that wears down rock

as lifetimes pass

and species go extinct.

You won’t live to see the end of it

because it never does,

materializing

out of thin air

like some cosmic sleight of hand.

The Bible says

ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

There’s a pleasing circularity to this

 — that nothing is created or destroyed

just temporarily changed.

Which means that everyone who’s ever lived

has turned to dust

as I wipe down the tabletop

and vacuum the rug.

So is my war on dust irreverent, sacrilegious

even sinful?

Or is it humbling?

That in the end, we’re all equal

no matter what,

despite privilege, ambition, and the accident of birth;

as level

as the fine layer of dust

on my clear glass tabletop.

I dust.

The noun becomes a verb

because what's the difference;

it’s still dust

just moved from here to there.

My mother kept an immaculate house,

she believed 

in keeping up appearances. 

A white glove

touching any surface

would be unsullied,

a shaft of light

slanting through the glass

shone clear.

But for just as long as she was here,

gamely holding back the dust

like an earthen dam

in a sudden flood;

eventually buckling

which, like all of us, it inexorably does. 

I wonder, if I didn’t dust

would it accumulate

layer upon layer;

the way stratified rock

becomes a geological clock

recording prehistory?

Each layer

containing its fingerprint

of war, eruption, pandemic,

climate change

and continental drift,

undisturbed 

for millennia after millennia. 

Until the world is buried in dust,

and in the fullness of time

turns to it.

As I sit here, my clear glass tabletop stares accusingly back. Its layer of fine dust demands to be cleaned. I’ve been delinquent in my housekeeping. Which, of course, is never done. Because dust keeps appearing: steadily, inexorably, as if out of thin air. 

And it’s still dusty as I end this. Apparently, writing a poem is way more fun than keeping up appearances!

Loud and Slow - Feb 1 2026

 

Loud and Slow

Feb 1 2026

Just speak loud and slow

and keep it simple,

they’ll understand. 

As if they were either stupid

or stubborn.

As if English was the universal language

and they were just out of practice.

As if their colourful patois

was a touristy thing,

like the folk dances

and changing of the guard.

You become a child

in a sea of foreigners

comfortable in their foreign tongue.

Limited

to basic wants and simple thoughts,

to a nod

a smile

the niceties.

It’s a relief, in a way;

no politics or philosophy,

no expectations

or witty repartee. 

Even beginning to feel invisible

is a welcome release from the agency

you usually feel

 —  the centre

around which everything turns,

the self-sufficient man

who needn’t stop to ask.

They say foreign travel expands;

seeing how differently others live

yet how much alike we are.

But this helplessness

may be even more enlightening;

feeling invisible,

forgetting yourself,

being politely misunderstood. 

And how even the proudest man

can!t help feeling humbled

to see little kids

speaking perfect French,

feel chastened

when they go way too fast

for his high school Spanish.

Try to learn a few words.

Apologize for your accent.

Shrug off the mixups

with a sheepish smile.

And let the humility 

of reverting to childhood

teach you that it’s not so bad

to watch and listen

and not interrupt.

That you don’t always have to be 

the smartest guy in the room.

That you’re not even the star

of your own life,

just a walk-on

without a speaking part.

Of course, now there are real time translation apps. And English almost is the universal language:  someone almost always speaks it, even if just sort of. So it’s getting harder to find yourself stranded in an incomprehensible sea of language where you can’t make yourself easily understood. 

I don’t travel. Or at least not anymore. (I do in my head, but that’s a whole other thing!) Yet I can certainly see how humbling and instructive travel can be. Not just gaining a new appreciation of your privileged 1st world life; not just being reinvigorated by novelty and unexpected challenges; but also having to be in the world stripped of the intellectual pretension and complexity language affords. What’s left of you without that carapace of words you normally hide behind? (Hmmm, am I just speaking for myself here?!)

When I shared the first draft with a friend, I prefaced it with this:

Curious how you — a world traveller of sorts — react to this. Because I do not travel, and so speak with no authority. I’m all guesswork and projection. Like all my poetry:  written from my easy chair; living in my head!