The Cryptic Life of Me and Ötzi

I’m an annoyingly cryptic person, to the point that I can’t figure myself out. I’ve been searching for a missing document, but my document titles mystify me. At the time I write them, however, they make perfect sense as answers to some arcane riddle running through my shrivelled grey matter. Sad. I’m a sad, sad, silly female. In any case, I’m generally forced to open one document after another in order to eliminate the most obvious choices. The process is tiresome and time-consuming, as well as invigorating, which creates a paradox of experience. I’ve often forgotten about reflective essays or poetry or stories I’ve written, and am thrilled to read see them again. This time, I ran across a final journal entry I’d made in a poetry journal, and it went like this:

The guests are gone and the baby’s asleep and the house is so cold that I’m shivering at my computer. The pilot light is a wind tunnel for the wind that rages outside, and I can’t think of much else but the cold, cold wind. The sound of it makes me feel colder. Without any other source of heat, it’s the type of night that should force me to crawl into bed with a pile of blankets.

My mind is shutting down as though it were less than freezing in this house, even though it’s about fifty degrees, which should be adaptable. I’m not adapting. Soon I will be like the Ice Man that I’ve written about numerous times before, the one who fell down into the depth of cold snow and died like that only to be discovered a thousand years later. If only poetry survived so long. If it were a thing of flesh, it might simply lose its fluids and dry up and freeze for archeologists to tenderly open and dissect in a laboratory–oh so tenderly lest the words blow away into a nether land of parchment skin.

This is the end–the last of my journals, and I can safely say that I will probably not start another one. Well, I might think about it. I have a friend–a fabulous comedy writer–who showed me his idea journals that he’s kept for years. He simply writes article and/or story ideas in little spiral books, and then goes over them when he needs inspiration. I should fill journals simply for that–so I don’t forget all my ideas, and so I will know where to commence at some distant point in the future. Will I write poetry, though? I think I’m done with poetry for now. Maybe. I’m not certain my poetry is ready for the world, and I might work on what I have, though I wonder if it will ever be ready for the world at large. I’m thinking about what I wrote on Tuesday of this week [I had written about my words not making sense to anybody]. How can I know if any of what I write makes sense? [End journal]

Looking at the date this was written, I can claim in the affirmative that I did give up poetry (and journals). I have since (except for what I write on this blog) given up fiction. Am I sad about this? I’m kind of like the Ice Man about it. That image is so peculiarly funny to me–I used to drop this mummified man into stories and poetry and journals. Ötzi, my dear old friend. It warmed my soul to run into him in an old journal. In like manner, it awakened my mind to run into myself–the same old person, worried that my words will never make sense to others. As it turns out, my words don’t even make sense to me. I’m still searching for my missing document.

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