If folks ever wonder what I’m doing, or how I’m doing or whatever… they can figure it out through reading my poetic dispatches. To me it’s very obvious but I suppose it shrouded in mixed- metaphors, curious phrasings and obtuse examples. Though to me, poetry is one’s life distilled to core essence. Far more sincere than “catch-up chitchat“ on a phone call.
Also (vaguely related):
My journals/notebooks/scrapbooks etc. are the most precious items which I keep safe and stored (keep in mind I have very few possessions). Most all of the contents is sort of in the “code of poetry” – specifics are known only to me and someone would have to be *very* dedicated to interpret the metaphors into facts and emotions. There something in Nabakov’s Lolita which expresses similar sentiment (no creepiness intended).
Question: If you shred your journals, will you make something out of the scraps from the shredder?