mY wRiTiNg & ThE mIsSiNg LiNk

Is the key to understanding my writing & the missing link buried under the metaphorical detritus of my archaeoliterary past? Is the key to understanding my writing & the missing link still unearthed in the deep strata of my paleoconscious present and future?

I keep returning to the oases of these Saharan pages, only to discover bittersweetly that my flowing fountains of creative outpouring are mere desert mirages . . .

Mummified thoughts, petrified observations, where my words go to die & repose in a heap of literary dust, like bear bones never to be found . . .

Feral writing, abandoned to capricious nature, a wild species that exists outside of knowing it, an endangered specimen, flourishing in captivity . . .

Confined as though in a zoo, immobilized as though frozen in tundra like a Pleistocene mastodon . . .

Fossil beds of lost little lambs, pictographs of a life scrawled in the subconscious walls of nostalgic mentality . . .

Where, Chief Seattle, is the eagle? Where the thicket, you mournfully inquire? Gone. Where, too, has my writing fled to like a disappearing migratory species, like a mystery beast that surfaces or appears like a crypto-animal ever so rarely & then only to those few . . .

Gone feral, run away to the wilds never to be tamed or caressed, to die on a barren plain the death of a lone beast . . .

The trouble is, it’s not a zoo animal on display, rather it is a cryptospecies, the Yeti & Big Foot of undiscovered acclaim, great literature’s ultimate Nessie hoax . . .

It has fled in a diaspora of fear, an exodus of madness, exiled to wastelands untrodden & uncharted . . .

Leaving us with an unsolved paleo-ego mystery, nary a trace fossil of the random, unknown genius at work . . .

Writing that might never be excavated or brought to light. Writing that could forever go undiscovered, unfound; it could forever cease to exist & no one on planet Earth would be none the more / none the less enlightened or entertained . . .

On the other hand, my writing could be the Archaeopteryx of journals oddly evolved, haphazardly designed, the cross-over (missing!) linkage, the transition form of a live creature created out of words & pictures . . .

Ah, but there goes my writing, regressing back to that confused land fish that predated our terrestrial mammalian heritage, fleeing to realms beyond my hemisphere, gone to roost in southern climes, a hibernation until the chrysalis is ready, the return on the transmigration homeward full of the promise & blossom of an entirely new species of writing creature . . .

And yet . . . the things that never get written down, they must be like prehistoric creatures that once roamed the earth but have since left no trace of their existence for future species to study & ponder; they existed in their own time, for their own sake, in a present where the future did not matter nor the past . . .

It is like a vast fossil assemblage of preserved ideas whose reconstruction would reveal a persona in history of minor significance, even less consequence, but nonetheless who has something to say of profound importance about himself, about history, about the Earth & Humankind’s lost innocence & respect for the values which would bring back the ecology of interdependent harmony & love amongst the creatures . . .

Might that make my journals someday a literati-archaeological site — my private burial grounds — to dig up vestiges of my life & create a workably understandable taxonomy of personality & history of events that ultimately, like everything, doesn’t matter . . .

Or is it just para-experiential, no words necessary? Does it fall out of the sky in Fortean universes like showers of frogs? Is it lost in time, frozen under tundra — would an epigrapher perhaps discover a trace of it there like hieroglyphics of birds’ feet dancing on the grave of Easy Writer . . .

The missing link of my writing . . .

My Dead Sea scrolls of personal history . . .

My Popul Vuh of psycho-mythology . . .

My Gilgamesh & Bhagavad Gita of erased forgotten scripture . . .

My Rosetta Stone to decode, impute meaning, make sense of . . .

The missing link of my writing . . .