[My computer has been sick–and so on and so on–but now I will perhaps be back]
My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun
I am taking time with the notebook
I am finally able to peel pages apart. I think it is because the paper is a lot drier after being inside for a couple of months–or maybe moister, from being in Seattle? I am a bit anxious because I am not an archivist.
This is peering down the top of the notebook. Can you see the water damage? And the staining? I wonder whether the stains are from ink, soil, something else or all of these? Probably all, don’t you think? The lines are all gone, or faded.
Can you see the bit of writing at the top right, it looks like a brown squiggle to me, with blue lines nearby. How much writing has been lost by weathering I wonder?
I have finally realized that this was not an active journal. It is a collection of memories. Many pages start, “I remember.” What sort of memories? The ones that roughly point to actual events or the ones that we create when we solidify our forms as adults. Sane memories or not so sane?
But memories are all the interstices between sanity and insanity, are they not? Perhaps not a bridge but the firings of neurons, the synaptic connections, the bridge between sensation and conceptualization. Story making.
Traveling into the center of the notebook seems to be the meeting of two legs, as though I could travel up from here to the heart and head, and journey right through the body back up to the stars.
I will, for the next week or so, transcribe pages from the journal.
We move to Yuma [drawing of CA, baja CA, AZ, Mexico, with Yuma shown as a dot]
Just in case mom pop got couth or thing [illegible]
they could run into Mexico.
Next page with visible writing (page two for my purposes–all further legible pages will be coded with numbers in order of their appearance):
The year statues of limitations ran Out. Free to spend the rest of the money
Pop got a new Harly Davison [sketch of Motorcycle] Mom got 77 Oldsmobile
Sherry got a vette/house
Quotes not from the notebook are from Emily Dickinson, poem 764 (Franklin’s numbering)