The Quail Diaries–Notebook Series, 1

[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

In Corners

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.

notebooktopThis 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.

insidejournalThe pages of the journal are like skin. They look like skin to me at least, like something of the body, something of biology.

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.

Page one:

1972

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):

1978

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

frinitha [sic]

Quotes not from the notebook are from Emily Dickinson, poem 764 (Franklin’s numbering)

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