I assumed, when I came upon the notebook, the suitcase and the other objects in the brush that, for whatever reason, a family had camped here–that the owner of the notebook was not alone when the notebook was left there.
Now I think differently. I think the owner was alone. The owner was constructing something, pulling things out and putting them on the page and was indigent, lonely? Was the owner sane. What stories am I making out of what is inside and around me?
What stories do you make?
I feel, honestly, reluctant to go to far into this notebook, to try to reconstruct something. I’d rather just transcribe. I am, perhaps, afraid of taking liberties (but I take liberties so often…so why would that be?) I am considering asking you to take liberties, a little contest, what does the notebook mean…what is the story or what is the story of us and our hands on the notebook…The winner of the contest might get…hmmm…I am still working that out. Perhaps one of my analytical poetical posters–the wasteland or the truth about god, or maybe emily dickinson’s fascicle 18. Anyone interested in that sort of prize? Or not…whatever the case may be.
but here is the next page with writing:
[Note: At the top, a pencil sketch, a part of a stick figure (some ripped off) and below that, a rectangle with three lines vertical.
Some is in green [G], some is in purple [P]]
[G] I Remember the
Day I went to the
S. S. Dept.
She said [P] your little Brother
James Martin Littleton
Died a few months after Birth