A meeting of the kinds

Another week is wandering its way to a close, and there are many contributions to be shared before the sun dips below the skyline tonight. So, to commence: “Joe, Alex, Stephanie me, and my cousin hung out all day. I love Joe so much. Even though he got mad at me last night. Seattle is great.” Stephanie me, Stephanie mine – we can’t argue with your logic. What’s not to love about a city that spawns forgiveness like so many pots o’ gold at the end of rainbows? Hang to your heart’s content; you’ve earned it.

Stephanie is not the only contributor to feel the love. JJSS totally knows where she’s coming from: “We walked back from Dick’s right now. Cheap greasy American food still makes my stomach churn. I was living in India for the last 5 months. It’s good to be home. To kiss the one you love. To tell them in person where before the only words they heard were through a telephone with people layered over speaking Hinidi. If you knew what it’s like to take a trip leaving the one you love behind then maybe you know where I’m coming from. I’m only 19. I live in Olympia. I’m moving up here in November. I’m a cook in an Indian restaurant. Life is ridiculous. I haven’t been to Seattle since before I left. I love sunny. Life is good. I fall more in love every day. I love her.” So much to (pardon the pun) digest here. Something to be said about folding the space-time continuum like so much rice-paper origami leaves, as JJ leaves India only to cook Indian food. We hope that he’s understood here in the good old US of A, as it’s our best guess that speaking Hinidi didn’t get him very far. Still, JJ does seem to have some nuanced understanding of his own foibles, as he qualifies his sweeping statements of loving and losing with the acknowledgement that he is yet of tender years. We appreciate the self-reflection. Would that all paused to take self-stock!

There’s something about being alone with a pen that forces people to face their inner paradoxes. “It’s dark,” another auteur asserts (blindly?). “Me, nick and our big black rott mutt and we stumbled upon the journal attached to the bench. I’m wearing tennis shoes. I never wear tennis shoes. Writing is difficult because my wrists are bruised and battered (thanks to nervous habits). I’m in love with Nick and I love Oki. This night is beautiful. Now off to frolic in the water.” In tennis shoes or out? In love with someone or simply loving another? Wading through the nervous habits, or just jumping in the lake? So much to resolve, and so little time.

We should point out that not all who add to The Notebook’s ever-growing trove of wit and wisdom are nightcrawlers. Some enjoy the other side of the moon equally well: “Coworkers/friends Sam n Dave and I decided to come up to the hill and walk Cal Anderson. Gorgeous, sunny, cool breeze. They did a nice job with this public space. It was a reservoir before. Sam asked, ‘Is that a big hole?’ Sam’s obsessed with holes. Dave asks if I want to go camping but I can’t. This weekend I the NW Bear weekend, gotta hunt me a ‘Bare.’” We’re delighted that Sam n Dave et al. are expanding the bounds of their comradeship, forging extra-office connections and bonding over weekends spent hunting nudists. Delightful, too, how our anonymous wood sprite provides both the meat (“They did a nice job with this public space”) and the drink to quaff alongside (“It was a reservoir before.” Fascinating!). We worry slightly about Sam’s obsession with holes but hope that it can be fruitfully combined with bare hunting. Bon chance, mes copains!

In homage to city beautification efforts, we should add here that many contributors have been impressed with the quality of upkeep to be found surrounding The Notebook: “A great idea. I hope this notebook makes it back to you with love, goodwill, and peace. Cal Anderson is a wonderful park. I come here every day with my two dogs. Love to all. April” And to you, April. We hope you and your two dogs are also full of love, although preferably not across the pesky species boundary. Rose (“Age: 2.75 years”) and Jen “had lots of fun playing in what is now this beautiful park. I wish it looked this way when I loved across the street.” A Freudian typo, or so we hope. Who wouldn’t want to love across the street? Love thy neighbor, saith God, and we obey. Point being, really, we’re just thrilled so many are enjoying so much so well.

A poet of another stripe found the environment equally harmonious:

Gnomus left her homus
Now sitting in the park aloneus
Enjoying the afternoon sun
Thinking about future loved ones…
The spring wrestling her way forward
Planetary projects encuring
Momentous experiences
Eyes open for great change
Great change the future of all this
Let my actions be effective
Let me effect this change
Let this change move us into who we are…
No this happened before!

We’re somehow inspired to hope that there be peace on earth, and that it begins with us.

Of course, not all travelers were satisfied with the accommodations. “Once in this park there were drugs? Now just yuppies. WHY? Addict searching.” We can’t help but appreciate Addict’s openness to the possibility that it was, perhaps, some other park in which chemical release was to be found. We enjoy, too, Addict’s Faerie Queen-quest approach to life. And we admit to be somewhat personally disgruntled by overruns of yuppies. Still, they do lead the charge for a decent cup of coffee.

Yet another member of the Cal Anderson community was looking for drug-induced euphoria, and who are we to assign blame in a moment of crisis? “hey we had to stop (cuz I made everyone) here and write in this book. I still aspire to get high. Mobbin around with a bunch of bags like a pack mule & really I should be home now. My mom has been in the hospital for like 5 days. Now yesterday they moved her out of ICU but my sister just called & said they moved her right back. It’s freakin me the fuck out so before I do go home (to Auburn) I want to get fucking high & fuck my new friend. I want help. Anything as far as my fears about my mommy (she is only 44) but I think it will occupie my mind a while (plus hes hott). So now I’m off. They’re whistling for me. Get well please Mom! I’ll die if you leave me. I love you!” The range of human emotion is here, no question. Fear, doubt, love, sex. Fear and sex, especially. And a doglike response to whistled commands, to boot. We’re sending happy thoughts Mommy Dearest’s way; in the meantime, we’re hoping this writer gets a chance to partake of the more corporeal delights appealed to here.

Finally, because we just can’t seem to get off the drugs today (or the puns, we’re afraid), we turn to Josh, “Come from N.A. back to share here. Easier. Good meeting. Nice park! Back next weekend Monday I mean.” Here’s to kicking the habit, Josh, and we’ll look forward to seeing you next weekend Monday we mean. I think we’ll all agree it’s been a good meeting.

Meet Z. She's hot.

A new voice appears in the eastern sky o' The Notebook, Z. Z is best described as a modern troubadour, spinning tales of urban life for all who listen, even those who would rather not but are standing too nearby to avoid it. Not one to countenance hypocrisy in any form, Z practices what she preaches and preaches a life fully lived. She drinks her whiskey neat and eats her steak bloody (well, medium rare).

First, fair reader, we beg your pardon for the delay in moving these contributions from the specific (this notebook, Seattle) to the general (the internets, the world). What can we say? It’s been a long April.

Speaking of which, April showers bring May flowers, but it seems some of our contributors are more focused on lions and lambs and their ilk. One anonymous soul sends us a greeting: “Hello Chicken,” making us wonder whether Chicken is indeed someone’s proper name and, if so, whether s/he ever goes by Chick. Or whether perhaps this writer is of German origin and simply capitalizes from force of habit.

In a similarly animal mood, Belinda and Sandrine wished us all good luck on a proverbially unfortunate day: “Friday the 13^th Hope no one has run into black cats and such.” Which seemed a lovely and innocuous sentiment until it was immediately followed by admonition and some more random thoughts, “Keep it safe and such, cowboy. I bet no one has tried to write on this in the rain. Til now. It is proving quite difficult. Thank you Seattle. Good night. Love Belinda & Sandrine.” Again, some questions immediately sprang to mind. Are Belinda and Sandrine aware that overuse of “and such” will rob it of its rhetorical power? Are they warning the same cowboy? Are they sitting out in the rain in white, body-skimming t-shirts? Are they by any chance attractive sisters – or even just kissing cousins – and if so can they please forward photographs and a daytime contact number to Z, care of The Notebook? Thank you Seattle, and good night indeed.

Others wandering by had less animalistic thoughts: “Before long the clouds will sing again and the moon will reunite with the sun. Until then, be blessed in all that guides you on this trail called life.” Well, it’s more cheerful than the-end-is-near variation we’ve seen.

But then it came back to the quadrupeds again: “Hi. I’m Ciscero Jones, a small kitty with pointy whiskers” – true! See the picture! – “I’m about 14 months old, which is pretty old in cat years. I’m basicly a teenager. I usually party at home but today im chillin in the park thinking about later when im gonna bbq some mice. Nice! The end.” We, personally, were delighted that Ciscero stopped by to offer us an entrée into the world of feline adolescence. Substitute a joint for charred mice and it’s clear that teenagers will be teenagers, no matter the species. A rather reassuring connectivity emerges. We’re all in this together, as per Ben Lee.

Someone with a waggish sense of humor felt the need to localize the work of The Notebook: “I think that only in Seattle would you find a little notebook chained to a park bench just to capture your thoughts. Did you bring a pen?” We wonder, what’s wrong with the pen we provided? And a line down, “A metaphore for life – gifts come but you need to be prepared.” True, O King, always assuming that a metaphore is the opposite of a semaphore.

Tracking back a bit to our life-trail hiker, we come across this otherworldly (but similarly aligned) entry:

Beautiful, sunny, warm, clear. I always sit on this bench and watch the fathers with their children. My father hardly ever played with me. He died last April. I am a medium. I talk with spirits. My father sits with me here on this bench. He spends more time with me here than when he was alive. I never thought I'd miss him, but I do. It's April 14, 2007. A friend, another psychic, said something magical would happen today. Maybe this notebook is it.

--Spookie

Spookie, for your sake, we hope it is. We really do. But you’ve pretty much said all there is to say, so we’re going to move on and leave it at that.

OK, being the kind of people who can’t leave well enough alone, we add only that Spookie clearly shared these sentiments: “Im at this place in time between yours and mine. I guess that makes it ours. How sweet it is.” To be loved by you is indeed the acme of delectability.

There were those who are clearly spending more earthling time together: “Scott & Heather were here rambling through the park in celebration of our sixth wedding anniversary.” Ah, the heart flutters with thoughts of flying rice and honeymoon shenanigans. Only to tumble to earth when we read the signature of “Mr & Mrs Scotty Don’t!” Excepting the possibility that, like those of Jeopardy! or Wham!, their proper name includes an exclamation point (or, as the British would say, a screamer – yet another reason to envy our comrades across the pond), this is worrisome. A rebuke to those who counseled against nuptial bliss? A lighthearted reminder that Mr. Don’t! is often to be found doing things he really oughtn’t? A heavier-hearted clue that, in fact, Heather was the only one whose steps left footprints?

We admit we’ve gotten a bit bogged down in the spiritual, so to speak, so now we’ll pause to let F bring in a breath of fresh air: “I am so fast and desperate.” We’ll keep it mind.

Now, and we want to emphasize that this is in no way connected to the search we are certainly not about to begin for those fast and desperate enough to advertise it shamelessly, we’re off to take a break. We leave you with these parting thoughts: “I like the park. I like the sun. I like the dark. I like to run.” Run on, all of you, and godspeed.

Sharing the Bench

By William. We shared an awkward but sweet moment on the bench with the Notebook. Poignant entry. Thanks for the conversation, W. Today IS a good day.

Addict Searching

Conjuring memories of ex-lovers and hankerings for Indian fare

Selah, your handwriting is identical to an ex-girlfriend of mine. I need to get in touch with her. Thank you?

Second post went on to the next page, and again, I failed at snapping a good shot. Summary: a 19-year-old cook in an Indian restaurant, just returned from many months in on the subcontinent. Yes, adjusting is hard. But it sounds like you've fallen back into loving arms. Congrats and welcome home.

A pair of nice ones

Succinct, eloquent, insightful. (If you can't decipher #1, it reads "did anyone ever see the movie 'The Notebook?' This is pretty much nothing like that." ...You're right.)