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.