The Notorious Notetaker

Everywhere there are words.  On blank pads next to the phone at the kitchen counter, tucked into books, in her wallet, pinned to a corkboard in her office, in spiral notebooks previously used in her son’s classrooms, some dating themselves by the stickers on the covers.  Tigger and Winnie the Pooh.  He was in first grade. Mighty Morphin Power Rangers – third grade.

Black fabric blank notebooks, titled appropriately, Notes, in white embossed lettering; twenty-five were given to her by Hanes Intimates to give to her customers but she decided they were too nice to give away to non-writers where they would find their way into some lonely junk drawer, so she kept them all for herself.  These notebooks were scattered throughout the house, one in each room, each containing random thoughts, a start to an essay or poem, dreams that spooked her like that man in the black trench coat that has been a part of her dream world for years, quotes that inspired her or drawings of negligees for her store that would never see a production line.

Some might have thought she had ADD or adult deficit disorder as her one therapist labeled her.  She did not agree with this knee-jerk label.  She could still stay on task, focus, and follow directions. “Thank you for never asking my symptoms prior to giving me your off the cuff, pompous self-absorbed leaning back in your black leather therapist chair, you thought I didn’t notice your not so muffled yawns during my sessions, diagnosis,” she quipped to herself.

Her problem was not listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.  Her problem didn’t even sound like a problem in her own mind.  She self-diagnosed to the dismay of any professional’s schooled thought.  Monkey Brain Syndrome, Looney Tune Personality Disorder, Oh God I’ve Become My Motheritis, Psycho Hose Beast (given by a prior boyfriend – she ditched the guy, kept the moniker).  This is what happens to a brain raised on Tab, bourbon, white cross pills and pot.


She figured everyone comes into their own insanity eventually, piece by piece, like a writer finding his or her unique voice over time.  Her voices, insane and writer, unfortunately, were scattered throughout her work and home offices in schizophrenic fashion on paper scraps, sticky notes, discarded envelopes and anything else she could get her pen on.  Worried that indeed she was becoming her mother, and losing her mind, and concerned that she told her children to take their crazy mother out back and shoot her when her mind disintegrated into drooling babble and, and wondering how serious they took that directive now that her mind was going sooner than later, the kids reminded her daily with glee.  This worry elicited a need to write down every thought worthy of saving for a later use because she knew she never remembered anything later.

She was not ready for the mercy killing yet.  She still knew what a toothbrush was used for and which key opened the back door, thus proving she knew what keys and doors were, it was just that she couldn’t find those damn keys and she was standing outside the back door in a torrent of rain, cursing her mother’s genes and her own self for trying to be a superwoman when she knew it impossible to keep track of her 1.2 million neurons firing simultaneously, each requiring immediate attention, while searching for those god damned keys!

So the notetaking was essential to her survival.  No, not just to dissuade her eager sons’ polishing and loading their guns out back, but for her own sanity
and the desire to write everything down
        in just one notebook
        in one place
        pretty please?