I recently found a tattered little notebook just off the Lost Dog Wash hiking trail in north Scottsdale. The writing was a bit faded, though it was hard to tell how long the notebook had been there; I do frequent this trail about twice a week, and hadn’t seen it before – so it may have been left there recently. But it has been exceptionally windy, lately, so it may have been blown from another part of the series of rolling hills (some call it “the mountain,” but I find that to be quite an exaggeration, as the elevation is barely 3,000 feet, at the peaks). The writing ranged from clumsy to almost indecipherable, with much of the writing in what seemed to be a furiously hurried style; it actually looked similar to the journals I used to keep to record dreams, when I would write frantically by flashlight at 3 and 4 a.m. As such, I think I was able to make out more of the words (though not all) than the average person would have, although this is just a mild conjecture.
Adding to the challenge of deciphering this, several pages on the journal I found seemed to have streaks of blood – although it could have been red paint, or even beet juice.
I’m sharing this in the hope that some light might be shed upon the rather abrupt ending. Perhaps if a family member or friend recognizes the unnamed author by style and circumstance, and if that person has been missing for some time, would it warrant the authorities searching the area thoroughly?
Better yet, my hope is that the actual author will come forth and say, “Yes, that’s mine. I must have dropped the notebook, I’m fine.”
In any case, here is the best I could set down:
This has been the most amazing, horrible, beautiful, sensationally ridiculous night of my life. Yesterday was pretty stupid, too, beginning with a trip to the drycleaners – not, that was this morning, it was yesterday morning that my boss told me “you’re looking a little wrinkly.” This was on a Friday, end of my second week at the Salvation Army; though I was so Continue reading