Before.
They're the same kind of notebooks Daniel Pearl favored. I've written about them before. 192-page, 90 g paper, quadrille ruled. Bought a brace of them in Lille three years ago. His wife, Marianne, wrote about his notebooks. Once, were you to search his name and ''Super Conquerant" you would come directly upon mine. The ebb and flow of the internet has erased this link. I once lived next door to a good friend of Marianne's. As the unspeakable had also happened to R., I asked for Marianne's number.
I put them in touch.
They talked in NYC.
I think it helped.
Today, just before I make the call, I'll begin writing again. The first of four red, Super Conquerants. In my tiny hand. In pencil. I wonder what the word will be when I make the call. I have everyone's blessing, even R.'s. It hurts me to see how much S. is with me, how long I'll be leaving her. I wrote to R. "It sounds like you want it," said R. I want it, in part, because nobody should have to go through what R. and Marianne have had to suffer. I am not so arrogant to imagine that my action, my volunteering would have such a great effect. God damn it, I will sleep better for having done so. So many secret deals one makes with oneself. I am beginning to understand. The choice cuts so many different ways. Daniel, you will recall, lost his head. CPT K. writes me to say "keep your pecker up and your powder dry." I am glad to have kept so much of this secret. A clever person could reassmble it all. Remember Bloch? Bloch could probably put it all back together.
My little classes. My little notebooks. My little choices. "Leave the building," were the last words R. said to her. And what did R. leave behind all those years ago in Vietnam? "War story," he writes, "I carried a forty-five. Good for hammering in tent stakes but useless beyond ten feet." I have a G19 set aside in Texas. "I kind of enjoyed taking it apart," he said, "It passed the time." Going on nine years all this has been haunting me. Executors to name. For the notebook. My god the series of vaccinations and innoculations alone would make a grown my cry. I hope I don't. Mr. Ward, you know you will inherit the notebooks, the manuscripts, the foul matter of my life should it come down to that. Dark passage. It will not come to that. And, anyway, what if the answer is negative? Both sides of the coin shine as brightly. The coin the Judge tosses, gleaming, in the light of the campfire.
I put them in touch.
They talked in NYC.
I think it helped.
Today, just before I make the call, I'll begin writing again. The first of four red, Super Conquerants. In my tiny hand. In pencil. I wonder what the word will be when I make the call. I have everyone's blessing, even R.'s. It hurts me to see how much S. is with me, how long I'll be leaving her. I wrote to R. "It sounds like you want it," said R. I want it, in part, because nobody should have to go through what R. and Marianne have had to suffer. I am not so arrogant to imagine that my action, my volunteering would have such a great effect. God damn it, I will sleep better for having done so. So many secret deals one makes with oneself. I am beginning to understand. The choice cuts so many different ways. Daniel, you will recall, lost his head. CPT K. writes me to say "keep your pecker up and your powder dry." I am glad to have kept so much of this secret. A clever person could reassmble it all. Remember Bloch? Bloch could probably put it all back together.
My little classes. My little notebooks. My little choices. "Leave the building," were the last words R. said to her. And what did R. leave behind all those years ago in Vietnam? "War story," he writes, "I carried a forty-five. Good for hammering in tent stakes but useless beyond ten feet." I have a G19 set aside in Texas. "I kind of enjoyed taking it apart," he said, "It passed the time." Going on nine years all this has been haunting me. Executors to name. For the notebook. My god the series of vaccinations and innoculations alone would make a grown my cry. I hope I don't. Mr. Ward, you know you will inherit the notebooks, the manuscripts, the foul matter of my life should it come down to that. Dark passage. It will not come to that. And, anyway, what if the answer is negative? Both sides of the coin shine as brightly. The coin the Judge tosses, gleaming, in the light of the campfire.