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On Monday, the missing notebook-journal arrived. Had it been a year since I requested it? Two years? It didn’t matter. The long wait dissolved with the delivery of volume ten of my notebook-journals. I was ecstatic and grateful.
There had been ten notebook-journals that I decided to abandon. They contained my thoughts and an account of my life starting with the first book, launched on 6th February 1973, and with the tenth book ending 29th January 2012. Throughout the early books, my pen was allowed to scrawl in a pretentious and sophomoric manner. As I matured, the earliest writings embarrassed me. It would have been humiliating to be associated with the ideas I once held and the silliness of ungoverned dreams and desires.
When Ms Keogh and I were moving to Wales, I considered burning the notebook-journals and not be burdened by them. We were starting a new life and I was prepared to sacrifice the past. Friends convinced me it would be a mistake that I would come to regret.
My friend G, a dealer in books and art, said he would keep them for me in his Maryland house until such time as I wanted them returned, if I ever wanted them returned. I took him up on his offer.
In the months leading up to our departure, my brashness softened. I would still send the ten notebook-journals to G, but I would also scan them all to have a convenient data file, readily transportable and accessible. Of the ten volumes written, only the first nine could be scanned. The tenth volume was oversized and would not fit on the scanner.
Following Ms Keogh's death, I realized how absolutely valuable the tenth notebook-journal was because she and I had shared it. It included both our entries and it covered the period from 1st January 1994 until, as mentioned before, 29th January 2012. I am ecstatic to have it in my possession again.
Nine black Boorum & Pease No. 21 Columnar Books with red spines and corners were sent to G. The first was only 150 pages, all the rest were 300. The tenth notebook-journal that could not be scanned was a Boorum & Pease No. 9 Account Book, 8 5/8th inches wide and 14 1/8th inches tall. It held 500 ruled pages, 41 lines per page.
Midnight of the 8th September 1982, was my first encounter with Ms Keogh. By sunrise of the 9th, we had become good friends. At the time, I had no premonition of the significance this meeting would have, yet on the 12th I recorded this first meeting. The entry appears on page 128 of the seventh notebook-journal.
The first time Ms Keogh's writing appears is on page 180, a note in the margin in which she had gone back and provided a detail to the account I had written for the New Year's Eve of 1982, the night I first came to love her. It would be a few months more before she reciprocated.
Her first entry into my notebook-journal came 28th September 1984, page 109 of the eighth notebook-journal. There would not be another entry until 1990, page 131 of the ninth notebook-journal, three years into our marriage. It was the tenth notebook-journal, the one I hadn’t scanned, in which her entries become frequent. We shared use of the notebook-journals after that. The eleventh volume, which we were still filling with our thoughts and experiences, accompanied us to Wales.
It is in the eleventh volume that I penned a detailed account of Ms Keogh’s death. I won’t give the page number because I don’t want to look for it. I don’t want to see it.
There was a gap between the nine scanned volumes in my computer files and the eleventh volume, which is now filled and retired onto a shelf. I came to realize after her death how essential the missing tenth volume was to my happiness, to remembering her alive and alongside me. That’s when I contacted G.
Good to his word, G sent me volume ten. The notebook-journal arrived on Monday. On Tuesday, I read the first page and a little of the second. It starts with my words, the first two lines of the 41 per page. The second line doesn’t even reach the right margin. “Obscurity prevails for [Ms Keogh] and me as we begin this new year a pair of unknown artists.”
Then begins Ms Keogh’s very distinct handwriting at the third line. It is as familiar as her figure and her walk, which I could recognize from a block away. Her handwriting then fills the rest of the page, 39 lines, and her thoughts pour over onto page two.
I read her words and hear her perfect voice again. The writing glows with greater value. The notebook-journal feels holy, sacred. To be sure, my evaluation of the worth of her words is overblown by the continuing love coursing through me. I can't expect anyone else to read her words the way I do. She is my religion. I continue to talk to her and that serves as my prayers. Although I do not believe she can hear me or that she exists, I find comfort in make-believing.
She writes [abridged]:
“An account of our lives – where else, but in an ‘account book’. The pure heft of this tome adds a significance to the otherwise wasted time, as usual, I am writing to avoid doing other more practical things. Today we breakfasted at the I.H.O.P. – and spent the afternoon together driving through the countryside until Bruce was dropped at work. We discussed the issue of obscurity, and apparently have different opinions about the relevance. I can be satisfied to be virtually unknown in my life time … to disappear into oblivion shortly after my death. For me it is of no consequence whether I am forgotten immediately or a million years after my death. At some point, everything and everybody will assume the same degree of nonexistent irrelevance … Of course, Bruce is a writer – and I am a visual artist – therefore it is easier for me to disconnect my ‘self’ from my writing. My painting, while my goal is to like my work and what I’m producing, is incomplete unless I can gain recognition from someone whose opinion I value … I am more worried about leaving behind work which I do not like and having that being used as an example of my inabilities. I’ve taken to destroying work, painting over canvases (re-grounding) and editing notebooks. So if it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, why should I bother to edit? Life is filled with these contradictions – and Contrary is one of my middle names … Back to housecleaning.”
Mr Bentzman will continue to report here regularly about
the events and concerns of his life. If you've any
comments or suggestions, he would be pleased to hear from you.
You can find his
several books at www.Bentzman.com.
Enshrined
Inside Me, his second collection of
essays, is now available to purchase.
