Filled With Forget

My Author is forgetful.

I don't mean forgetting where they put their keys, or a relatives birthday. I mean who they are, and what they've done from hour to hour, or sometimes less than that. I have large gaps in my own memory as a result; blocks of days where I don't know if my Author is alive or well. I've become used to being the nondescript, little black book, milling about with musty hats and bent umbrellas in a lost and found box, waiting to be claimed for the umpteenth time.

The bulk of my understanding as of late comes from what Author remembers at the moment of entry – the fleeting glimpses of their present experience before their mind snags on some submerged root, and draws a complete blank. I am able to pick up some peripheral information of the world beyond what's scribbled in me. Each time I'm opened, I get a 3rd person view of the beholders surroundings. It's even odds that its my Author frantically scrawling stream of consciousness into my yellowing, dog eared pages, or the face of a well-meaning stranger who has decided to check my inner cover for Author's details after I've been left on a bus seat, or dropped in a hospital restroom.

My Author hasn't always been like this. I've known them for years, if the dates in my margins are to be trusted. From what they've told me, and what I've picked up from conversations had in rooms I've been left open in, Author was once a sought-after and highly-acclaimed artist. They were often compared to Leyendecker and Rockwell. I don't know what either of those are, but I've taken it to mean something good.

Author once used me to record all of their important dates, commissions and contacts. Some names I've been able to put faces to, since Author sometimes liked to use my unlined pages as a place to jot down composition ideas and likeness studies. They really liked drawing hands. Occasionally, Author would fill a page with random squiggles and patterns, but I think those were borne out of boredom during meetings with corporates and wealthy patrons, than of budding signs of faculty loss.

During my early use, I'd been entrusted with collecting newspaper clippings. They'd been taken from their printed home, and nestled carefully between my bindings. Now faded and yellowed with handling and age, these articles recount grand functions and lush parties, with photos of Author standing proudly in front of canvas-filled walls, the social elite all clamouring for Author's time, talent and attention. The paintings were being auctioned at record highs to private collectors and museums alike, and it seemed that, for a while, Author had the world at their feet.

In December of '67, Author had begun to write a name in me that would soon become a regular topic of entry. Dates and times booked out solely for this person, thoughts and feelings spanning pages about them. Around the half-way point of my pages, they'd moved in together and made a home. They adopted a stray tomcat called Hamilton. They fostered children before adopting 2 long-term. Occasionally, one or both of Author's children would find me, and doodle something childish -yet entirely charming- in my pages. I enjoyed the injection of crayon colour, and seeing their faces beam at their act of creation for creation's sake.

At some point, I'd been mistakenly lost beneath paperwork at the bottom of a credenza drawer. I can only guess what had happened in my absence, but when I was unearthed and back on the bedside dresser, the house seemed emptier, perhaps less laughter-filled. The vibrancy had dulled.

I came to learn that Author's children had grown, raised families of their own, and lost touch. I also learned that Author's partner had passed. I remember the first entry in what I presume to be decades being punctuated by tears, curling my pages as this great loss was penned in me. The rip left in Author's heart was palpable; the entry streaked and smudged but it's fraught meaning clear all the same.

Author had lost their North Star.

As I was pressed back into service, it felt like my purpose had shifted sideways. Record the past in painstaking detail, don't lose track. It was Author trying to contend with the new normal and how they got to this point. Some years passed in the newly empty house. Just Author, one remaining descendent of Hamilton the tomcat, and the little black book. For a time there was a good deal of introspection – I became a memoir of sorts. I enjoyed leaning into and learning more of Author's life, of their losses and their wins, their innermost feelings and regrets, balanced out by the happier memories of a life well-lived.

Lately, their entries in my pages have been sporadic and half-formed. Less momentous, and more scattered. Milk, bread, eggs. Feed the cat. Bury the cat. Where is the cat? That kind of thing. Their once-steady hand shakes beyond what a nervous hand should. A recent entry mentions something about headaches, a diagnosis, with subsequent entries talking about “follow up's”, “specialists” and “treatments”. I've noted an increasingly steep decline in their penmanship and clarity of mind, and they've confided in my pages less and less.

Each time I'm opened for Author's latest instalment, I see a shift in their features. They appear more frail, more sallow. Their hair is worn in a greying, wispy mane that catches the light and creates a halo of sorts. I recall when Author's hair was rich and dark, and styled with purpose. Clean clothes and personal hygiene have become optional at this point. I begin to hear new voices appearing around the house. Voices of concern and professional care, but ultimately voices that whisper from adjacent rooms about Author's “condition” and “getting worse”. I start to hear talk of money “running out” from other visitors.

The only constant in my present experience is the look of sheer confusion and bewilderment on Authors face. The hint of frustration far, far back in their eyes. The deepening of hard-etched creases that now overpower their features. I stare into that face; a face of someone I felt I knew best, but each time a bit more of them is missing.

Most recently, Author gently placed a cheque for $20,000 upon my pages, their face showed a moment of resigned awareness. As I lay open on the desk, I heard another voice speaking admirably about Author's work, how they'd coveted an original for years, and how grateful they were to “have a part of art history while helping someone out”. It sounded as if they knew of Author's condition and financial issues. Author scribbled a small note on the page alongside the cheque, reading “for my life’s work”. As I contained a running ledger of every work sold to date, I knew single paintings had fetched 10 times as much in the past.

I was faintly aware of some of the works that had remained in Author's collection, and I guessed these would be part of this transaction. A glimpse before my cover was shut affirmed my suspicions; the walls were bare, save for the faded outline of where they had once hung as a point of pride. The house had lost what was left of it’s vibrancy.

I haven't been opened in a long while. I still have the un-cashed cheque for Author's paintings. It's yellowing and fading along with the rest of me. I hope they haven’t forgotten it completely. Or me, for that matter. I remain and remember my Author, even as they forget themselves. After all, that’s my life’s work.