Notebook dump
A lot of what I write for myself turns out to be poetry
Check in
The world in a cup
The pattern of foam and cinnamon atop a homemade latte looked like the figure of an angel, but by the time I got out my phone to take a photo, the image had morphed into something less definite. Still, it’s something to contemplate. It could be a squirrel. Or a sea monster. I’m entranced by the little bubbles at the edges.
Ordinary things on an ordinary day. Flashes of another world.
Notebook dump
A notebook dump is an unflattering newspaper term for a story that’s a mess of facts and figures and useless quotes, without good structure or analysis. Everything in the reporter’s notebook was thrown into the stew without much sense of seasoning.
“Notebook dump” comes to mind as I revisit the black-bound notebook I’ve been writing in since last October.
Bullets of the past
This notebook is supposed to be a bullet journal. All the craze several years ago, bullet journals differ in these ways from regular notebooks;
Pages are numbered
You set up your plan for each day with a bulleted to-do list
You keep track of your ideas and musings in an index in the front of the book
I liked this idea a lot when it first surfaced in 2013, the creation of Ryder Carroll. But over the years, the bullet journal has become less useful to me.
This structure, once so supporting, became a stricture. I was spending too much time making lists and trying to keep track in the index. I would lovingly transfer each idea to the index, page number included—and forget about it.
Keeping track of data
Nowadays, I use the notebook just for notes. Instead of indexing my notes in it, I transfer the notes (when I have an extra minute, which is like, hardly ever) into a personal information manager on my laptop where I can find anything instantly. It’s called DevonThink.
Enormously flexible, DevonThink encourages you to annotate and cross-reference. I especially like its “replicate” feature, which places a copy of an item in a different folder. Changes made to either item are reflected in the other. I’ll file a poem in the “poetry and lyrics” folder, for instance, then replicate it to the folder for the newsletter I’m working on. It’s spooky how all my changes show up in both places.
DevonThink was developed for the Mac platform. If you are using a PC, there’s an equally excellent information manager called Info Select that lets you arrange data upways and sideways, however it suits you.
October record
Here is a dump of my writing from the beginning of the black book, October 2025—notes, anecdotes and poems. It’s how I work.
October 4, 2025
Bus. The driver told me there was no room for my wheelchair on the bus. But a fellow passenger waiting to board peered through through the window and noted that the stroller inside could move. So there was room. The driver was not helpful, but at least I got on the bus
October 5, 2025
Newspapers: the Ashland Tidings, where I worked in 1973-74, has closed. It had been absorbed by the Medford Mail-Tribune, which is also gone now. There’s a Daily Tidings website, but for all I know it’s written by AI.
October 6, 2025
[I wrote a poem]
Lost
In a darkness, gripping a pen, Tearing a hole for a star A touch of a wand, some secret potion, More than I can bear. Light rushes at me, the force of a river. Tumbling and gasping, I’m reaching for air. Stars whirl around me, mocking my effort, Unleashed, the storm soaks me to the hair. Nothing untouched, not hide nor feather. Squirrels scatter faster, displaced by the flood. Courage to squirrels, to voles and to rabbits, Pulling together to weather this storm. Close up the star hole, hold the dike with your finger. One little digit between you and the world.
October 7, 2025
A crowd of ideas and images.
Many associations with the name Syracuse: the city in ancient Greece; the city in New York state; the university there; the goats that live on Syracuse Avenue in North Portland. A brand of china made in Syracuse, N.Y., from whose plant my mother bought a set of “seconds” when she was first married and living in Syracuse.
Bus: wheelchair courtesy. Those of us with mobility devices are always ready to move up into the aisle to let another wheelchair turn around.
Bus memory: One driver of the 15/Belmont bus in the early aughts used to shout out nonsense phrases at stops. This was before automatic recordings, when the bus driver was supposed to announce the stops. He’d call out “Aren’t you glad it’s a Plaid!” when stopping outside the Plaid Pantry convenience store, or “Enter the mystery of Wash World”— a laundromat that’s recently been replaced by an apartment building.
And a poem
October light
Every year I forget. How intense this light is— How saturated, how brilliant. Leaves the greenest green Swapping from green to yellow. The lower the sun, the brighter. Ride your skateboard through the leaves. Bump over horse chestnuts and acorns In the most brilliant light of the year.
October 7, 2025
Instructions from the universe: Problem is, they are not very clever
Trust your gut
Think, already
Wait in faith
Move that mountain
Superstition
Or synchronicity
What does it matter? We are free. What does the universe want? What can I offer? Libation or sacrifice Given of love or through fear —And a sonnet without a title: Here’s what I want the universe to give me. Some clear direction, what I’m supposed to do. This day, this hour, this instant, to forgive me, All sin and slights and sorrows to work through. Why can’t I just be bold, to walk the way I used to before MS took the power? To dance around the kitchen, dip and sway. To walk a forest path, hour by hour. I am healed and whole, but not cured—there’s a difference. I think I’m fine, my body as it’s now. Still, still I wait for energy transference For healing in the moment, somewhat, somehow. I live my days accepting of my fate, But oh, to walk unaided…
Okay, enough
I could go on . . . and on . . . but you get the idea.
Brutalist and then some
In January 2024, I posted “The brutal truth” in which I wrote about Brutalism, the 1960s architectural style that features heavy, flat planes of unadorned concrete with tiny or nonexistent windows. Brutalist buildings turn a cold shoulder to their surroundings. They are most unfriendly.
There are a few buildings in this style at Portland State University, as I noted in the article. Last week, tooling about in Portland’s west end, I came upon another example of the genre at the intersection of Southwest Park Avenue and Harvey Milk. The building, which carries the Century Link logo, is flanked by an office building designed in the classical style of the early 20th century and by the southern wing of the historic Benson Hotel on Southwest Broadway.
I can’t find anything out about this building other than it is owned by Lumen Technologies, the corporate entity that was once Century Link. Portland’s assessor records online don’t list a construction date. Lumen also owns the office building at the left of the photo
Neighborhood tour
Proceeding south along Park, I came across more streetscapes that incorporated buildings from different eras. I love the way the architectural elements play off one another.
Here are colors and textures from about 100 years of Portland history.
In this third photo, notice the fire escape and the “welcome” sign and the reflection in the tall building of another tall building.
March events
The spring equinox was yesterday, Friday, March 20, 2026, at 7:46 am PDT.
I sometimes think I should feel different as the season changes, but no, it’s just another day.
March 25, this coming Wednesday, is the birthday of my husband, Robert Jaffe. He was born in Beth Moses Hospital in Brooklyn 86 years ago.
The 25th is also the Feast of the Annunciation in the Roman Catholic and Anglican traditions. It commemorates the angel’s visit to Mary telling her she will bear the child of God. The story is told in the Gospel of Luke.
The poetry of Mary
Many of us know of “Hail Mary” as a last-ditch effort or a football pass. But of course it’s also a prayer. Here is the graceful Roman Catholic “Hail Mary” in Latin:
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.
(Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, prayer for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.)
Magnificat
The Magnificat, the song Mary sang back to the angels at the Annunciation in Luke, is part of the Anglican/Episcopal tradition as well.
My soul doth magnify the Lord,
and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior.
For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden.
For behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
And his mercy is on them that fear him throughout all generations.
He hath shewed strength with his arm.
He hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat
and hath exalted the humble and meek.
He hath filled the hungry with good things.
And the rich he hath sent empty away.
He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel
as he promised to our forefathers Abraham, and his seed forever.
I love this old version of the prayer, before the language was modernized. I’m entranced by the verb “holpen,” meaning “helped.” And by the phrase “scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts”—such a powerful metaphor! The part about exalting “the humble and meek” has crucial meaning in these times.
More winter light
Dawn light limns a tree behind my neighbor’s house the week before the equinox.
Check out
Yet another poem
Sheesh. But this one is about the end of winter, and the equinox has already passed. So here it is.
Pineapple time
Let’s adjourn to the tropics As winter winds down Tall trees with coconuts Tall drinks with umbrellas. Sand in our sandals, Sun in our hair. Blue water, white beaches Smell of sunscreen, salt air. Here, sloth is a virtue, Momentum has ceased. The surf swallows sorrow, We think we’re at peace. Yet we can’t live forever Where skies never cloud, Where the sun sets in glory Where life is our shroud. Let’s be up and doing, A nine to five life— When do we ever have Time for the tropics?
Wheelchair moment
Getting around with mobility aids . . . .
Goodbye for now
Thanks once again for reading Becoming. Thanks for subscribing.
I have a higher ratio of paid to free subscribers than the average free Substack, but I’m greedy for more. If you’ve been thinking about upgrading to paid, why not now? It’s spring, when the world is puddle-wonderful and . . . It’s just time.
Love to all,
Fran
—30—
In concordance here now with you. Your acute , precise observations. Thank you for helping me in your writings. I am glad you have no pain.
This is one of my favorite posts. It is really extraordinary on a ordinary day.
So happy I am getting posts again. Happy Spring to you. Portland is exploding in blooms!