Re: The Everyman's Journal

In June of 2008 I posted about a guerilla art outreach project I did in Sacramento. I was desperate for human contact, for creative release, for clear communication no matter the intent.

find the original post here

I put 2 journals out into the world and never heard a single thing back from them. I mourned their loss...they were beautiful and red and held pieces of my soul. I felt very much as if I had created my own pitiful horcruxes and was now doomed to an isolated immortality.

That was over a year ago.

Today, I received this text:

"Redbook was in Placerville & is on its way to San Francisco. Slowly being filled. It is happy."

I stared at it, confused by the unknown number and honestly not having the slightest idea what it was regarding.

Then, I realized he was talking about my journal. I wanted to sing and cry and dance. I responded with:

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

The mystery number replied back:

"No problem. Alot of writers are very affected by it. You've done an important thing"

At that point I did start crying. I remember exactly how I felt when I wrote those journals and left them on the sidewalk in random places. I remember needing it- needing strangers to stop and look at one another and think about someone else for just one second.

Here is what I wrote in the journal:

Hello,

This is now your journal. It has been written in by someone else, possibly a few “someone elses”, and now it has found you.

Read the other entries and add your own.

A photo, a story, a piece of advice, a drawing: it doesn’t matter.

Someone is trying to reach out, and you can reach back.

Now is your chance.

When you are finished, leave me somewhere public to reach someone else.


(Body of entry:)

I’m 19 and I don’t know anyone here. The person I talk to the most would be my Beta fish, The Giant, and he is actually pissed at me right now.

Why, you ask? Because I keep calling him Milo, which was my last fish’s name. I know, awkward. Milo’s full name was The-Venus-de-Milo-Inspires-Me, which is the best sentence ever uttered by a serial killer with a lisp on Law and Order SVU. Milo was only with me for a few hours before he returned to the Great Sea Beyond.

Milo and I had something special. I fell in love with his devil-may-care way of swimming around the tank, but soon the strokes became willy-nilly, then upside-downey. I was devastated.

The Giant can’t understand why I’m still attached to the past. Beta fish: can’t live with ‘em … right ladies?

Besides being young and delusional, I have manic-depression, making me the scariest and most entertaining person you’ll ever meet.

I’ve become isolated to the point … to the point where I am desperate for people as isolated as I am.

I want someone to pick this up, smile or laugh or cry or get pissed or anything. I need you to react and care enough about affecting your environment to add a little something.

I can’t keep driving/walking/living everyday thinking each face is bland and ignorant, and neither can you.

If you actually add or read this, maybe you’ll look at that girl differently working at the drug store, or serving you dinner, or sitting alone at the park. Did she write that? Is she the one who feels like she is staring at life through a kaleidoscope one day, then dark foggy mirrors the next?

Please put down your thoughts and acknowledge the thoughts of others, even if it is an idiotic story about a fish.

Thanks, journal, for that small release.


Brooke


All from memory (points down)

In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories. DUN DUN





I can't believe it's been a whole year. I can't believe how this has made me feel. I am so grateful.

This timing wasn't a coincidence.