Davy Rothbart (ed.) - Found II

[dem bones]

Surely this has the makings of a great 'you-can-all-join-in! (nobody ever does)' thread?

Davy Rothbart (ed.) - Found II: More of the Best Lost, Tossed, and Forgotten Items (Fireside, 2006)

Ah! I was hoping that Friday's charity shop success was the start of a roll and so it proved. Along with copies of Fiona Rule's The Worst Street In London and the V for Vendetta novelization, landed a copy of this for £1 at Brick Lane market this morning.

In 2001, toward the tail-end of the cut, paste & photocopy revolution, Ann Arbor Davy Rothbart and Jason Bitner launched Found Magazine, an inventory of found letters, post-it notes, photos, drawings, and related ephemera. Their zine soon attracted contributions from all over the globe, and has since spawned at least five books stuffed to the gills with beautiful, worthless garbage. Below, a couple of sample pages to give you the idea, but for the crash-course and a selection of choice recent acquisitions, you are advised to visit Found.

Thing is, somewhere buried among my junk is a folders worth of similar scraps, much of it the handiwork of a curmudgeonly neighbour who frequently decorates the lift with primitive artwork and hostile ravings toward whichever hapless resident has upset her this time. Unfortunately, I think she signs most of it but will see what a rummage turns up.

[pulphack]

Well, somebody might...

About thirty years ago, when I knew this geezer who lived in Barons Court (we were at school together and his dad was a bit-part actor who can be seen at the end of the Dad's Army movie as one of the prevaricating military men, as well as in numerous TV shows - his name was Alan Haines and his brother Brian can be seen as a security guard in It, and in several Edgar Wallace Merton Park B's), we were walking down Talgarth Road when a diary blew off this skip. It was a tiny, flower covered thing, and very battered. I picked it up out of curiosity. Bill (for that was Alan's son's name) was a bit sniffy - you should put that back, it's private, etc - and of course he was right. That didn't stop me, though, as I am a nosy git.

I wish I had listened to him. It was for the year before, and was presumably the property of a former tenant of the house being refurbished (0ne of those old Victorian jobs with a glass studio on the roof that they have down there, once the preserve of middle-class painters of portraits). I didn't read it for a few days, and when I did it was a sad experience. The woman who wrote it started the year so well - she was happy, had a new job and a boyfriend, and was looking forward to the year. As it progressed, her mood changed. The job was crap, and her boss was on her back all the time. She ended up losing it around May. She started rowing with the boyfriend, and suspected he was having an affair. Certainly, she was starting to speak of him in terms filled with bile. He had enough, or really was seeing someone else, and they broke up. Pages were ripped out. Her mood got darker and she saw everything in shades of black. Life was crap and hopeless. She was behind on her rent but didn't care. She also didn't know what she would do next.

Then it ended, abruptly, around October. I felt dirty having read it. Still do. But it was too late for regrets. I ripped it up and threw it away, as I should have in the first place.

Every now and again I still think about that diary. The flowery design battered and soiled. The writing getting more crabbed.

What happened to her? Was she evicted and that was her landlord's house clearance? Where did she go? Is she still alive, and what did she do next?

Looking at this, it reads like I'm making it up. I'm not. I've never done anything like that since. And as fascinating as that book looks - and as harmless as most of that is - I have to confess I couldn't read it because of Talgarth Road.

(edited for bloody typos!)

[dem bones]

In that case, its definitely for the best that you give all things Found a wide berth, mr. hack. Some of the content is similarly distressing and will only bring back bad memories. one hopes, for example, that the several suicide notes were not acted upon.

That said, the bulk of Found II, taken at face value, seems pretty harmless (though who's to say?). A guilty pleasure, for sure, but a fascinating read. "This summer I found a nightstand on the side of the road" writes Teresa in Cleveland. "I carried it home and set it in the porch. For some reason the drawer wouldn't shut. I pulled the drawer out: lodged behind it was a dildo, a condom wrapper and a Cleveland Metroparks zoo pass..."

God-damn it, but I wish I could find that folder.

[Craig Herbertson]

Jan 19, 2015 6:10:02 GMT pulphack said:

Well, somebody might...

About thirty years ago, when I knew this geezer who lived in Barons Court (we were at school together and his dad was a bit-part actor who can be seen at the end of the Dad's Army movie as one of the prevaricating military men, as well as in numerous TV shows - his name was Alan Haines and his brother Brian can be seen as a security guard in It, and in several Edgar Wallace Merton Park B's), we were walking down Talgarth Road when a diary blew off this skip. It was a tiny, flower covered thing, and very battered. I picked it up out of curiosity. Bill (for that was Alan's son's name) was a bit sniffy - you should put that back, it's private, etc - and of course he was right. That didn't stop me, though, as I am a nosy git.

I wish I had listened to him. It was for the year before, and was presumably the property of a former tenant of the house being refurbished (0ne of those old Victorian jobs with a glass studio on the roof that they have down there, once the preserve of middle-class painters of portraits). I didn't read it for a few days, and when I did it was a sad experience. The woman who wrote it started the year so well - she was happy, had a new job and a boyfriend, and was looking forward to the year. As it progressed, her mood changed. The job was crap, and her boss was on her back all the time. She ended up losing it around May. She started rowing with the boyfriend, and suspected he was having an affair. Certainly, she was starting to speak of him in terms filled with bile. He had enough, or really was seeing someone else, and they broke up. Pages were ripped out. Her mood got darker and she saw everything in shades of black. Life was crap and hopeless. She was behind on her rent but didn't care. She also didn't know what she would do next.

Then it ended, abruptly, around October. I felt dirty having read it. Still do. But it was too late for regrets. I ripped it up and threw it away, as I should have in the first place.

Every now and again I still think about that diary. The flowery design battered and soiled. The writing getting more crabbed.

What happened to her? Was she evicted and that was her landlord's house clearance? Where did she go? Is she still alive, and what did she do next?

Looking at this, it reads like I'm making it up. I'm not. I've never done anything like that since. And as fascinating as that book looks - and as harmless as most of that is - I have to confess I couldn't read it because of Talgarth Road.

(edited for bloody typos!)

Understandable reaction. Then again if you write someone will read and you could view it as an unconscious plea for help. Perhaps some of the bad feeling is because the anonymity means one is impotent to do so