I don’t know how I stand myself. I have the organizational skills of a windstorm. I’m surrounded by pens and notebooks, and yet I consistently find myself with neither while on assignments.

At crime scenes, I sometimes have to hit up cops or criminals for a writing utensil. I’ll use a crayon or lipstick if I have to. I’ll write on my hands and arms if there is no paper to be found. Meanwhile, stacks of notebooks and boxes full of pens clutter my desk, my car and my apartment. If you lined up all of these reporter supplies end to end, they would reach all the way to the moon.

The notebooks have gotten out of control. Unless I need one, I’m surrounded by them. Long, thin sheets of paper imprisoned by coils of metal.

In an effort to appear busy the other night, I rounded up a bunch of spent notebooks and started flipping through them. It occurred to me then that I really don’t know what I’m doing as a reporter.

I found pages and pages of notes that made no sense at all. On many of them, only one line or one word was scrawled. These words and sentences look like the last, fleeting thoughts of a madman before he runs off gibbering to commit some atrocity. And all scribbled by my hand.

Witch way?

“It’s a terrible coven.”

That ominous thought was found standing all alone on a page. No context to hint at its meaning. And since I don’t recall writing about witches lately, I don’t even have a guess.

“Cutoff jeans, sandals, Wild Things.”

Again, a lone sentence on an otherwise blank page. Could be the description of a suspect. Could be a long-suppressed fantasy. Or maybe the first line of a poem. No clue.

“It was the size of an upright hot tub.”

The only thing I know of is that’s the size of an upright hot tub is an upright hot tub. And as opposed to what? And upside down hot tub?

“It came apart at the seams.”

What did? The cutoff jeans? This line was not only the only sentence on a page, it was the only sentence in an otherwise empty notebook.

“Panties … critical.”

It’s best not to speculate about this one too much. Especially since a phone number was found between those two words. Maybe it was a tragic lingerie mishap. I dunno.

“That man said he was going to kill Bob.”

All alone on the page. I don’t remember writing that line. I only hope I abandoned the note taking in order to call Bob and warn him. If you’re out there, Bob, and you’re OK, please give me a call. I worry about you. Whoever you are.

“There once was a mighty sailing man, a skipper brave and sure…”

This is kind of embarrassing. Not only did I jot down words from the “Gilligan’s Island” theme, I got them wrong. And I don’t recall writing a hard-hitting crime story where those island castaways played a part. Too bad. Surely Pulitzer material.

Takeout time

“Large hazelnut cappuccino.”

Some schmuck must have sent me out for coffee. I’ll bet I didn’t go get it. I’d be embarrassed to order a hazelnut cappuccino.

“He couldn’t do it. He was too nervous.”

The sky’s the limit with this one. Someone’s honeymoon? A feature story on the classic game of Truth-or-Dare? Notes from an editor’s social life? Could be anything.

“It’s horrible. I’m just taking my first class and something blows up.”

A story about a bumbling, aspiring chemist? Great concept. Only I don’t think I ever did such a story.

“Handcuff key.”

This probably goes with the earlier note about the panties. That must have been a crazy night on the crime beat.

“Oh, we definitely heard it and we could feel it, too.”

What did you both hear and feel, sir or madam? An oncoming train? The hot breath of a monster in the dark? Love? Another one lost in the sea of notebooks.

“I think he is dead.”

This line is thought-provoking. It could be the forlorn and simple comment from the wife of a missing person. It could be a seething sports fan commenting on the tired arm of a baseball pitcher. Maybe it’s something I overheard in an emergency room.

Someday, I’ll collect all of my old notebooks and get those widowed words together. Strung all together, maybe there is a grand message. Maybe the story to end all stories will develop when I find the proper order for them.

And look! Here’s another line from another notebook.

“My colleague is a absolute freak.”

Hey! This isn’t my notebook!

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.