Pondering parachutes (Post #1 Concerning Books--the actual physical ones you can touch)

I am a sucker for cheap used books--especially those mysterious old ones you find at flea markets--the ones that make you sneeze when you open them. Recently, I attended a bazaar where all attendees were given a brown paper bag (a rather big one) and told we could fill it up with as much "stuff" as we wanted, and for each stuffed bag, we would only pay $2. I went directly to the book shelf, because, clearly, I gravitate toward that sort of thing rather than the aisles of sentimental junk that everyone is trying to get rid of in hopes it will become your sentimental junk.

One of the things I love about finding books at places like this, where the works are used and have probably been read by more than one person, is discovering the notes people absentmindedly leave in them. In a copy of What Color is Your Parachute, a work I am constantly referred to by other people but have never gotten around to reading (and, really, it seems a little late to be figuring out what color my parachute is, since I'm already pretty firmly entrenched in a career), I found the previous owner's rather interesting ruminations on his/her job history (this is probably writing prompted by one of the book's many exercises focusing on the question, "Who Am I?"). They were written on a series of small notes that had been torn from a pad, and they read thusly:

"Recorded some good music

Finished college--After having left college for a period of 2 1/2 years, I returned to school to earn a degree in Radio, Tv-Film. Lacking the required credits to easily transfer into the new out-of-state school, I returned to my previous school. Working nights, playing music for a living, I earned the credits to help me transfer out of state and earn my degree quickly and with high marks. My degree is from a large, state school, in a very competitive field requiring talent and technical skills."

The rest of the notes look as though the author would have liked to continue the trip down career memory lane, but each one only has a short phrase at the top: "played music for people," "ran a large store," "owned a shop-photo," "took some great pictures," "started my own paper route," "rebuilt a house."

I really wanted to know the rest of the story, and also whether this individual figured out the hue of his/her parachute and lived happily ever after. I even considered writing the rest of the story in order to give myself some closure. It would have gone something like this:

"Eventually, because I discovered my parachute is actually orange and not dark green, as I had originally assumed it was, it became apparent to me that my talents lay in a variety of other areas, such as ventriloquism and rodeo clown(ing?). I have now taken my act on the road, and people from all over pay big bucks to see my show in Vegas."

Instead, all I have is this strange, fragmented, vaguely sad, anonymous "message in a bottle" snapshot of someone's life through the terministic screen of his/her trying to figure out an identity.

What Color Is Your Parachute, despite the inclusion of a disturbing number of "Cathy" cartoons, is actually a pretty interesting read, by the way.