Notebooks
An Essay by Gil French
If I had any conscience, I would not go out in public carrying my loose-leaf notebook. In fact, if I had any decency, I would bury my notebook and destroy all traces of it. Or burn it. Maybe even shred it if I had access to a shredder strong enough and with enough stomach to accommodate it. In truth, my notebook is not a pretty sight. I should buy a new one but I won’t. Not yet, anyway.
I have always had a unique and distinct way with notebooks. We don’t get along. It’s not that I don’t like them. Deep down, I really do. It’s just that I don’t really know how to tend them and keep them happy. I try to start off on a good foot by carrying them carefully upright making sure that every page within them is properly secured with each hole fast within its matching clasp, properly aligned and ready for receiving its handwritten content. My intentions have always been pure and virtuous toward them. I have really meant well. Alas, my notebooks don’t always appreciate my lofty attitude and, without fail, begin to have the appearance of having been fermented and distilled. I try to think that this isn’t my fault. Again alas, it is.
Whenever I purchase a new notebook I treat it like a dear friend. I purchase pristine virginal paper and place it carefully in my ill-fated new notebook. Next, I purchase multi-colored dividers, label them carefully and insert them within the blank sheets so that the amount of paper between is appropriate for the subject they will identify. My notebook is now ready to provide its faithful services. A personal disclaimer here. The 67 words that precede this sentence are pure fantasy. Don’t believe a single one. In truth, I do actually insert new paper in my notebook and buy dividers, but the dividers remain in their original sterile wrapper and will occupy a permanent place as the endmost occupants of my notebook and will remain unused as long as the notebook is in my possession.
As expected, my notebook provides a surface upon which I can take notes whenever I don’t happen to have my computer handy. I don’t very often take notes and when I do, since my handwriting is illegible, any notes I do take are mostly unread. So they simply accumulate and reside permanently within its covers taking their places with hundreds of their unused companions. Since I rarely date an entry, I have no way of knowing how old most of them are except perhaps by the age and condition of the paper. But paper in my notebook ages rather quickly and its condition deteriorates very rapidly. Now, this is only a modest inconvenience since I never read them anyway. Occasionally, I wonder if I really need a notebook anyway. This is a delicate question for which I have no rational answer. I have several less than rational answers. For one thing, I carry one in case someone hands me a paper that I think I want to keep, although I can’t recall ever actually referring to the carefully retained paper. And also, carrying one makes me feel important.
A notebook, of course, is a mute, inert undistinguished blob to be carried under the arm, tossed carelessly upon a table, chair, bed, sofa, floor or other object of domestic utility until the next opportunity for its use. However, in spite of these significant limitations it can still tell great deal of detail about its owner. For example, it could be brightly colored with rich decorations indicating that its owner is a cheerful, outgoing individual who enjoys life. On the other hand, it could be extremely neat and orderly with each page carefully trimmed, securely in its proper place and adorned with precious handwriting, indicating that it is owned by a fastidious person obsessed with organization. Or, it could be like my own notebooks, a shabby, hairy disgusting object that the two owners described earlier in this paragraph would be loath to touch. The unsavory condition of this notebook very likely is much like the condition of its user.
Notebooks have been around for a very long time. I think that that is true although I do not feel like researching it. I know, at least that mine has. I keep all of my notebooks except the ones whose covers are torn off or whose clamps no longer work. Sometimes I put the contents of discarded notebooks into a folder and file the folder somewhere in my office but will probably never look at them again.
My notebooks have not made me a scholar. But they do make me look like one. Hey, it’s an imperfect world. And I like to think that I do my part to help keep it that way.
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