This week I lost my notebook. I did not misplace it. Nay, I have it always by my side. Instead it was irrevocably damaged by an accident of fate that involved a sippy cup and copious amounts of water.
When I bought the large lined Moleskine® notebook a few months ago I carefully carried it around a few days without being able to bring myself to mar its distinctly old-fashioned simplicity. I spent far too many moments considering which writing instrument was worthy of this daunting task. In the end I bought a fresh pack of a particular favorite – that was also highly recommended on several Moleskine fan websites. I took this a sure sign that my Moleskine and I were meant to be together.
I opened the smooth black cover, marveled at the pale yellow cover page with its celebrated ‘In case of loss, please return to:’ and ‘As a reward: $’ and made my mark. I left the reward line blank for now. I had not yet filled it with my hopes, dreams, plans for world dominance and general high income earning awesome just yet. I would put a price on the stuff later, when it was conceived.
I tried to be casual about it from then on. I scribbled a few random thoughts as they flitted through my brain, the endless monologue running through my head. When the thought that pierced my conciousness was particularly wry or made me pause and run over it once or twice I would write it down. I found myself in a meeting, my notebook in hand. Someone said something useful. I thought to celebrate this rare occasion by writing it down. I started taking down notes, useful and otherwise, from all of my meetings. My notebook and I felt purposeful. Fellow meeting attendees would comment on my notebook.
“Ah a Moleskine! Too small for me, but if you were a concise note-taker it would be just the thing.”
I reveled in my conciseness. I twirled my woven ribbon bookmark around my finger with relish.
On one downbeat day I wrote down a few pages of very bleak, very dark thoughts. I didn’t feel nearly as dramatic as I wrote, but they are the words that seemed right on that particular day. A gothic novelist had nothing on those few bleak words I scratched out. The next day, with my therapist, I pulled out my notebook and I read her a few of the lines. They seemed so melodramatic I read them aloud in an almost laughing, mocking style. I wondered why even in my dark mood I couldn’t manage to take myself seriously.
My notebook took me seriously. Always confidently offering up another pristine page to set my thoughts upon; A simple brown ribbon to mark the page; The satisfying slap of the black elastic band as it kept closed the cover and hid my mental meanderings form the world. My notebook would see me through dark days to the first flickering of a lighter heart.
When I pulled my notebook from its watery grave this week. I let loose a mournful little noise from somewhere in my chest. I felt first shock, then disappointment, anxiousness. The once smooth cover fell off in my hands, bubbled and warped. The pages were wrinkled. In places the ink was bleeding out the lifeblood of my words. Not knowing what else to do I threw it down upon the floor. This was not my notebook. This was a foul corrupted thing. I steadfastly ignored it while it lay in an undignified state next to my desk for two days.
Today, I picked up my notebook. I thumbed through the now ruined pages. I perused the once safe harbor of my mind and work. I twirled the brown ribbon around my finger with sadness. I closed my notebook, and sent in an order for a new one.
