NOTEBOOK

Cleanliness is a struggle.

Things get dirty, then I clean to scorched earth. Middle ground is rare.

The notebook of childhood doodles was meaningless during a small purge — I didn’t see a use for it, so it went into the Hefty bag. The bag landed in the dumpster with a resonant clang. Ordinarily that satisfies me; today it didn’t.

The notebook was giving me anxiety almost immediately.

Club sandwich, please, with mayo. No tomato.

As the toast cooled in my apartment, I was holding a broom inside the dumpster, grabbing the jawstrings of the Hefty. Out it came.

The notebook was back in my life, still not offering its secret as to why I desired it.

And then it did.

I still can’t draw. I’m barely better now than I was then. While I didn’t find inspiration in pad and pencil, I found it in cameras and the keyboard.

It led me to this pursuit of making and documenting.

I still don’t know why I take photos, make films, or write.

But it makes me happy.

The notebook is on my shelf and safe. The club sandwich was mediocre and overpriced.