DISCLAIMER: I wrote this such a long time ago that most of it is now irrelevant. However, as I’ve not written anything since and I just found it in ‘drafts’ I’m going to post it… the disclaimer is that it doesn’t make much sense.
It was all about my notebooks and how to get rid of them. Having recently been in a position where I had to decide in a matter of minutes what I wanted doing with all my worldly goods, bonfire was the one I opted for. It will be done (apart from the story about the amazing African woman).
Emma x
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I thought about describing myself as a hoarder for the purpose of this minimally read blog (hello my dedicated reader) but it would be a classic exaggeration when all I’m talking about is my notebook collection. Inside the pages of my fifty plus books there are what amounts to quite a lot of words. That is my angle: a serious hoarder of words, with connotations of free local newspapers stacking up with tunnels to the kitchen, possibly a rat nest or at least mice in the far corner. Objectively and subjectively - I’m sure there was a reason to write these words....
There is a reason!
I once listened to a hoarder on a TV show explain how she needed everything because you just never knew, and knowing an object was somewhere nearby seemed to satisfy her. Ultimately, all her hoarded objects were a big pile of shite that grew and grew until eventually there was room for nothing else and it had to be hoarded into an expensive storage place. Notebooks in general are at least contained but the thing they have in common with the woman and her hoarded stuff is that once words have been stashed away they need never be looked at again. It’s quite normal for me to forget about mine. Knowing that they are there is what counts.
Mostly, if I ever pick them up and read them they are embarrassing, and quite an insight on circularity. I try not to get too caught up in them, and certainly know that I want them ‘gone’ so I have cannily donated them to myself for an on-going art project where they will be cut up. This is my way of getting rid of them - a service I could provide for other notebook hoarders perhaps? This is not much in the way of advertising but I am available for this cathartic service (fees will apply).
The contents of my notebooks are varied. As I have tried to categorise the headings include: silly philosophy; very silly illustration ideas; depressing humanity; novel (as in might be useful for my current labour-intensive novel); direct line to dreams; bad life lessons; I saw a weeping willow tree (niche sub category); and some that I forgot to give titles so remain as a plain yellow strip of paper. Mostly, this categorisation attempt has failed as I might be a touch dyslexic - to me categorising is more complicated than splitting the atom. Totally impossible under normal atmospheric conditions.
These books are old and have consumed my time. Nowadays I tend more to channel my dwindling energy as directly as possible. That’s the other thing about keeping notebooks, not only do they eat your time you have to love the sound of your own voice going on and spend a lot of time on your own (all writers do).
And I still haven’t found what I’m looking for… as the song goes, which was a sudden memory of a piece of writing in one of my books from a clip I watched (must have been a documentary) about this amazing African woman. I honestly cannot remember a proper fact beyond her incredible bravery in the face of unreasonable aggression: literally an angry riot of men wielding sharp farming tools about to storm government offices. Everyone was scared but she went out and spoke to them - every word a masterclass in supreme full bodied intelligence. She was one of the most powerful people I’ve ever seen, and I must find that long piece of writing I did about it because I can’t even remember her name! I will find it and post it here when I do…
So well done if you managed to read down to this point. Stay lucky… I’m told is a Cockney au revoir but I’ve never heard my family use it (only out of silliness) - our goodbye was/is take care and a double kiss like the French - continental Bermondsey with a apple thrown at your head (after I moved to Kent: apple thrown at any body part is the traditional Kentish goodbye).
P.S. The accompanying pictures don’t bear reading too closely so please only glance at them.
P.S.S. Typical of my notebooks are incorrect facts (and nearly every other spelling), e.g. Olivier Messiaen (not Messier) was a French composer, organist, and ornithologist, to name but one…
