Oh, how I enjoy looking at my pretty Moleskins, my girly Paper Blanks, my sturdy hardcover Italian ones from that specialty store down town. All my precious notebooks are sitting there, staring blankly at me. Sometimes I pick one of them up and browse through its empty pages.
It’s like having a closet full of cocktail dresses.
And what do you wear, day in day out? That brown hoodie. That well-worn cotton shirt.
What do I write in? That ugly notebook with pre-perforated pages, a shoddy spiral binding and floppy cover. No fancy memento pouch, no thick paper you could draw watercolours in. This one cost me a whopping € 1,25.
Is there a morale to this story? I’m attached to this fantasy life in which I will wear a cocktail dress and sit by the banks of the Seine in Paris, scribbling away in my fancy notebook. I should probably stop buying Moleskins. And donate the ones I have to a white person with ‘great ideas’.
