Sticky notes were something I looked down on but secretly revered.
I’d see them stuck in books or in the files of people I admired. I never used them. For some strange reason they never appealed to me outside of this weird attraction that I associated to them because of the person who used them. They were kind of puzzling.
To me they seemed otherworldly and pointless, too neon, too bright, not traditional, not essential. In the right hands, however, they appeared as crumbs to guide you out of the wilderness and away from the evil that lurked in the dark.
One of my favorite pastimes is to walk into stationary or art supply stores and aimlessly wander the isles for hours, literally hours — don’t come grocery shopping with me, because I find it equally insatiable.
I’d walk the stationary store isles and fantasize about items I’d want to buy. I’d pause in front of the stationary section, pick up those beautifully, deep mustard yellow Manila envelopes and I’d ponder about what I’d do with them, what I’d put in them and who I would address them to.
After moments of consideration I’d put them back, let my fingers stroke other envelopes and eventually I’d continue and look at other things, such as paper and the different available stocks. The colors and weight would fascinate me and I’d imagine writing on them, or sticking them onto the walls in my apartment and drawing and writing on it.
At the paper point, I’d inevitably reach the sticky notes display area and I’d usually just walk by, uninterested, and almost disgusted by the bright, neon colors. I’d quickly end up at the notebooks section, my most favorite of all the areas and there I’d spend quite a bit of time, carefully handling and gauging every journal and notebook.
My favorite, still to this day is the Moleskine collection, I’ve bought so many of them over the years it’s ridiculous. I could finance a canoe trip over the Atlantic with the money spent on those beautiful and soft, black oilcloth bound notebooks.
I first fell in love with Moleskine, (pronounced mo-leh-skeen-eh), in my teens when I learned that Ernest Hemingway swore by them and that it was the only journals that Vincent van Gogh used, oh and look at where it got them, still, the fad stuck with me and I’ve not given up yet, even though I occasionally, accidentally cheat on them, I prefer them and always return to them. If you wanna buy me a present, there’s your clue — if you want my postal address, send me a tweet.
But sticky notes have grown on me, now they cover my apartment and the film scripts that I shoot with, my books, my fridge, my journals, and the voices in my head.
If it don’t stick, let it go.