Pavlov’s Stationery Dog
Folks, times are rough, and I deeply appreciate all your feedback, encouragement, Instagram comments, and other notes - especially on my previous post about tenderness. I do have a lot more to say on the topic, but today I’m taking a detour to talk about something much more lighthearted.
Salivating…. with my Aurora 888 Volterra.
Like the proverbial Pavlov’s dog that comes running at the sound of the bell, I perk up when a colleague, a student, or even a stranger shows up with a notebook and a pen. Fountain pens are a plus in this situation, but not a requirement. A pencil, a Bic, it’s all good - I love to see other people take analog notes. Notetaking is not universal, and for many people, taking digital notes (rather than analog notes) is a matter of accessibility. I’m not judgmental, and I do not believe in the One True Way of All Notetaking. I’m an analog stationery nerd who is happy to see a fellow member of the analog stationery posse. But there’s something even beyond that - a person who takes analog notes is practicing a particular kind of mindfulness.
I came to see notetaking itself as a way of life, a lifelong practice perfected, refined, and changed in the course of a lifespan. It’s not everyone’s practice, but it is mine. Taking notes by hand sharpens my thinking, aids analysis, helps chart a path through a creative piece. Those days, my love for my tools is enhanced by appreciation that analog writing cannot be surveilled, cannot be secretly taken by corporations who have been very active in claiming our digital writing as their personal asset.
Some recent notes from a lecture I attended. I wanted to take some pictures in public spaces, but we’ve been snowed in all week; this is the best I can do at the moment.
Analog notetaking provides a tangible trace, a proof, of my life. Like other vestiges of life, a paper note is tangible and present; it is mine; it is ephemeral, but carries within it a possibility of future archeology; it can be destroyed or discarded, forgotten and found. An analog notetaking habit is a tool, and also a philosophy. It is an embodied practice.
Those days, when journaling often feels elusive or difficult, notetaking is my analog outlet, connecting the realm of the mind to the tangible world. I cannot write write, perhaps, but I am taking notes.
Taking notes and building the structure of a co-authored presentation. With my beloved Leonardo Momento Magico in Brooks Bohemian Twilight.
Naturally I am fascinated by other analog notetakers. Sometimes I notice a notebook before I notice a person. I want to know what they use. Is that a Leuchtturm? What kind of pencil or pen? Is the pencil well-sharpened or dull? Is that a Lamy Safari? What’s their favorite format for notes? It is exciting to share a practice with friends and strangers, even if we never talk about it. When I spot a fellow analog notetaker, an invisible connection is formed. It is lyrical, and also a bit ridiculous. It’s a signal of purpose and steadfastness in an unmoored and precarious time.