I don’t know how long I’ve been leaving myself notes, but they’re starting to pile up all over the place.  In stacks of manila folders, pockets of old notebooks, and corners of unorganized desk drawers, I collect scribbled handwriting on colorful post-its, wrinkled napkins, and torn paper corners.  There are dozens of doodles and ideas for art projects, strange questions I’ve asked myself, and inspired streams of consciousness that made their way out of my head.  I discovered a gold mine.

So, in the organizing mood that I was, I took all my precious scraps and separated them into categories: bits for writing, notes of inspiration, dope ideas, and SS sketches.  And I pasted each one into my blog book, a two-inch binder that holds every piece of significant information I’ve ever remembered to save: memorable magazine articles and photographs, loose-leaf journal entries, and other oddities like expired driver’s licenses, fortunes, and old Coachella wristbands.  While I was putting all this together, I realized something about myself, a slight phobia, if you will.  I think I am afraid of forgetting ideas, of losing valuable thoughts in the midst of my indiscernible memory.  Is there a name for that one?

We are all experts of our own pop culture, and we’re also the only ones who can preserve it.  So as my mind races on, I can begin to feel more at ease as I write as much down as possible.  All these notes and posts and journals and notebooks…they are the artifacts of my life, and each one sparks something new.  It’s a never-ending process.  I don’t think I have anything to worry about.

Photographs from the camera of Peter Schwab, taken January 2011.


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