It was only last week when I noticed just how battered and beaten-up my notebook had become, the cover barely hanging on to the spiral coil, inner pages rounded with wear from being stuffed into and pulled out of my packsack.
   My notebook is always there, at the ready to record random scrabble, notes and observations about where I am (or where I was), skeletons of poems to be completed (or discarded), grocery lists and reminders to my self.
   A lot of things begin in a notebook. It has a purpose.
   I have a purpose and writing it all out, at the time, seems to help.
   My writing has been inconsistent at best these past few months. I began this notebook in May, and as I briefly perused the pages I realized how bruised and battered some of my thoughts were.
   My notebook is nothing like my journal where I make a more purposeful attempt at legible handwriting with greater attention to the form, style and substance.
   Daily, almost, I record what I feel is important to me.
   Often it begins in my notebook.
   I had an idea last week, a new concept, another way to sketch out my thoughts, perhaps with greater regularity and discipline. I began to outline my plans on some of the pages remaining in the battered journal, but realized I needed more space to move these thoughts forward.
   A new scribbler was required and it is now in front of me. The pages are fresh and there are many. The cover is presentable and firm, strong enough to protect the words within, at least for a time. A notebook records time, page-by-page, day by date.
   A new notebook is inspiring, or as inspiring as you make it. Right now, with me, any form of inspiration is welcome.

11/17/2023                                                                                                   j.g.l.