Notebooks. By the shelf.Today I went out for a beer with a box of my old notebooks.

The box down center, not the four shelves behind it; the corpus and I have a date next month for Collage, when I cull whats worth keeping from a decades worth of shopping lists and examination notes.

What I found this evening in the box of small notepads was the most potent concentrations of my idle musings. When I was, literally, “muse-ing,” I was experimenting in letting the muse caress me with blessedly good ideas. I remember that period of my life, when I filled up three quarters of these notebooks, and I was actively practicing the art of attracting the muses attention, by allowing a vacancy in my creative space where she could come to dwell.

The effectiveness of this channelling waxed and waned, and I can measure the barometric pressure of my manifestation of the muse when I read through these old notebooks, all while delighting in the brilliant ideas I had a decade ago.

Some of them continued to grow and develop, and others perished nobly, as whetstones against which I practiced the art of conceiving.

Some few still take my breath away, and for this virtue, I cannot bear to part with my notebooks. Because I know that for all my life, an idle hour spent perusing the archaeological record of my mind’s development is worth any inconvenience of allotting the space to store such treasures.