I suppose everyone has to have a deficit disorder of some sort. Mine is making lists. I have little books, notepads, sketchbooks, pieces of paper, pieces of box cartons, business cards, postcards and receipts with telephone numbers, recipes, books titles, music artists, song titles, drawings, ideas, diagrams, measurements, film script stories, name lists, emails, websites, grant leads, wish lists, shopping lists, to-do lists, written descriptions of various things, street intersections of places that I want to stop and check out someday, color arrangements, DIY project notes, restaurants addresses, friends’ birth dates, words and philosophies I want to look up, math summations and formulas, Spanish words I don’t know, paint chips, quotes I like, driving directions and printed clippings.
I keep these little books (some decorated) where they are easy to find and write in: 2 in my car console, 1 on my dining/work station, 2 in my desk drawer, 1 to 2 in my purse and the completely filled up ones in a box on a book shelf.
Funny thing is that I don’t look at them that much. I am compelled, in an addiction manner to buy more little books whenever, wherever I see them. I’ve processed this way my whole life, making some of these little books pretty old. Its as if once I put something down on paper, it’s inscribed in my mind.
I take pride in being very organized in most of my daily tasks and spaces–very logical on how I began every project–but the little books have no rhyme or reason. Each page has no relation to the next, each entry is in no particular order and the only way to find anything, would be to open each one and flip-read through each page. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I will have time to read these again.
I get miffed with myself when I see artists’ sketch books that are dedicated to just art drawings and thumbnail images of a greater art piece to come. I suppose in a way, my little books are the sketch books of my art and mind. Perhaps, these notations from all these little daily thoughts, electromagnetic ideas and sequences of matters that pass in front of my eyes represent my art. Maybe this is my religion.