I had a little green notebook once and I loved it.
It was for my history class.
It had everything in it that I needed. Every class. All the points the professor made. Everything.
Over reading week I’d begun to get the feeling that maybe it was missing, but I couldn’t be sure. I thought that maybe it was in a library, a lost and found bin, a friend’s apartment, a box, a shelf, a purse, maybe even in the Window office at New College…
But now I know that it’s in none of those places.
It’s gone and I miss it.
In class on Monday I turned to the boy beside me, the one who scribbled every word the professor said onto his papers. I looked at him and I asked, “Can I photocopy your notes after class?”
I don’t really blame him, I guess. He was busy. He had other classes to go to.
It took me a while, but I went up to a mature student, a woman with grey curly hair who typed every word that dripped out of the Prof’s mouth into her laptop.
She said yes and carefully wrote down my e-mail address.
Now it’s a couple of days later and I have notes for my class (her notes) and I hate to sound petulant but…
I miss my notebook.
Nothing is quite the same as my notes, because I write down what I think is important. I write short forms that I understand. I include things that are said in class that are interesting or funny or just weird as well as different ideas that come into my head. I don’t want to sound like a newager, but my notebook is my impression of a course, it’s what I get out of it.
I feel like I lost more than just a couple sheets of lined paper, two sheets of cardboard and a metal coil.