everything else on the desk has been replaced at least twice. the notebook is still there. same one. different handwriting now, but same book.
i bought it in 2021. didn't think much about it at the time. it was just the one that was available, the right size, the right price. i've replaced the laptop twice. the lamp once. the chair. the monitor. the keyboard three times because i keep spilling things. the notebook is still there.
there's something about handmade objects that holds differently than manufactured ones. not because they're better made — sometimes they're not — but because they carry the evidence of their making. the slight irregularity in the cover. the way the pages aren't perfectly uniform. the notebook knows it was made by someone.
i've been thinking about what makes something last. not in the durability sense — the notebook will eventually fill up and be done. but in the sense of staying relevant. staying used. staying on the desk instead of in a drawer.
the answer, i think, is that it doesn't try to do too much. it's a notebook. it holds writing. it doesn't have features. it doesn't update. it doesn't require a subscription. it just sits there being exactly what it is, and that's enough.
most of the creative tools i've tried to use have failed because they tried to be more than tools. they tried to be systems. they tried to be workflows. they tried to be the thing that would finally make me organized. the notebook never tried to be any of that. it just held whatever i put in it.
there's a lesson in that about analog in a digital world. the things that last aren't the ones that do the most. they're the ones that do one thing without apology and let you do the rest.
the notebook is almost full now. i've been looking for the same one. i don't know if they still make it. that's the other thing about objects that last — they make you aware of their finitude in a way that digital things don't. when the notebook is done, it's done. there's no cloud backup. there's no version history. there's just the thing, and then the absence of the thing.
i'll find another one. it won't be the same. that's fine. the point was never the object. the point was the practice the object made possible.