Today, in the grocery store, I reached into my bag for my list. I spotted a bit of paper with my handwriting, and I pulled. And then gazed in dismay at the scrap of lyrics I was holding. (Did I succeed in finding the list while I was in the store? No. Did I remember to buy coriander? Also no.)
Most of the pages that have come free represent either completed songs ("Wake," "Who You Fooling," "The Comeback Kid") or pieces I have tried and found wanting ("Hush Hush No No"), so I don't think I have fatally damaged any work in progress. I'm cranky all over again that Moleskine discontinued its hardcover staff-paper pocket notebooks. And part of me is just sitting back and marveling at this. Of course, of course, in a year when it sometimes seemed I was tearing my own life to pieces, I would destroy my music notebook.
The thing is, though, that this image is perversely hopeful. The notebook looks like this because I refuse to stop carrying it. Music has been one of the few bright spots this year. I haven't given up on it, and it hasn't given up on me.