I just confronted one of my many lands of random notebooks, scraps of papers, and scribbled chaos.
Amongst the rubble I found a small, calculator-sized notebook that flips open along the top. It is coated in green cloth, and I can't remember if I bought it like that or I made it like that (I have a thing for cloth-covered notebooks). Holding it, I feel like a detective taking notes in a psychedelic murder mystery.
The notebook is filled with a lot of to-do lists, future mixed tapes, mental thoughts about projects or papers I was working on, and random phone numbers. I have a habit of carrying around very small notebooks for such purposes. Occasionally I feel particularly inspired and write a little creative piece - usually no more than three or four lines.
I flipped open to a random page and found something I wrote when I was 18:
"They were the last lovers in New York City - the first in the world - and their passion was inefficient and kept no savings account. They spent it like Texans."
I almost always remember where I was and what I was thinking at the time of a writing any particular phrase, paragraph, paper, or story. I consider this fortunate, because that way, no matter how bad the writing is, at least I have the associated memory to distract me. I have absolutely no recollection of ever having written this, nor from where it came. Yet it is most certainly my handwriting. I find this very unsettling. It's like reading one of my own sentences objectively for the first time. Cringe.