DIANE MAKAR MURPHY Little notebook is a big help for minding what matters

My memory has been so woefully overtaxed of late that I've taken to carrying a little notebook around with me.
Ironically, to buy it, I had to add it to a shopping list so when I arrived at Wal-Mart, I wouldn't forget why I was there. Here's the list:
Umilk
Unaproxen sodium
Ulittle notebook
(Had I not made a list, I would have had to chant the items during the entire five-minute drive to Wal-Mart and into the store, as in, "milk, naproxen, notebook; milk, naproxen, notebook; milk ...")
The pad cost me 97 cents -- not bad for a way to avoid losing my car, alienating creditors and defaulting on the house mortgage. It is small, bright green with a spiral binding at the top, and it fits into a pocket handily. I have begun to shove it into mine wherever I go.
In the morning, it is in my terry cloth robe pocket. On the way to work, it is in my wool coat pocket. When I walk the dog, I shove it into the back pocket of my jeans, like a guy with a wallet. I don't care; it's a necessary evil.
Growing and growing
On the first day, its first two pages filled with minutiae. I needed to deposit money to my son's bank account. I had to put Hannah's Social Security card into the safe deposit box. I had to call the insurance company and add a car. I had to call my dad. I needed to schedule an appointment to interview a dance instructor. I had to walk the dog.
These I logged with neat little squares next to each one, as if I was creating a ballot. As I completed one, I checked it off. There. Done. Success. You remembered to do something! You're a smart one, old girl!
Throughout the day, I added more things, checked others, added, checked, again and again. It was a horrifying day. I would have happily taken a nap at the Bates Motel had it been offered.
But then, a funny thing happened. I caught up. The little notebook sat in my pocket with two or three tasks to undertake. I barely needed it any more.
"Well," I thought, "no reason to abandon a perfectly good habit; I'll use the notebook to write down terrific ideas for columns or poems or novels."
It is what every writer from the beginning of time has recommended (remember the Ten Commandments?). Writing in a journal preserves brilliant thoughts and keeps you from losing them in the hubbub of everyday life.
Moment of brilliance?
But after three days, I have logged only one idea in my miniature journal. Here it is. (As background, there is an exfoliant for dry feet called "Pretty Feet.") My entry read, "I didn't dare aspire to buy Pretty Feet. I purchased Ugly Feet instead." That's it.
I think it was supposed to be funny. Yeah. I'm sure it was supposed to be funny.
To digress a bit, it reminded me of something I read one lonely afternoon when I was wandering through the stacks of the main Youngstown library reading random passages from random books. The author was writing about his experiences with LSD.
He wrote, in so many words, "The experience was incredible, amazing! I had so many insights, such clarity, I couldn't believe it. I was privy to secrets of the universe and creativity I had never known before. I had to find a way to capture this brilliance and use it. I placed a notebook at the side of the bed, and during my next LSD trip, I wrote down my most revolutionary insights. The next morning, when I had returned from my euphoria, I picked up the pad and looked at it. I had written, 'A chair.'"
Uh, yeah. Like that. "Ugly feet."
I'm evidently equally as brilliant without LSD.
And so, I won't be writing down any more great column ideas, or novel and play ideas for that matter, in my little green notebook. I will simply leave it in my pocket until a truly amazing thought presents itself, like, "Pay the water bill." Salvaging my memory will have to be enough.
murphy@vindy.com