Poking in the Dirt for Inspiration

As I make my merry way to and from Brixton on the big old tube, I can’t help but poke my finger into the dirt. The filthy, crumbly soil. The scum of the earth. I’m not making a bad green fingers joke. I’m making a bad metaphor for the act of scrolling through my Notes app.

See, the Notes app is the iPhone’s only paradox. It exists as a misshapen mishmash of to do lists, clunky depressive poetry, passwords, unsent texts, and creative inspiration. It is both the genius and the idiot. The Swiss army knife of modern technology. So underrated.

You won’t have the pleasure of being exposed to my outpour of rhythmic blood (aka my adolescent poetry). It’s the actually creative part I want to talk about. My Notes app isn’t all just landfill or rotting aberrations of words. It’s where I often ‘collect my dots’ (cue Marc smirking with glee). And when I say dots I mean weird jottings-down. The name of an artist, an exhibition in Scandinavia, a new philosophy of life, a deceased designer, a fashion collection that I will never see in real life – let alone touch.

As soon as I write something noteworthy in that cesspit, I immediately forget about it. But that’s the brilliance of it. I rediscover it all over again days or weeks or months later. And it sparks my intrigue all over again. The best part is when I can’t even decipher the reference. For example, when I stare at words such as “green rishoka” for quite some time, until the penny drops, and I realise it’s some really cool Avant Garde Japanese zeitgeist from the future. (I did make that up).

I’m really sorry that I haven’t provided you with some actual real-life screenshots from my Notes app. I’m really sorry I’ve denied you of that. I just don’t think it would make all that much sense to you. And I didn’t want to alienate you. I’m sorry. I mean it.

I hope you feel adequately condescended by that. That was quite annoying of me.

BONUS THOUGHT: I feel like reading someone else’s Notes app is the equivalent of someone else telling you about the dream they had last night. If it’s yours you’re obsessed. But if you’re on the receiving end, I don’t know how much you would care really. Unless you featured in the dream. Then it’s a whole different story.


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