There was a map, which was unfortunately later determined to be a map of the wrong place and from the wrong time, but it was nice to have the map for reference, regardless.
There was a pen, and the pen almost always wrote, although sometimes to get it to start it had to be scratched quickly back and forth on some rough paper, even though I never really understood why that was.
There was a little notebook with a flexible spine and a nifty elastic band holding it closed, and I had bought the little notebook in a fit of inspirational passion -- here was a place for all of my ideas to go, jotted together at odd moments, jumbled elegantly for future access. The little notebook with its nifty elastic remained stubbornly blank, my name on the flyleaf the only mark, pages cannibalized from it to write out notes to give to strangers, but it was never a repository, only a source for sending things away. My moments of universal insight and truth continued to be recorded at random on the backs of envelopes, electric bills, and documents that I had intended to shred, and then inevitably lost, the universe claiming its truths back to itself.
Indian summer followed by storms
great article on gender expectations and norms in the Atlantic