Scraps of memory

In the past couple of years I’ve cultivated a great love for scrapbooking. I blame my parents for turning me into an incurable pack rat. I’ve been getting better at curbing my collection of scraps and junk, but this fledgling hobby of scrapbooking only encourages it. Now, if I see a paper bag or particularly lovely candy wrapper, I think of how easily those scraps can be glued down into a book. It began last year when my mother came to me with an assignment: to scrapbook for three people leaving her office. I made three scrapbooks in one week. The rest is history.

I think scrapbooks are a good way to keep your crap organized, and we all know how much I love crap and organization. That both can be held in my hands at the same time is a dream come true. The process of making it is also so satisfying. A page needs to not only hold papers and photos but present them in a way that best captures to mood of the event. It's meant to help you remember, but in putting it together you have to litterlally re-member an entire event, like some kind of Frankenstien monster, with pieces and bits dug up from the corners of my suite cases and pockets. It's messy, dirty and time consumeing and I love it.
Right now I’m in the process of compiling all my flat, gluable junk from my semester abroad into the king of all scrapbooks. This puppy will encompass five months, three continents, and more photos than I can count. I’m about half way done. The end result is sure to be monumental and extremely flamable. It’s sure to be one B.F.B. (Big Fuckin’ Book).