My old journal stores fragments of my childhood dating back to my elementary school graduation. The entries are written by my past identities: a tennis player, a summer camp student, and a stressed-out high school senior. These stories were shelved away in the bottom of my desk drawer. After our class conversations that connected storytelling to an object’s value, I wanted to recreate a personal and intimate collection of my everyday experiences outside of digital photographs hastily snapped on my phone. The permanence of my blue-black tennis racket is stored through a narrative about my first tennis tournament within the thick, yellowing pages of my journal. 

During the past month, I picked up my 0.5 ballpoint pen to begin the practice of journaling. Now, there are only thirty-one blank sheets of paper left for future writing entries within the 1-inch-thick book. My thoughts, scribbled in thin navy-blue ink, will soon have to nestle in the pages of another journal.  

I began my first experiment with the Google search engine by punching in the key term “journals.” As if reading my mind, Google displayed the exact product I was looking for. There were 6,030,000,000 results that guided me to a vast selection of potential notepads, diaries, and journals in 1.14 seconds.  

I left Google and tried scrolling on Amazon. Soon, I felt overwhelmed by the lack of tactile touch. None of the items seemed to spark the needed joy for me to click “add to cart.” After all, how could I possibly narrow my selection of notebooks from 60,000 results when many of the products had five-star reviews? Would this professionally photoshopped image of an online journal have the same color contrast in my own hands? Do the journals on Amazon have the same level of quality as my own book? My current journal laces pages together with a fine white thread. There was not a single piece of paper that ripped or slipped out after jamming dried leaves, my first paycheck, and my New Paltz college acceptance letter into the book bind. These concerns clouded my judgment and dissuaded any further willingness to complete the online purchase order.  

The ease and accessibility, yet the immemorable experience of scrolling that Guriel describes in his book, On Browsing, is accurate. Tomorrow, the small desk, the location of my current infinite scrolling will be repurposed as my workspace where I finish composing an email. If I did not record and reflect on my scrolling experiment, the experience of looking for a journal would have been forgotten. Only my browser cookies will fondly recall my digital shopping experience. However, Google’s reminder of my scrolling experiment will reappear as a pop-up advertisement that obscures my screen as I read a potential news article or shift through social media.  

My second experiment began at Manny’s Art Supplies, a local arts and crafts shop on Main Street. I stepped into the crafts store with the assumption that only sketchbooks would be stocked on the shelves, as their website advertised.

Towards the back of the store, there was a plethora of sketchbooks and a limited selection of Moleskine journals. I felt an immediate pang of disappointment. When did the brand-name, dull, solid-colored journals that I saw on Amazon invade a store that supports creativity? Many of the journaling books were wrapped in a protective transparent plastic layer to preserve their leather-bound covers and pearly-white pages.  

Usually, I do not linger in a store. However, staying true to the browsing experiment, I started wandering up and down the spacious aisles. The store was physically accessible, I noted. There were no stairs, and the slight ramp encouraged access for all individuals. My eyes roamed to admire peculiar greeting cards, while my fingers brushed against an assortment of decorative paper prints. Soon, I found myself swaying and humming to the pop music playing in the background. Between each lyrical tune, the loud creaks of the floorboards loudly creaked under every step.  

As I was about to gather my belongings and leave Manny’s, a book that depicted a field of sunflowers captured my attention. My brain immediately made the connection that my current journal also illustrated a sunflower!  

At closer inspection, I realized that I had stumbled upon brightly-hued journals that seemed to scream, pick me up! The whole shelf and the next two rotating columns were supplied with journals depicting famous mosaics and artworks. The back label of each journal briefly identified the printed design. I jotted down a few notes to remind myself to research Ohara Koson’s Tit on Paulownia and the ceiling of the Shah Mosque. 

Each journal cover had a story during the design process. My sensory need for touch was appeased as my fingertips ran along the front and back covers. I felt the indented ridges and bumps that emphasized each petal and stem. After I opened the cover, the bookbinding was engineered to lay flat for writing to feel enjoyable. Meanwhile, my current journal needs one hand to stabilize and prevent the binding from closing, even while I am writing mid-sentence.  

Suddenly, my timer of forty-five minutes beeped. Today’s browsing experience was over if I wanted to get to class on time. I left satisfied with the discovery of a local crafts store where I could purchase a potential journal that I could fill with my future musings.  

After completing the two experiments, I understand Guriel’s perspective on scrolling. Scrolling felt mind-numbing and pointless in comparison to browsing. I was not compelled to complete a purchase order because the thousands of similar-looking journals lacked a touch of personal connection.  

The whole motion of browsing included my struggle against the February wind chill, but I treasured the surge of excitement after finding the vibrant collection of journals. I lack certainty about when journal advertisements may start popping up, but I intend to browse through more local shops on Main Street to create tangible and cherished experiences.