Every once in a while (okay, more often than that—let’s not lie), I end up back in my favorite hunting ground on the internet: YouTube.
Not chasing the algorithm’s shiny new bait, but circling old territory. Sniffing out scraps I know are hiding there.
Mark
One of my favorite features YouTube ever shipped is the watch-history bar—that little red scar carved across thumbnails. It’s not just a progress indicator. It’s a breadcrumb trail. A marker. Proof I’ve been here before, stalking the same clip, circling the same tree, convinced there’s a detail I missed.
(And there’s always something!)
Since I got back into pocket notebooks (August 21, apparently), my search history looks like a stationery graveyard. Sizes (A6, A7, B6). Page counts (48, 60). Brands with cult followings (Hobonichi, Traveler’s, Rhodia). Videos on how to use them, abuse them, even build them from scratch. (Which, yes, I did!)
And I don’t just skim. I press my nose right to the glass. The thumbnails wear my fingerprints. Red bars layered thick across the bottom, doubled over from rewinding the same 30 seconds seven times. Not to see or hear what they said, but what they didn’t.
Micro
Because that’s what I’m hunting: not the obvious tips or top-ten lists, but the unspoken stuff. The micro-choices that nobody bothers to name. The tells.
- How often people skip lines, or even leave whole pages blank.
- How far from the edges they begin writing.
- How they keep a pen nearby — clipped, pocketed, or loose.
- The ratio of pen users to pencil users.
- The scribble spread: 0.7mm ink versus 0.5mm versus 0.38mm.
- The darkness of lines, grids, and dots across different brands.
- How they find their place — opening straight to the current page.
- How they flip back through their notes — quick riffling or slow turning.
- How pages crinkle with certain inks, weight, and wear.
- (And always, the little extras I can’t unsee.)
And then there’s me—cosplaying like some Sherlock with a magnifying glass hovering over some stranger’s dotted page, muttering “ah yes, 0.7mm ballpoint ink, fascinating… look how it pools near the start of your scribble.”
It sounds nuts to list it out (and maybe it is — hi, welcome to my world! Have a seat. Here’s a complimentary $5 gift card at Starbucks. To the right, you’ll find an assortment of Kirkland Signature brand snacks. Bathrooms are down the hall, and to the left).
These details... They’re where the good stuff hides. The stuff that gives me ideas. That nudges me toward experiments. That teaches me what to try next.
Sometimes I capture these details, the ones that feel significant. Other times I let them slip. (I should probably be better about writing them down.)
Macro
It’s not just a "notebook" thing. It’s an "everything" thing.
Stationery, sure. But also kitchen setups. Consumer electronics. The cadence of someone’s voice. The way people stand while waiting for coffee. How they improvise when something breaks. How a group organizes itself when no one is officially in charge.
I’m always scanning. Marking. Wandering. Hunting.
Not for what’s obvious, but for what’s overlooked.
Because somewhere in those quiet details—the crinkle of a page, the tilt of a mug, the pause before a word—is the clue. The clue that helps me understand the thing. The work. Maybe even myself.
Because that’s what the hunt really is. Every rewatch, every note, every mark—it’s not just about the object in front of me. It’s about how I relate to it. What it teaches me about my own patterns, my own habits, my own ways of showing up.
If I can understand the thing, I can move through the work more clearly. And if I can move through the work, maybe I can meet myself more honestly.
Every mark I notice, every scrap I log, every rabbit hole I dive—it all loops back. To the work. To the self. To the home I’m still making within the mess.
That’s the hunt.