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Decay-Proof Record Scroll · 39today

 

Filling a Manuscription

This is a handmade book my roommate got for me some years ago. It's been sitting in a cloth bag in a drawer for most of that time, much to her chagrin. I explain in increasing anguish each and every time she asks about the solitary confinement that it's simply too precious for my damn chicken scratch. It's a drastic character flaw I cover up by using an adopted shorthand I'm very hesitant to explain to people lest they find out I'm writing dirty limericks about them while we're waiting for meetings to start or for food to arrive. That's actually a lie; They're haikus. Okay, fine, that's a lie too. I'm writing about how nice they are, nothing but the nicest niceness that ever been niced, can we please move on? Anyway, I did eventually take the book out of its t-shirt material and drawstring prison and begin… something, though I'm going to change the chicken scra—script for this one just to further the Voynich Manuscript aesthetic I'm going for. It may mean blacking out the first page, but supposedly the Mona Lisa is painted over something else that DaVinci wasn't happy with. Speaking of unknowns, I only found out literally a month ago she's wearing a veil. It's that thin horizontal line right below her hairline. I don't believe it adds to any mystery or awe of the piece, merely an observation. On the whole and especially in this particular day and age, I think Munch's The Scream is more deserving to be where she is now in the Louvre, but I'm not a museum curator or an art critic, just an asshole with an opinion. Oh, but I repeat myself, 2020 jokes are becoming old hat already, and we're getting off topic.

Speaking of everyday occurrences, paintings, and being off-topic, here's a kind of book you don't see everyday:

It's been cropping up on my Instagram feed as part of an Etsy ad. It's a thousand-page handmade leather book with a moon theme, available in a handful of colors and 2 sizes, your typical 8.5x11in variety and a 9x12in version because masochism is a thing. Speaking of being judgmental about other people's obsessions, I love this thing. I love that it is almost thicker than it is wide. I love that it looks like I could use it as the perfect if near-lethal retort to, "Stick and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." I love how cartoonish its proportions are despite being a practical object you can use for its intended purpose aside from blunt instrument/settler of arguments. Put a few layers of oily makeup and a thin, barely-noticeable veil on it, I'll marry it. Of course, it would be a small and simple ceremony with a BYOB kind of reception because it's 800 dollars… for the smaller version.

The moral of the story is if you're having reservations about writing in a handmade book someone got you as a present because it's simply too beautiful, just look up handmade journals on Etsy and stop being a big blubbering baby about it.

In the wise words of Ron White, I told you that story to tell you this one.

Along with a full encyclopedia (World Book, 1987) and a handful of National Geographic magazines (the only magazine that looks good en masse on a bookshelf), my family had a dictionary, one of those ginormous ones that you genuinely should not put on a shelf as it will compromise the entire structural integrity of the bookshelf and whatever wall it's up against. I think my Mom still has it. We kept it on a lectern, a simple little stand that holds the book open and at an angle so it's easier to lean in and pore over its pages pondering the proper praise… phrase… to say… to someone… who may or may not be challenging you to hospitalize them. Anyway, many a year ago (you'll work out how many in a moment) this anything but easy to move easel was in our living room. We had to move it there from the TV room where the bookshelf was in order to comply with building codes.

On at least 2 separate occasions, my brother would have friends over and they'd all be chilling out in the living room enjoying each other's company, as we all had no choice but to do before smartphones and tablets came along. Besides, the N64 was in the other room and it would be too early in the evening for Mario Kart to show you who your real friends were. At some point, someone would look over to the easel and ask, "Is that really a dictionary?" I suppose they thought it was maybe one of those family Bibles or illustrated editions of Lord of the Rings rather than the kind of dictionary you typically only see in school libraries. My brother would confidently answer, "Yes. Yes, it is." A few exchanges of "No way!" and "Way!" later, as was fashionable at the time before emojis ruined everything, the remainder of the evening would be spent looking up words and, if they were lucky, finding out not only every possible meaning it could carry, but the history of how it came to be.

In the words of a Bishop I once met, "If you really want to stick it to someone, tell them how 'nice' you think they are." If nothing else, it's a good way to tell if they have a comically large dictionary at home, and whether or not you have to bring your own hard hat when you visit.

… Ah, shit.