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The Book of Life By Karen
Backman I am wandering aimlessly in the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, searching in vain for some piece of art to respond to. But nothing grabs me. Finally, I end up on a bench, facing a piece of collage. It is interesting, but it isn't what I am longing to write about. Before I lose the thought, I have to write about writing itself. I am participating in a writing marathon. Just hours ago, I met up with three strangers, and we embarked on a journey that took us from the depths to the heights, both of the city and of our souls. And we wrote. It is always so interesting how we show ourselves in our writing — even in the physical details. Marilyn carries a top-of the line, custom-made journal with lay-flat spiral binding, reinforced corners, and an elastic band to hold it closed. But the journal, so neat and tightly bound on the outside, has no lines inside to keep her straight, so her words crowd into the corners, or stream out from them in diagonal bands, alternating dark and light like ripples on a pond. Leslie, on the other hand, breaks out in different ways. She carries a slim notebook with lined pages, its cover bright purple and flexible; inside it brims with color, her words and ideas in green and purple lined up like neon spiders on silken threads. Mary is a study in contrasts. All business, you think, catching sight of the scientific notebook she carries. Standard issue, black and white cover, black binding. You expect tiny, neat, penciled notes and carefully drawn and labeled diagrams. But the notebook reveals a different picture entirely. Bright turquoise letters, large and round, loop across the pages like yarn. But her sentences are clipped, as if the words would become impossibly tangled, the ideas inextricably trapped, if allowed additional length. And then there’s my notebook. Bright blue, cheerful, plastic-coated. And inside, joyful paintings breaking up the monotony of filled or empty pages. Words of wisdom sprinkled throughout — encouragement, praise, advice. And yet, I fill its pages not with cheer, but with angst. One letter bleeding into the next, gray and uniform, dark themes like water stains seeping from page to page. Today I was again reminded of the power of writing as an affirmation of humanity. All these different notebook personas conceal universal human themes within. Pain, joy, wonder. Empowerment, frailty, endurance. What a pity we deny ourselves this affirmation because we are “too busy” or “too tired” or “too uninspired.” I glance
again at the collage in front of me. I
would like
to experiment with collage as a medium. I would collect pages from each
person’s notebook and layer them, with some spiral binding protruding
here,
some torn edges there, some pages hanging free so they can be turned. I
would
call it “The Book of Life.” |