This is a story all about how my journal got flipped and turned upside-down. Or rather, 90º clockwise. First, let’s skip on back to April 30th. That day, as usual, I opened an MD Codex for my daily prescription: 3-5 pages of off-the-cuff writing, with stovetop coffee and a stick of incense. It takes around four months for me to use all 368 off-white pages, which I know because I mark each volume with the dates of its first and last entries. For weeks, I’d planned to end the current notebook exactly on the final day of April. I eagerly anticipated beginning a nice, fresh, totally blank Codex on 5/1.
Hah! I say now, casting a pitying look at my past self. What foolish ambition! For right around that time, due to general uncertainty and confusion regarding tariffs and shipping goods to the United States, the MD Codex went temporarily out of stock where I like to get it. Yes, I could’ve switched to a different notebook. Or I could’ve picked one up from a different outlet. Perhaps from a giant online corporate monopoly with convenient same-day shipping so I wouldn’t need to wait? Nah. I’m good. I would rather, as it turns out, rotate the filled notebook sideways and continue my routine with crosswriting, right on top of the old entries.
I’m not doing anything new here. Crosswriting has been implemented since at least the 19th century and the early days of the postal system, by people trying to save on both paper and postage costs. Many historic examples, like this one from Jane Austen to her sister, can be found by searching for “crossed letters”, “crosshatched letters”, “crosswriting” or some combination of those terms. The antiquated cursive can be very beautiful to look at indeed! But if the crosswritten letter also uses abbreviations, code and/or sustains damage from blotted ink or paper decay, it can be difficult or even impossible for historians (not to mention the original recipients) to decipher.
Illegibility has its perks, though. Even in the midst of morning pages, a mindfulness practice done with zero intention of communicating with someone else, a voice in my head dispenses critical, editorializing thoughts: Is that rational? I think you meant this. There’s a better way to phrase that. It’s not necessarily a bad instinct; good writing is good editing. In excess, however, it does get in the way of the whole “being present in the moment” thing. Crosswriting, just by being harder to parse, jams the gears of that whirring self-consciousness, lets me keep my pen moving without it. Words get “lost” in a more tangible, immediate way. I find I’m more likely to change topics quickly, less likely to try to structure my thoughts as I go. It’s harder to make logical connections or follow a train of thought to a helpful conclusion. But it’s easier to vent without restraint, and be loose and playful with words.
It’s also relaxing to watch the inks run into each other as I write. I was already in the habit of switching pens every day, so now I also avoid using the same color as the entry I’m writing on top of. Doing this really shows which inks tend to be runny or watery as they blend with old words, even those written weeks ago.
Sometimes I pick an ink color to complement the past entry. For example, using a light sage-grey on top of a slightly darker forest green to create an almost monochrome field that’s soothing on the eyes…
…or adding light blue sentences on top of dusty rose ones, turning the spread into the trans pride flag colors, just in time for June.
Glancing over the old entry, I can get a sense of whether I want it to remain readable or not. From there, I can overwrite it with something lighter to keep the past entry easy to read:
Or I can make both entries harder to read, by pairing either two light-colored inks or two dark-toned ones, decreasing the contrast between past and present.
Along the right hand side of the notebook, I’ve begun to tab crosswritten months upside down. Meanwhile, across the top of the notebook, I leave a washi tape mushroom on pages which contain a story or art-related idea. This bookmark lets me find the important stuff later. It also reminds me not to completely overwrite that section, like a fairy ring of mushrooms warning me: “Don’t step here!”
I’m curious to see how long I’ll keep this up. When the MD Codex comes back in stock, will I sprint to BK to get a new one right away? I’d probably feel relieved to write on “clean” paper again. But at the moment, I feel happy getting so much use out of a single notebook. The trembling, expressive chaos of these intersecting lines suits my mood; it serves a cathartic purpose for the time I’m living in. It’s transforming the codex itself, too. In its use and over-use it is becoming something further and further away from a record, a document or depository. The more thoughts I put inside the book, the more it becomes an object. As words collect, the pages gain mass, density, traceries left by the skating of multiple pen nibs that leave the paper slightly warped and crinkled. The notebook, I imagine, no longer embodies a stream so much as a stone: ponderous at the center of the babbling river, smooth and still, yet animated by the scrawling of time’s passage on its surface.
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Text and photos by: A.C. Esguerra
Where to find A.C. : IG @blueludebar
Read other stories by A.C. : Here
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