Darker brown than dirt. Not quite chocolate colored. Not quite the color of light or dark-stained wood. Not the color of my skin, but still, the cover is brown. It’s a simple, flexible, not very durable, textured paper printed with too many textual markers, including a forest of black vertical lines growing out of the numbers “0 12017 45508 7.” Printed in white, the word “Sketch” screams louder than anything else on the page.
The cover shows its age through its scars; the biggest is a tear from right to left severing the bottom corner and exposing the first page, the Genesis of a bible of ideas.
Apparently, it once contained one-hundred “60 lb.” pages 5.5”x8.5” in dimension, but, in haste or passion, or hasty passion, more than a couple of them have been excommunicated—sentenced to a landfill miles away and forever unknown. The pages remaining are curled up at the corner, a perfect white color perverted by use, abuse, and experience. Like everything—like me—even paper gets black with use, abuse, rubbing, and . . . experience.
Needless to say, the backing is cardboard of a somewhat sturdy nature, which is also brown. It’s a different color than the cover, but I won’t muse much about that. Most of our backs don’t match our fronts.
I will also admit that the back is covered with haphazard doodles. Many of them resemble penises. I’m starting to understand how much the things we own have in common with who we are.
If you’ve seen it, let me know. I probably left it on the seat of an espresso-colored chair or up against the commercial glass of any number of coffee shops. I don’t want to buy another one. And I’m mostly lost without it. My name is nowhere to be found inside or outside, but inside are ideas that clearly name me, and, in the wrong hands, they could prove to be mostly embarrassing.