My Time in the Codex
--------------------

At first I regarded The Codex Indumentum Oris, hereafter
referred to as The Codex, with suspicion.  What could be the
point of such a thing?  A vast collection of volumes lining
the shelves of a library the extent of which was unknowable.
A library open to all, yet endowed by a shadowy benefactor
of uncertain motive such that any intimations of altruistic
purpose were surely waylaid by the possibility of a more
sinister intent.

No grand classical edifice, this; no Bodleian or El
Escorial.  Only a cinderblock groundscraper on the edge of
town, within which an endless succession of utilitarian
metal shelves stand atop beige linoleum tile. Illuminated by
flickering flourescent lights embedded in the ceiling a foot
or so above one's head, the shelves and their contents
extend far into shadowy depths of the building's interior. A
curious odor pervades the space, a faint trace of machine
oil in place of the expected smell of slowly acidifying
paper.

It is unclear as to what principle, if any, informs the
organization of The Codex.  Volumes are continuously added,
and to the uninitiated it appears the principle is "last in,
first out." But that cannot be so, as the contents of the
volumes are endlessly shuffled such that pages added to an
earlier volume will sometimes appear, for no apparent
reason, transferred to a more recent one.

Visitors to The Codex themselves supply its contents,
bringing with them sheets of foolscap on which they have
written hasty notes and to which they staple blurry
polaroids, fragments of their lives they wish to have
immortalized in one of the volumes.  These they hand to an
attendant just inside the door who, without comment or
expression, feeds them into a slot on the wall.  A faint
whirring and clanking follow; none have ever divined the
purpose of this hidden machinery.

When first I heard of The Codex, the very idea baffled me.
Who would see value in such a thing, and why?  Long I stayed
away, while friends, family, and associates were inexpicably
drawn to it, handing page after page to the attendant,
spending long hours pulling volumes off the shelves and
paging obsessively through them.  But I could only resist
for so long, and the day came when, drawn by a fatal
curiousity, I made my way to the shelves.

I pulled down a volume at random and saw it was but a cheap
plastic binder, the kind available from any stationers or
dollar store.  Nonplussed, I flipped idly through its pages,
that at first seemed to contain little more than trivia
interspersed with advertising: photos of cats and restaurant
meals mixed with exhortations to Learn Accounting, Develop
Big Husky Muscles, and Earn $40 a Month at Home.

More perplexed than before, I was about to return the volume
to its shelf when I came across something so unexpected it
stopped me in my tracks.  For there, between a drawing of
Little Nemo and an ad for a High Powered Telescope, was a
photo of Aurelia, my old sweetheart, often in my thoughts
despite my having lost touch with her years earlier, to my
everlasting regret.  And on the back of the photo was a
question, addressed to me. A simple question, but touching
in its concern for my well-being: "How are you?  I hope you
are well. Please let me know."

The next day I returned, foolscap in hand, with my carefully
worded answer inscribed thereon.  Impatiently I waited in
line for my turn to hand it to the attendant, and when that
chore was complete I wandered among the shelves and pulled
down another volume, and another volume, looking for more
traces of Aurelia.  Traces there were, not just of her, but of
many lost things.  Old friends and acquaintances, loves of
other days, pictures of familiar places since rendered
unrecognizable by change and the passage of time.  Long had
I simply accepted that I would never see them again, yet
here they all were, in The Codex, ready to welcome me back.

Or so it seemed, at first and for a long while afterward, as
I returned day after day to stand with the crowd in that
airless, timeless space, pulling binders off the shelves and
paging restlessly through them. I had become like the
others, obsessed with shadows.

And the shadows grew ever deeper, for there came a time when
I began to see messages not just from those who were lost,
but from those who were gone.  Poor Bruno, whose tragic
early death from consumption was one of the turning points
of my youth, spoke to me once more from within the Codex.  I
replied eagerly.  Several messages passed between us; he
seemed confused, not quite sure of who I was, but at last he
understood, and his final words to me were "leave, if you
still can."

It was like waking from a dream.  The Codex no longer spoke
to me. Once more it appeared only as shelves of cheap
binders in a vast dingy space where I stood shoulder to
shoulder with a multitude of strangers who took no notice of
me, nor of each other.  Aghast, I threw down the volume I
held and stumbled toward the exit.

...

But of course that never happened. Please forgive my
momentary lapse into phantasy.  The workings of The Codex
are deeply mysterious, yes, but they do not extend to the
astral plane.  Like everything else, The Codex is solidly
grounded in the quotidien realm of materiality.  To be sure,
traces of those long dead were to be found littered about
that vast corpus, but communion with them was no more
possible there than in a graveyard.

No sudden realization or blinding flash of insight
precipitated my eventual departure from The Codex.  My
awakening was a far more gradual process, and far more
prosaic.  In the end it was simply a slackening of interest,
as it became apparent my lost ones and I had little enough
to say to one another, following the brief flurry of
messages that accompanied our serendipitous reunion.  Our
paths having diverged long ago, so too it would seem had our
sensibilities.  Our messages lapsed into pleasantries,
somewhat awkward and stilted, growing less and less frequent
as time went by.  The binders, now filled with little
besides advertisements touting absurd get-rich schemes,
ceased to have any hold upon me. I simply grew weary of the
whole affair.

It has been years now since I paid a visit to that sprawling
edifice at the edge of town, and I don't suppose I shall
ever pass that way again.  I have come to accept that the
past cannot be recovered, nor old loves rekindled.  There is
a kind of joy in letting go of old things, to make room for
such new things as may come one's way.

Still, if this be wisdom it did not come without a cost.  At
times, waking from troubled dreams in the dead of night, I
lie in darkness wondering -

How many weeks, months, years did I lose, in my pursuit of
that which I had lost?

How much of me still remains in that place, a shadow
conversing with shadows?



Sat Feb 15 15:01:15 PST 2025