Monk in a Scriptorium
Many of the books used for education in medieval Europe were reproduced by monks. They diligently copied entire texts in a monastery room called a scriptorium, which was designed for this purpose.
Alcuin and other scholars also wrote theological treatises, poems, histories, essays on government, biographies (the most famous is Life of Charlemagne by Einhard), and hagiographies (stories of the lives of saints). Instead of using paper, which was unknown in the West, these scholars wrote on parchment made of animal skins. All works were written out by hand, which is why they are called manuscripts —from the Latin words manus (hand) and scriptus (written). Carolingian artists worked with Byzantine and Roman illustrations to create paintings to decorate these texts. These paintings are called illuminations, and manuscripts with these illustrations are known as illuminated manuscripts. For example, in the front of each of the four Gospels (the first four books of the New Testament of the Bible) artists painted the portraits of the authors using vivid colors and gold leaf. The Romans had often begun their books with an author portrait of this type. By adopting this practice for Christian texts, the Carolingians used Roman traditions for Christian purposes.
It’s quite odd, but last night I had a moment inside of my deep slumber, where I remember walking the giant stones of Florence. Meandering, Inside of the tobacco scented with strong coffee and leather scented aisles of the piazza’s. It is books that I seemed to have sniffed, even more than panini.
I don’t miss the deep loneliness I felt, but just the same? Inside of my dream last night, I was told by some compelling force to look over by the gold stamped leather workshop window and to find a glass tiny dome. Mind, you it is a surreal fragmentary moment only. But I licked my finger and as if an internal compass, within me possessing a reason unknown to me? I leaned down and like a little glass ladybug? Stuck onto my finger was a contact lens?
That was the dream. What does it mean? I have no idea, just like my endless folly in going all the way to Florence. There was no hard nor concrete proof, for which I should do such a thing? Do swans or geese download instructions or ask explanations? No. A wistful no. A man is akin to a cologne? Bottled up inside, avoiding careful jostling, so as not to crack open this mysterious novella of personal experience and seents. This is the feeling I had tried like a mad beserker? To open this mystery of a seeming illogical dream, about a golden with sun drenched patchouli world. Yes, I went to help a man, I thought with his cancer. Yet, it too remained a puzzle.
I later found a wondrous writer, named Luisa. Apparently, she was moved to write a novella about a female monk. A woman posing as a monk, whom lived and whose life revolved around the Florentine Scriptorium’s I believe. Our friend, was to even her surprise, discovered was a Catholic Priest. In memory of Florence and my odd dream last night of traveling back to Florence last night, to procure a lost contact lens? Perhaps, the meaning shall reveal itself to me. Saint Lucy might intercede into my internal eye, and impart some wisdom.
I know there are beautiful people whom, like those monks , writing in the dusty stone cellars by glowing candlelight are bewitching. Do they hold secrets as to why they fled the secular world? Or is there truly a transcendental world of men whom have experienced visions. He claimed, I understood later. He claimed, to have had a supernatural vision, in Portugal of Our Lady, at Fatima.
Today, I got a bit of a psychic notion. It was that either I will land within a surprising emergency soon or I will care for those whom have. Is not this the nature of disease. The lack of ease or DIS EASE. Perhaps, flying to the sanctuary of a hidden magical book laboratory is a perfect place, for a man to distill, ferment, co-mingle and infuse. To marinate with the holy some might say not, scriptures. One day, I will read her book on a woman posing as a monk during the medieval eras, when it is translated into English.
Oh I forgot, It is a book also about beautiful necks. The tension of ones sensual versus ones spiritual? Perhaps it is not at odds, but in Japan? The neck is an indicator of great, magical beauty. Talk about nonsensical or illogical? It makes a bit of unctuous sense. Only a soul with a rarified sense of restraint, as if chained into a dungeon, only to decode magical religious texts, could fancy such a fetish.
Well, I merely, today make a homage to Florence and to the sweet possession of pages made once upon a time of trees. Tactile and medicinal.