Everlasting Field: Ancient Egyptian Cornflower Notebook

The papyrus we beat from the Delta marshes crumbles. The beetles eat it. The damp rots the edges of your most vital ledgers. I despise a frail writing surface. A scribe’s legacy perishes when his ink bleeds into worthless, fibrous mush. This is not papyrus. It is better. Behold the cover. The black is the rich, heavy silt of Kemet after the inundation of the great river. The blooms are Centaurea depressa. The blue cornflower. You have seen them woven into the broad collars at the Opet Festival. We painted them on the sunlit plaster floors of Akhetaten. We left them in the burial garlands of the boy king. Lapis-blue petals. Stems the colour of new turquoise. A weed to the ignorant, but a crown for the justified dead. This aesthetic floral journal is bound with coils of stout metal. It will not snap like a dry reed. The pages lie flat. Smooth. Ready for the black soot and red ochre of your daily accounts, your modern school notes, your quietest prayers to Thoth. It is a portable House of Life. A perfect gift for a lover of antiquity, or someone who understands that order must be forced upon the chaos of an empty mind. Words are the only things that grant eternity. The surface is flawless. Take your pen.