Coca submission

Matches are almost as iconic as the fire they birth; Hans Christian Andersen’s little matchstick girl, the classic segue in Lawrence of Arabia, The ill-fated portent of three on a match. They are evocative of gusts of human breath, gin soaked nightclubs, candlelight, and the ever-important clue in detective genre fiction. They promise a fully tactile experience, light and heat exploding into existence in a burst of brimstone. Matches are a piece of the 19th century un-phased by 21st century advancement.
Inversely it is easy to imagine that tomes like the dictionary have lost footing in the lives of most people. I, on the other hand, adore my dictionary. It is a vast world unto itself yet offering a window to the things around us, near and far. It is my co-conspirator of crosswords and analogue spell checker. It is a thing with heft and size, a true companion.
Combining two disparate things can be surprisingly self-fulfilling. A matchbook can be a blank canvas of full public accessibility. Filter them through the seemingly endless entries found alphabetically and a parade of poets, writers, statesmen and scientists emerge. Resolve to do this dedicatedly over a full day and hundreds of examples of two things reinvented will pile up for consumption and enjoyment.