every now and then i sit down and write a letter. here's an old atlas map book put to good use, addressed to Sussex. the envelope idea is first borrowed from long time friend, Spring Warren, Author of the notable Turpentine and put into action again by the influence of blogbud Andrea at found-art blog. Thanks gals!
i was thinking the other day about E. M. Forster's Howards End and how the telegram replaced love and letters:
"'To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger,' supplied Margaret.
'I've often thought about it, Helen. It's one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I'm clear. But here's my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid, often seems the real one--there's grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?'
'Oh, Meg, that's what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcomxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes.'
'Don't you feel it now?'
'I remember Paul at breakfast,' said Helen quietly. 'I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever.'
...sort of like email has replaced the same and so so much more--a personal read of emotions and physical appearances...being able to gauge whether someone is disturbed or experiencing an honest moment of excitement, whether that person is happy for you or merely faking support.
somehow being locked into this kind of technological connectedness is bitter-sweet. it's our end and our new beginnings...i hope however, from time-to-time, one can...sit...and write...a love letter or a...letter...from time-to-time.
i continue to write to my deceased grandma, my Big, at least once a year. each time i write something different addressing one of only three of her letters. my response usually covers what's currently going on in life, with me, in general, my thoughts and opinions about a political issue or the like. it would be a wonder, i'd like to believe, to look back at them over time, but they are sealed.
the letters she wrote my daughter and me are so few. they are so much fun to look at. i still can't believe she only made it through sixth grade because she was able to accomplish so much. one of her letters is included in an earlier post; it could be this one. these days, i hardly ever go back to see what i've previously posted.
It's May 2012 and nothing has changed since November.11. I am all smiles at my relationship and myself. My honey and I continue to amaze each other on a daily basis. We're still ever so 'in' with each other. I completed my MA in literature last May and I'm teaching four college English courses to really smart students. I am hopeful to enter a doctorate program soon. This way, I can run out.All is scary good.
upon hearing your voice life again expands like moon crest like pomegranates swell to the sun and you are patient because god calls
when he came for you this morning you were bent into the flower bed singing black hymns so he left you alone until this third afternoon but even then he found you elbow deep in jewel weed with a mouthful of figs from a nearby tree again he waited because each time seemed to him an inconvenience and a wrong moment
and it was your persistent humming that drove him up and back until he could get his timing perfect he waited another day or so until
your gardening tools rest into porch corners your paring knife shines deeply into a drawer your hair comb lies slanted in a shoebox your wedding band hides in the mattress your fishing rod stays stolen
the sound of your voice desires to sing or hum but this time is perfect he has covered you like lavender-colored silence but he has also added streaks of olive green and pink because this is what the other soul-folk has told him to do and he has become tired in the process and therefore begins to rush sonances of your body he finds you the least complex when you are not outdoors digging in that garden, humming hymns and thriving and for a moment he questions his own timing its perfection and everything goes accordingly until he finds you have buried fruit peels and wandering jew petals underneath your back this does not anger him but it tilts his agility to deliver you and in his own questioning and presence of smells that he cannot privilege all this over powers his choice all this reels his otherwise perfection into letting you go
when i see you sitting in the plush squares of limitless St. Augustine your eyes are lit like crystal warmed soil releases from each of your hands
how did i get to this point this point of knowing you for you are nearly a century old