There are days I wish this entire site could be composed of letters, and days I wish I could spend my life in correspondence. These days are becoming more and more frequent. I’m not sure why.
If I lived one hundred years ago, I would be one of those who would travel not to travel, and not to see the world, but because travel would involve writing letters home. If I lived one hundred years from now, I would miss the written word. But this speculation is silly. I live now.
I do love correspondence, though. I don’t know why. I could come up with myriad theories; the grave playfulness of that cat’s cradle of meaning; the kaleidoscopic mirroring of self and world and creation; the pleasure of conception–no matter how abstract–with a single and single-minded other; the luscious basking in the distant attention of another; I could go on, endlessly, and at the end it would not matter. In the end it’s just an excuse to write, and to feel, in doing so, that someone more than just myself feels less alone.
As I typed that last line the whole house shook with a crack of thunder, and on cue, the rain began. The world smells of lemongrass and vetiver, and my eyes, if not myself, are tired.
Sometimes I wish I could trade this passion in for something more obvious, more real, more valuable, more dear. I am not a pianist, for all the grace of my fingers on the keyboard; I am not a dancer, for all the raw enactment of my being. I cannot paint. I cannot draw. I cannot sing. My love is limited to non-universal symbols. I am beholden to this.
I can no longer say it’s raining; pouring is not strong enough a word. The door is open–it was so hot this afternoon!–and the sky is open, too. Tonight I’m being treated to a symphony of water and light, and instead of soaking–literally–I’m writing. How sweet this desire to share. How beautiful it is to be alone, and not.