Sunday, May 6, 2012
Galleries
Arcades of the prairie are about experience not edifice. Forward movement intersected by moments of note. Each of these spaces was designed not just for light, air and protection from thunderstorms, but access to framed views, contemplation and metered interaction. Hint: we are heading to Milwaukee.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Part of travelling is writing letters
Dear D-,
How is it that we had time to write letters?
Now time simply zooms by. Tasks are accomplished during the day, but they feel like obsessions to to me, filling my brain with nothings. There are unanswered texts on the phone, whispers and notes passed in class, stray thoughts recorded in less than 120 characters. Could they have been written down in a letter? And been more meaningful?
The converted storage room we have called the study, does not get wireless access. Our own fault for not putting the wireless equipment within range of it. There are secured lines of my neighbors detectable here, but not our own. So much to eavesdrop on, but no urge on my part to take advantage. Who needs that much more random information.
There are two things at my feet. One is a small laptop with iTunes on it. I am supposed to be figuring out what to put in the ICloud. The other is a beaten up reeded box filled with letters. Real letters. Hand written on cards and scraps of paper and some typewritten. Lots of them are from you and some from D--, and L--, N--, and M-- and G-- and lots of others. Postmarks from all over the world.
I flip thru stray letters, and then go back to downloading an update to ITunes. Those little check boxes to agree with security agreements fooled me into thinking that clicking would give me a sense of accomplishment. But here I am...writing...to you.
I know you won't be writing back. So this letter is useless in the sense of getting a response with your advice, or whatever else I might be desiring. Looking at some of these letters, to a young me of three decades ago, stories are recorded. Now, three decades of unwitnessed efforts, futile or otherwise have gone by without reflection. Emails and phone calls have their place, but are not worth keeping or are even keepable.
But letters in response to letters described events and scenes, efforts and uncertainties, provide another perspective to the old me of now. I can see how our voices changed in our writing.
I think my blog will be letters to people. It is better than writing to a no one in particular.
Always,
Susan
How is it that we had time to write letters?
Now time simply zooms by. Tasks are accomplished during the day, but they feel like obsessions to to me, filling my brain with nothings. There are unanswered texts on the phone, whispers and notes passed in class, stray thoughts recorded in less than 120 characters. Could they have been written down in a letter? And been more meaningful?
The converted storage room we have called the study, does not get wireless access. Our own fault for not putting the wireless equipment within range of it. There are secured lines of my neighbors detectable here, but not our own. So much to eavesdrop on, but no urge on my part to take advantage. Who needs that much more random information.
There are two things at my feet. One is a small laptop with iTunes on it. I am supposed to be figuring out what to put in the ICloud. The other is a beaten up reeded box filled with letters. Real letters. Hand written on cards and scraps of paper and some typewritten. Lots of them are from you and some from D--, and L--, N--, and M-- and G-- and lots of others. Postmarks from all over the world.
I flip thru stray letters, and then go back to downloading an update to ITunes. Those little check boxes to agree with security agreements fooled me into thinking that clicking would give me a sense of accomplishment. But here I am...writing...to you.
I know you won't be writing back. So this letter is useless in the sense of getting a response with your advice, or whatever else I might be desiring. Looking at some of these letters, to a young me of three decades ago, stories are recorded. Now, three decades of unwitnessed efforts, futile or otherwise have gone by without reflection. Emails and phone calls have their place, but are not worth keeping or are even keepable.
But letters in response to letters described events and scenes, efforts and uncertainties, provide another perspective to the old me of now. I can see how our voices changed in our writing.
I think my blog will be letters to people. It is better than writing to a no one in particular.
Always,
Susan
On carrying your home with you
Dear G-,
We started out with the truck stuffed to the brim. See
attached photo. Bingo had a small den with his bed that he got to through the
small window in the cab. This made him quite happy, as he could watch the world
go by through the windshield. See another photo that I took while driving. Then
he falls asleep. There’s a photo for that too.
Every object that could be desired has come with us. Two
travel bars, propane coffee maker, a complete medicine cabinet, a dining table,
several hardback books, tools and electronics to construct an essential
services facility, 1000 thread count sheets, and musical instruments for
entertaining.
As usual, it feels like too much stuff to me, but it makes
JD happy. He enjoys packing and unpacking. It is quite handy that he can
improvise any possible thing needed for any possible occasion.
We forgot the fargle dice.
Love,
Susan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)