Death of the Letter?

Part of the process of writing my letter to Bob (see Letter to a Dying Friend) was finding stationery. Remember stationery? Paper of a good weight and design meant for handwritten words to convey thoughts and feelings?

It seems both are a lost art - handwritten letters and conveying thoughts.

I went to four stores before I could find proper stationery. Four! This might not be the most sophisticated city on the planet but why is it so hard to find something that ought to be part of daily life? Imagine, I even went to Staples - an office and paper supply store. There was no letter writing stationery in the stationery section. I had to explain to the 20 something year old clerk what I was looking for; she seemed to be lost when I spoke about hand writing a note to a friend. I left out the part that I'd be mailing it off. Didn't want to confuse the poor thing.

I could buy a box of note cards. Beautiful stock, gilded and glittered but not near enough room for what I needed. I could get pre-printed post-it notes with gorgeous background designs. They had stacks of pre-printed pads of paper, in check list form. 'Things to Do' or 'Shopping List' or 'I Love You Because'. Call me old-fashioned but sending a memo or a post-it note to a dying man doesn't seem appropriate. Maybe that's the problem - I'm old fashioned. Maybe those are the modern ways of communication now. Is a pre-printed check list a step up from texting?

I finally found stationery. I'm not sure if it's irony or symbolism, but something deep is hidden in this: I found it at Chapters. A book store. Maybe the people who can still read, still write? Some people still want to share, convey, release, reveal? Chapters had two themes of paper - butterflies and peacocks. I bought all that they had of each. A hundred and twenty eight bucks for paper.

I have a lot to say.

Letter to a Dying Friend

Bob is dying. Bruce (the FBI) told me. The doctors told Bob that 'at his age, there is nothing that can be done'. That's medical-speak for 'there is no cost benefit to society if we try to save you'. You can fool yourself with the romantic notion that doctors save lives. They don't. They carefully weigh a bunch of factors to determine if your life is worthy of treatment. And if you aren't worth saving, they blame it on your age. Funny how doctors assume the position of God when they want (say, to save a life) yet they will relinquish any responsibility to God when they decide that it's His fault that you are too old.

I have lost enough people in my life to know that the worst part of the grieving process is the 'I shoulda said' regrets. It's common to hear "I wish I had more time with so-and-so" or 'if only I had told them how much I cared.". Yet one of the most common things people say to a friend with a terminal diagnosis?

"I don't know what to say."

If I were dying and someone said that to me, I'd smack them in the face. Maybe not literally. But mentally, I'd bitch slap the shit outta them. Say something. Say anything. Say it's not fair. Say you are angry, sad or scared. There are so many things in the world that go unsaid. I won't be reading how much I meant to you in my obituary. Say it now.

I wrote a letter to Bob. I told him that I was thankful that I got to know him, even if it was only for a short time. Told him that I took comfort in the fact by knowing him, I still have hope that society might have a glimmer of civility to it because he showed me what a gentleman is, what a good guy does and that chivalry lives. I thanked him for making me smile. Told him that I was grateful for the conversations and the memories. And I wished him peace.

I didn't know what to say when I sat down to write the letter. But dammit, I said something.

Hebrew Melodies

I’ve been going to a local writers’ forum for the past few months. Melissa just joined a few months ago, we try to go as often as possible. We want to learn as much as we can about publishing, looking for ‘experts’ who can help us develop our craft and seeking a venue to release our creative juices.

The forum sucks.

I’m starting to think this writing circle is not much more than a bunch of narcissistic amateurs who are there to hear the sound of their own voice instead of wanting to share their work, people who are more interested in discussing the metaphysical allegories of Shakespeare than how to carry a plot or shape a character. Some of the members have some obvious personality quirks; one member, a man I will call Martin, has some mental health issues. I’m fairly open minded and a relatively inclusive person, disabilities don’t bother me in the least. But there is this awkward silence every time Martin speaks. He will go off on a rant about something, like Hebrew melodies, during a conversation about writing a query letter to a publisher. And when he’s done, the cloud of awkward silence fills the room, and people stare at their pen or fidget with their watch or nervously clear their throat, until someone finally changes the subject. And then it starts again.

Melissa arrived late at the last meeting; Martin arrived even later. They ended up sitting beside each other. He needed a pen to fill in the attendance form, so he grabbed Melissa’s pen. (Remember, he came to a writing workshop, yet is without a pen...) At first, she didn’t mind, but he started scratching out something on the paper and the scratching out became more and more incessant. He wasn’t just scratching out an error on the page, he was trying to eliminate its existence. She looked out of the corner of her eye and the paper was almost worn thru with the scribbles. He put the pen down and drew a deep breath.

He leaned to Melissa. ‘Do you smell gas?’

Her nose crinkled as she bent to sniff his jacket. “No.”

“Are you a smoker? Because if you are, you won’t be able to smell it anyway.”

He went on about an incident earlier in the day that resulted in spilling gas on himself. I didn’t catch the story, I was busy imagining him saving mankind with a Gerry can, a steel drum and copies of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

“Do you smell gas?” Melissa asked me.

I held my breath and faked a sniff and shook my head.

I made a brief announcement to the group, about an online writing tool that Melissa and I have used, something new and exciting that could really help budding writers, something that I think is the best thing since sliced bread. I might have went on for maybe a minute. Then Martin piped up.

“Well, now for something that might keep us awake....".

I can’t recall what he went on about. All I could think was “I have just been publically dissed by a mental patient". Then I remembered a story I heard about Martin, how he stabbed his wife and did some ‘time’ . I didn’t want to be the paper under that maniacal pen.

We’re looking for a new forum. One that maybe plays Hebrew melodies and not just talks about them.

That’s what Bob said.

Ah. My first blog entry. I’ve been mulling over what to write about, concerned about what people might think about my posts, afraid I’d offend someone. Then, I had a conversation with some co-workers. Not about blogs, but about listeroisis. According to the wisdom that abounds in the office, only people with AIDS or old people will die from it, so it’s not a big deal. At least that’s what Bob said. Well, what actually happened is Randy repeated this malarkey to a group of us and then, when we gasped, he qualified the statement with, ‘That’s what Bob said’.

That makes all the difference.

Gawd.

Bob’s good friend is an FBI. A Fucking Big Indian. Bob was once convinced that a construction job wouldn’t be complete on time because ‘where the hell can you find 20 wops in the middle of July to pour concrete?’ At the beginning of summer and the summer student hire, Bob came to my cubicle to ask ‘Who is the tall blond with big boobs?’ I told him her name is Elena. ‘And the short brunette with big boobs?”. “That’s Patricia”, I replied.

Sadly, the general consensus in the office is that Bob is probably one of the few gentlemen in this place.

Even Bob would say that.