Scratching out creativity in the fACE OF conformity is great fun
I spent a lovely hour this Saturday handwriting letters, just friendly waffle really, to loved ones of mine. Putting the letters into envelopes, putting stamps on the envelopes, walking to the local post office, and sending them.
Sometime in the next few days, my loved ones will recieve signs and signifiers of my actual being. They’ll reply at some point when they’re ready. When I get their letters, I will be able to touch their handwriting – an extension of their physical being – and see not just what they were feeling but how.
A semi-circle of a coffee stain from the bottom of a mug? Smeared ink? A tear stain? A doodled in the margin?
Maybe that thing that people sometimes handwrite, “It’s now the afternoon, and I’ve picked up my pen again…”
Different handwriting from each person, different paper, different inks. Different handwriting from the same person this time than 10, 20 or 50 years ago.
Rereading old letters from friends and loved ones, diary entries by teenaged me; looking at, touching the paintings made by my daughter when she was alive, I love those moments and sometimes I fear hate them for what they represent. But I often return to them because they are tactile reminders that those other people (including teenaged me) made those marks with their bodies.
I also love to find and read manuscripts, musical scores, see first sketches, drafts of poems and plays, old postcards, old letters, marginalia in books.
A lovely pastime.