I gasped when I saw this. I opened it a corner of my old and faithful cleaver. JC left it on a kitchen counter on top of the other mail, a clear sign that he deemed it important too. And so I thought it was the surprise I've hoped would happen for decades.
Always check the zip code first, is a credo. It didn't matter that it's several towns distant, I was determined to get there even if it meant using Uber. I would draw among peers again! Hope happens.
So. What's the most exciting mail you've held in recent hope? Did it deliver?
I'm writing at a more leisurely pace these days. It's too hot to pen faster. The wet pen nibs move across paper easily enough, but my hand feels like a match head striking a rough surface in super slow motion, as if bent on creating a slo-mo fire. It often sounds that way in my ever fanciful imagination when I practice calligraphy on resume paper. That's how quiet it is in the night quiet as I practice alone in silence, and the rest of the house sleeps.
I'm writing more postcards though. Irony begins with iron, and iron feels like a cool metal when it's this hot. But I'm so glad we no longer have to iron everything we wear since ironing is hot work. Ironic is cooler than moronic too. Yet still I write.
Here's a favorite postcard, another I've held on to for too long simply because it tells me a different story each time I simply grace it with a glance. Today she tells me he just got up and walked out on her, and while she'd run after him in the past, she's just too tired to give a hot trot tonight. So he can go to blazes, and she wouldn't pee in his ear if his brain was on fire.
"Yes, I'm hot and super very tired of wearing all these layers because you men don't seem to know how to control your lustful imaginings when you see a female. Just you wait until a woman invents the bikini, spaghetti strap dresses, and slip dresses. You want lust? I'll give you so much lust you'll want to have a sex change just so you can fondle your own breasts!" she thought as she sweltered in the heat of the summer sun. "Oh! And you should try being rubbed by whale bone and drawstrings in bloomers! I am too chafed to be bothered!" Such are the true thoughts of one of the first super models while out on a photo shoot.
"Use more milk? Seriously?" asked the cow with sore udders, just before she kicked over the milking stool, barely missing the milkmaid's head. The bull just laughed and rolled his eyes.
Why is it called Minute Maid Park when there are no maids on the field, no maids selling juice made in a minute in the concession stands, and I spell "minute" the very same way. *sigh* It's too hot for this.
So, moving on . . . I did write a letter. Three whole pages worth. Then I had to draw a little. Added some red a little. I felt so much better than a little happier after all this.
Some hot and sour soup made me feel so good! That soup in my tsunami in a bowl yesterday evening started waves of good feeling that carried over into this day. Doc gets to give her verdict tomorrow. Why did I wait so long to seek a remedy? Fingers crossed.
Wishing I'd lowered that stamp just a little. When I tried it last night it didn't work. Hmm. It's what's inside that counts, right? Maybe next time I'll get it right. Hope has its own springboard.
Write more mail.
P.S. Irony? A case in point: JC and I were finally on the patio again, enjoying the breeze, talking about important slug deterrents that involve beer, when the neighbor came out and light up. When you are allergic and haven't been around secondhand smoke for awhile it seems to jolt the brain with a vengeance, making it hard to like your neighbor, let alone love him.