Mail. Its beautiful. No...not e-mail.

March 13, 2002

Mail. Its beautiful. No...not e-mail. You can't touch e-mail. You can't send a piece of your life over e-mail. All you can send are ideas, descriptions and intentions. I love getting the piece of paper someone actually wrote on. Nothing puts you in the same physical space with someone like that. I'm still so excited and impressed when mail actually arrives. You hold something in your hand that has made an actual physical journey and been handled by human hands. Its been down the road to the mailbox and sat in the dark cold mailbox for awhile. Human hands have picked it up and put it in a bag and driven it downtown. More hands have helped sort it into new bags. Those bags have been put in a truck then maybe put on a plane and so on and so on to your mailbox. THAT is amazing. No wonder its getting expensive. Computers are so gaddam boring in comparison.
This is when your mind wanders to the mental image of me as a mail fetishist sitting in my underwear in a darkened corner sniffing packages and letters. Perhaps I'm grunting and rocking back and forth making hash marks on the wall beside me each time I open a padded envelope. Maybe later I fashion garments from each week's mail and parade around in front of a full length mirror when everyone leaves for school and work at exactly 9:05am. If its a slow mail week I might fix myself a speedo out of bubble wrap and cancelled stamps I've steamed off meticulously with my own hot breath. If you were to go farther you might envision me running through the yards of my neighbours after I write this entry in my journal. I would only linger long enough at each post box to caress and...
But that's not something I would do. No. Not me. Ha ...go back to what you were doing.