postcard project

8 Aug







In the month of August was full with doodles and poems each day on a postcard, sent to random strangers.  This link was sent to me from a friend.  I am just cataloguing the experience here.  Here are a few of the rough poems and drawings that made their way through the mail to strangers.

Let the wind increase your speed; let it move you right along.  Or sit still in august heat, let the hot air seep in deep.   Stay or go, fast or slow?  Before you even ask a question, the answer lingers there, in the motion of the air, or the still ness of all things.

I left you keys, money in an envelope with your name on it, a grocery list, reminders:  the garbage rolls out on Monday, the doctor will see you on Tuesday  put the laundry in the bin, and please, dear god, will you wipe up the counters when you spill, every time you do anything, actually, like eat, you know?  I bought you a gift card at the self-esteem store, redeem that as needed, otherwise, I think you are grown.

Meet me in a speakeasy bakery, catch me here with full on gluten glow.  I’ve butter as well, and full fat creamed tea, dying sooner than my pumpkin seeded, vegan ex-husband, who might be sucking self-righteous bumperstickers for dinner.  Can it be that taboo tastes enliven in back alley secrecy?  You joining me here, a partner in crimes, tasting, joy in full measure; what else is there to do but savour?

We have not met except for the quick lock of eyes when I was boarding and passed you on the aisle by your seat, though from behind, I am reading your body, for not only have you imprinted words and images from your shoulder to your pinky on only the right side, but also, your thick neck, muscle tension, terse motions, and thin shirt all communicate beyond all silly play at words.  I conform to the rules of this world with my behavior, but I have to sit on my hands so I will not rub your neck, run my hands along the ink lines – this is not lusting like you may think.  I only see you, I know you, I wish to ease your pain.

The gift for reading minds can be painful, especially in airports.  Father, mother, daughter, you each in your own way would be anywhere but here, with anyone but these people, your family.  Rock-star, leather clad man, can you hold it down?  In line, eyes averted, each person leaks into the air a noisy station that I cannot drown out.  My own and almost grown is out ahead of me now, toppling in such heels, shifting from pain to joy – I am tuning into you!



For you, Max, I bought some new pens.  I sat and drew for a good long time.  I put off my work, I fed no one dinner, I fell into another place.  I have met you before, and I see what you can do with tools and time.  You made me want to try “it” on, this pen and paper cloak.  I liked the quiet and the mysterious, non-verbal flow of ink and no one died from hunger.

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