edge of the continent

I look forward to autumn, when the change in the weather clears my head and cheers my heart.

Well, I didn’t head north after all. Instead, I’m here typing away in my room after midnight when I could be throwing back drinks at a bar and waxing philosophic about lipstick and good cheese.

(sigh)

I bought blank notecards earlier this week, cute cards with green envelopes that came neatly packaged in a box with a lovely bow. I bought them with the intention of sending out actual correspondence to friends rather than automatically firing off an e-mail or picking up the phone for a quick call. I love letters — I used to write so many letters, lame with a young girl’s angst and such — but I hardly put pen to paper for anyone other than myself anymore. E-mail is faster, phone calls give one the connection of a voice, but letters are just charming and quaint and tug a bit at my heartstrings with their sweet simplicity: pen a note, put on a stamp, drop in a box… no internet connection or phone necessary. Interestingly enough, the same evening I bought my notecards, I learn that portia is sending out postcards to any interested party. Naturally i signed up for one toute de suite — who can resist a lovely surprise in the mail?

I’ve had some wonderful correspondence over the years. A friend from elementary school in Los Angeles who moved back to Japan with her family a few years after we met: she and i wrote pretty regularly for awhile. She had the cutest stationery and sent some terrific care packages filled with Japanese candy and toys. For years I wrote to a young man in Cote d’Ivoire with whom I was assigned in a pen pal project in my high school French class. He was a few years older than me and a university student, and we held candid discussions about our cultures and personal lives; the letters were so intimate and heartfelt. An acquaintance from junior high — she always had a book in her hand, and stayed quiet unless she was making what would ten years later be considered a very Daria-esque comment — gave me her address on a whim and wrote the funniest, most self-effacing letters. And my dearest friend and I kept in touch irregularly — random phone calls and letters here or there — but each one felt as if we had just spoken yesterday, and they were filled with a tacit understanding and truth that could not be explained by the infrequent talks nor the miles that lay between us.

Sadly, i’ve lost touch with many of them (with the exception of the last one — she’s on the East Coast now, and the emails are still irregular but continue to be just as true)… I wonder if any still write letters, or if they have also been seduced by technology and have grown impatient with something so old-fashioned as a notecard sent via post. I’m all for technology, but I still prefer letters over emails, and face-to-face conversations with coffee over phone calls.

A friend — dear as she may be — spoke some horrifying words today:

“You are a workaholic.”

Oh, that was so evil and wrong and… and… sadly true, damn it.

As I have gotten older, I’ve become painfully aware of the passage of time — in particular, that of the individual day — and I am alarmed by the blur that has become my life: the days slide and merge into one another only to become a smeared mess of semi-recognizable images. Even this is not safe from decay as it, too, will erode further into meaningless color and shape. I might not be quite so disturbed by this were these days filled with adventures and satisfying pursuits; they consist, instead, of hour upon hour spent at the office. The work is rewarding if not frustrating, yet where it once simply dominated my days I now find it encroaching upon my nights. I don’t want to talk with anyone, I don’t want to deal with people — it’s more of a commitment than I’ve the energy to give — and I’m too mentally tired to do much more than eat dinner and pass out, my brain hijacked by thoughts of tomorrow’s to-do list.

I’ve a three-day weekend coming up. I’m getting in my car and heading north.

Orange pools in through the window only to evaporate within the space of a breath. Concrete structures rise on elegant pillars, all gentle curves and sweeping climbs; it is the architecture of a freeway. The air is thick with moisture, and my breathing slows. Rolling onward in shiny, colored tins within this civilization we’ve created, wondering just what it truly is that I expect to find.