Scratched words on a blank sheet of paper, revealing layers of thought, almost confessional, will the reader be non-judgemental, a risk? No way of telling what will be thought or made or written in response. Taking time to find paper, pen and envelope, the physical effort and time to cast thought upon a page seems ritualistic. The language seems slower, more purposeful, than the dashed off rambling or txt speak of cyberspace. Taking time to consider the puzzle and wonder at the other end of the letter’s journey as eyes search the surface of the envelope for clues, the sprawl of the carefully etched letters, each loop and flourish a tell tale sign of the author’s hand. The address in envious green ink, clashes besides the orange stamp, the water stained postmark, partially visible, gives little indication. How they will stand in the shafts of sunlight through the window and read your thoughts. This very quiet, personal and intimate exchange.
The physical relationship between the writer and the page, saliva and the stamp, the reader and their interpretation or memories that add depth to each piece, that is carried wrapped and bound to be eyed and weighed by the postmaster. Through a series of exchanges posted, collected, bagged, driven and delivered by whistling postman called George, who comments “Very rare to see personal mail these days it’s mainly bills and leaflets”. On another day a different postman unfurls a huge hand to reveal “a dear little packet”, a messenger bringing something precious, surprise is the first reaction, as a fragile bundle of stitched wax has succeeded along its journey.
13th November
The weekend comes and there is nothing, no word and i wait… Tuesday and the post begins to flow again Waiting for the allotted hour when the post van swings past the house in a blur of red and the sound of the engine idling outside my window, brings me running down the stairs, to find envelopes upon the floor…
I became aware that these letters weren’t written for me, although addressed to me I felt a delicious kind of guilty voyeurism as I read letters to someone unknown, and in turn notice that my replies begin to mirror the language.
14th November
Phoenix
Carefully and not yet fully committed I start to slowly undo the package, with instant regret I tear the shiny parcel tape, inside a box, with longing the curiosity overwhelms and i begin to unpack the paper that lies inside, run fingers over the delicate skull and try to make out the words through the black sand.
Mortality stares at me through hollows in the tiny birds skull, within a box divided, stitched buried with letters of instruction which lead me to unpack the tomb. Excavating strata to reveal the cyclical rising and demise of the phoenix, all in a neat chamber, hand held and complete.Brooks, 2008.
