- The EU headscarf ruling, or how to undercut your own argument.
- How Great Would This Be?
- This just came in through the contact form
- A Jet-Lagged R4
- Idée Fixe
- My Rejected Submission for "Thought for the Day"
- A Sense of Proportion
- My missed career as a theologian.
- Big increase in the price of paper ahead.
- Never as planned
- Wat de mens gescheiden heeft
- Found on an old hard drive
- Any sufficiently advanced technology
- "For A Successful Life"
- Awash with rage
- Watch, anyone?
- Stand Up for What You Believe in, or Maybe Not
- Convert Now, Before You Change Your Mind
- That Time of Year
- Group Smarts
- It's the Smell, Stupid!
- The Final Copernican Revolution
- The Long March
- Dalton's Beetle
- No problem
- A forum Moderator's Guide out of the Democracy Fallacy
Found on an old hard drive
She sends him love letters, in a language he doesn’t understand. Once or twice a week, she pours out her desperate desires over several sheets of paper and folds them into an envelope, already addressed and stamped for class A priority mail. On her way to work the next morning, she slips her emotions into the mail box.
He has been receiving these letters for as long as he can remember. A man of habits and regularity, he has long forgotten the surprise and bewilderment that accompanied the arrival of the first one. The envelope was most clearly addressed to him in person, yet he could make no sense of the strange writing that was in it. There was an enticing quality about it that drew him to picking it up and reviewing it several times that week.
Since then, the letters had turned into a ritual. He could not deny looking forward to them every time.
He keeps a very sharp knife, specially for opening these letters. Envelopes are made to be cut open, but it is always his desire to do so in the cleanest and least obtrusive way.
After opening, he slides out the missive and unfolds it, taking care not to miss the whisper of paper on paper.
Then he will study the intricately formed script. His gaze can coast endlessly along the waving and curly lines of her handwriting. Invariably the whole has a very satisfying visual balance, one which he relishes with every page.
Sometimes he caresses it – very carefully, to be sure his curiosity will not disturb the delicate paper.
Sometimes he holds it up to his nose, hoping to catch a hint of what it is trying to convey. Maybe the scent of the ink or the aroma of the paper would give away a secret. Was it about roses? about the bursting energy of spring air? He might just catch a whiff of the captivating aroma of a basket full of fruit, freshly picked.
For all the mysteries they hold, he is deeply thankful for these letters. Nearly always he writes back, thanking her politely for the fine time they gave him. Once in a while he’ll even add he felt touched, and hoped to hear from her again. It seemed a decent thing for him to do.
Yet, he is a very moody person. Depending on the day´s temper he will sign Regards, Kind Regards, Sincerely, Yours truly, but never quite Truly Yours.
Thursday 06 September 2012