Letters vs Postcards

At their most fundamental levels, sender and receiver must be at odds and this shows up in the ways in which they communicate with each other. The meaning a message takes on is proportional only to the meaning given to it.

The following is an excerpt from my personal correspondence.

What's the difference between a letter and a postcard? There's the obvious physical distinctions; it's hard not to tell the difference between a closed envelope and a single sheet card. There's an inherent secrecy to the former because save for the intrusion of prying eyes/hands the envelope hides and protects the sender's message. It would seem then that a postcard most likely represents one of two options: it is a watered down, sanitized or encoded message or the sender trusts the messenger to know the message. It would appear that the first is the more common occurrence because in its transparency the postcard leaves itself open not only to the messenger but any person who happens to come across it between the sending and receiving.

And so far as I understand, this is a bad thing because to send a message is to exert control over it. There's a narcissism involved in that "I" sent a message with a sole intended recipient. For others to partake in the message then is to diverge from that direct line. It interferes with my intent and therefore is unacceptable. But such invasions intrude on the recipients privacy as well. This letter/postcard was sent to me not to you/them. We allow these kinds of trespasses in post mortem and found readings because the reader is either an other in the sense that they are removed from the conversation as a stranger or are temporally distant enough that their knowledge of the message will make no difference. In both scenarios, the reader lacks a certain amount of context.

Barring the disclosure in the message of a preexisting dialogue, it is inherently more acceptable for the sender to violate this unformalized connection in correspondence because whatever is contained in the message is their words. It is less culturally taboo because by virtue of sending, I include part of myself as the message. The message represents an aspect of me that I send to you, but because I separate myself from it, it gains autonomy and becomes its own thing, the message. Despite its autonomy as a separated thing however, I am still included as a part of it, and this part of me contained in the message is vulnerable because it cannot respond.

Here, Alex, is the part where I question who has more (for lack of a better word) power in correspondence. Most everything I've stated thus far has been fairly obvious. What happens if the sender opens the message beyond just the intended recipient by making a copy and posting it on an open forum like their personal blog? It eliminates that vulnerability, yes, but devalues the message to the recipient. It's no longer quite so personal knowing the message belongs to everyone.

And historically, it's the ability to do the opposite, to take a message for the masses and make it feel like you were speaking to each audience member individually that has marked a good leader as also being a good public speaker and thus something more than merely a good leader in what they were able to do.

But the message is and would be the same regardless of recipient. The biggest change is in how it is received, how it is interpreted.

It would seem then that the role of messenger is to act not only as means of delivery, but as a mediator of sorts.

I’ve just received your last letter and am immediately replying. You’ve asked if I’ve received your last letter and if I intend to reply. If I may, please let me point out that your having sent your last letter makes the letter you previously sent no longer the most recent, and if I reply, as I am now doing, it is not in response to your second-to-last letter. I cannot, therefore, satisfy the requests you’ve made in your last letter.

While this is a nice discourse in semantic, the real meat of Monsieur Jacques Roumbaud's poem, Correspondence, at least in how it pertains to this post, shows up in Letter 3:

I’ve just read your first letter (dated 23 November, 1960. You have therefore written, on average, since that date, one letter every six and two thirds weeks (there never was an interval shorter than six weeks or longer than seven weeks between two of your letters)) and something has struck me. You had written (I remind you, in case you have forgotten): “Have you received my last letter? If so (and I would be quite surprised if you had not yet (though, should that be the case, do let me know)), do you intend to reply?”

The first letter implies and queries about the existence and response to a previous that, because this is the first letter, cannot exist.

Thoughts to be continued...

PsyFly: A Dream

I know on plurk at least I've mentioned my dreams and given shorthand versions of them. I figure though why not expand them into full length  transcriptions since I haven't done that in a while. 

PsyFly

I'm involved in some kind of war, but the fighting is distant. I don't know who I'm fighting with, my allies, because they stay just on the edges of my vision. But I get the distinct feeling we're not human.

We're flying. The air is light and clear, the sky a kind of blue-green like the world was some kind of giant television set and someone had been playing with the color settings. We're flying in formation though I have no proof because everyone else remains just behind me. But I'm flying, flying and filled with a kind of simple joy because of that. All I can see is the sky in front of me and the land below me.

It's a strange land too: Islands covered in massive trees the likes of which don't exist on earth. They seem to be floating in water the same color as the sky but a deeper color. They aren't floating, they're too big for that, but they are mobile. Huge, old growth forests on islands right up to the edge, and I'm high enough that they seem like toys.

For some reason I land on one of these islands. I descend down through the trees and land on the forest floor before I even know I'm landing. None of my fellows followed. I can tell as much that I landed alone, but I am not alone. Am I looking for someone?

Regardless, I find someone. And like everyone else I have encountered they remain beyond me. I know they're right in front of me in a small space free of undergrowth no more than 6 feet wide but I can make out no characteristics, not even the shape of their body. Feeling back at this dream though, I get the impression that this person was female. She's scared, but being brave.

I'm oblivious and approach. And when we're standing together I become aware of something on the other side of the trees. Whatever it is, it's hidden on the other side of the foliage. I realize that it's because of this thing that she's scared.  We turn to face it, together.

There's a soft rumble that makes me realize this thing is big. In a sudden movement, the shrubs and plant-life concealing us from view are brushed aside. Before me stands what I can only describe as a bear. It's slightly cartoonish, but in that vicious anime style. It's huge, at least as big as an elephant, a kind of mossy grey-green that makes it feel old.

It looks at me, no, through me and knows me. It is sentient and powerful, psychic on a level I don't fully understand, but it is not some kind of forest god. No, this is merely a denizen of these strange islands. It looks at me, through me and in doing so, in coming to know me, it sees my good intentions and leaves me in piece.

Something about this exchange strikes me as being entirely too fantastical and I think I achieved a moment of lucidity in the dream, or perhaps it was the lines of different dreams blurring. Regardless, there is a shift. I am removed from the epic worldscape and find myself surrounded by something more akin to reality.

I'm with with a man now. He seems familiar, like he's someone I know. I'm wrapped in his embrace, folded into his arms, folded into his lips. We're kissing. We're making out, fooling around. There is a fire in my stomach and he pulls it out of me with his lips on mine, with his fingers on my skin. Where it passes, I'm left tingling.

A hand on the back of my head pulls me in. Teeth and tongue graze my neck. I shiver. More. Words and thoughts trapped in the back of my throat escape as a gasp.

Lips touch lips. My heart races. I pull him to me, wanting, needing. This. I explode outward. My arms. My hands. My fingers. Down to the bone. It hurts. I feel it. I want more. 

My June in Picto-Review

After a successful school year at Western, our triumphant hero takes his widdershin ways back to Puyallup for the summer.

Even after losing a pint of blood, I still color coordinate my bandage with my t-shirt.

That's the hole where they inserted the needle. I actually watched the nurse put it in this time, watched as she twisted it around searching for a vein that jumped out of the way at the last minute.

My Kombucha has been brewing for going on 11 days now. I'm not sure what it's supposed to look like except for the fact that there's a "mass" at the bottom I assume is something like a scoby.  I'm glad I happened to have that muslin cloth handy because the fruit flies seem oddly attracted to the sugary tea drink (big surprise right?)

I'm still a little pissed about this show. Miyavi made us check out cameras at the door so I didn't get any shots of the silly little j-rock/scene kids. But I got in free and had a fun night out with friends, why am I complaining?

This lovely young lady is Dani (one of many in my life) and her best friend Matt. They're the reason I got into the Miyavi concert free and hopefully one of the reason I will get hired at Regal within the next few days.

Nikko. He's an Australian shepherd, fiercely loyal to anyone in the family, but kind of anti-social when it comes to anyone else. We originally tried to name him Neko (Japanese for Cat, I know, I know, we're horrible) but since I was the only one who could pronounce it correctly, it became Nikko.

I needed to dance. I was home alone. So I threw on some music (and my fairy wings) and flew.

Came across this strange assortment of papers while walking to the library. There's a birth certificate for a boy named Nathan Gantz, his immunization records, his parent's marriage certificate among what I am certain are even more important legal documents. My only question is how did they all get here?

I can only assume that the child pictured here is the Nathan Gantz, unless he has siblings. He would be going on 6 years old now.

It was out on the side of the road for one day and then it was gone. I wish I had stopped and watched the cars slow down.

Silly Dairy Queen sign, it's "they're" not "there."

Where exactly is ahead when your message is facing the sky?

Found this pretty little yellow pansy surrounded by purple brethren beside a church while walking home from the library.

Found these two bits not 5 feet from each other while loaded down with 4 bags ($45) of groceries and texting my friend Jesse. I'm seriously amazed how I was able to pick them both.

This is the deliciousness that I had for dinner. Spinach, mushroom, onions and Monterrey Jack cheese over a garlic ranch sauce and homemade dough. It was glorious.

Musings On the Life of Playing Card

I am a playing card.

You call me, Ace because I am less than three. But I wonder, and here I question myself even, am I really?

What is less than three? In becoming Ace, it was <3, a simple way of saying a heart.

I could just as easily have made myself the lovers, two less than three, which would mean I am one and two and three. But no, I am Ace. Other than a number, but not quite royalty. I do not seek to put myself above.

And yet... and yet, and yet, and yet, it is a question we always start with: "Ace's high?"

No, thank you, I tend to stay away from marijuana on my own, though I find I'm less averse to recreational substances in social situations, except when athletic or scholastic endeavors expressly forbid it.

You see, numbers are tricky things with their subtle in-betweens. They are gradients full of infinities. Less than three is more than me, so I'll take that nasty little letter (better than an F as they taught us in school) with it's up down illusions of grandeur parked right at the beginning of the end.

But nay, do not set me aside to fade in the glory of the sun. Shuffle me back into the deck with my brethren.

I'm touched. Really, I am. Your dirty fingerprints are all over me. Stains of chocolate and juice and grease embed themselves in my vinyl-plastic coating.

Shuffle, bridge, shuffle, clack. Cut the deck and there I am, hiding right on top. Did you ever see such sleight of hand?

Augmented Realities

I've decided I'm going to drop English 335 for fall quarter.

When it comes down to it, it really wasn't that hard of a decision and it says a lot to me that it was such an easy decision to make. I don't need the course other than as another elective with Tony, and while I like Tony and I like what he has to offer, I keep returning to this question of what am I really getting out of it?

What benefits do I receive by taking this class? More explorations into postmodernism, poststructuralism and all these other post-philosophies through literature?

English 335. From what I understand of it from talking to Tony, it's part 3 in a series started with Nanotexts. Bookending itself with The Invention of Morel. But if there's one thing I've picked up from classes with Tony, it's that it doesn't end. Sure, you might move on. You might take a break and explore some other realm of thought, but it's circular. Everything returns. Everything crosses back on itself.

It's the natural rhythm of things. For every up, there is a down. They are inseparable.

Doing that independent study project with Tony, I learned some things. I also learned there's a lot that I don't know and have quite a bit to explore. But what I'm getting at is this question of how necessary is Tony to this: as a professor, as a friend, as a mentor, as a resource.

These are baby steps at best, but I think it's time I walked on my own. I have the tools and knowledge at my disposal to try to figure this out on my own. The class would be fun, but really, I'll be "in" it whether I'm there or not. I know half the people signed up (you know who you are) and in fact will be living with one of them next year.

This summer I started an autodidactic project wherein I plan on exploring the nature of messengers, messages and communication through this postmodern lens. It's one of the reasons I froze my Facebook account for the summer. And so far it's been just as engaging and interesting to me as any of the classes I've taken with Tony. I'm asking questions and looking for answers, deconstructing and tearing apart the very words I use to talk about this.

I'm going my own direction with this, and by that I mean that I'm moving forward in these thoughts. I don't know if it's necessarily the "right" direction, but I could ask the same thing of Nanotexts, of Parasites or of Augmented Realities. Because really, the only difference between those courses and this is that we relied on Tony for direction and have been trusting that it's right. It might be. He does have a few years seniority on all of us in this, but so what? Tony himself has said that his cult-leading days are behind him and on the last day of class spring quarter Alex said something to the effect of

"Tony doesn't need followers. He doesn't want them."

Consider this me losing the training wheels. I'll be around. I'll keep exploring and thinking. But I'm striking out on my own. If I think I need help, I know where I can turn, but until such time I'm taking this into my own hands.