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he tells them of when, as
a young man,
his now wife would write letters from
Sri Lanka on thin, blue airmail paper, and
how he would wait for them. Of her
script pressed deep and
hard on the page
(how he would hold her letters up to the lamplight,
watch her periods become stars), stamps
with pictures of otherworldly animals, princes,
and temples that were outside
of time. How
every available space was bedighted with words,
jokes and last minute musings wobbling up the
margins. How he would carry the letter in his
pocket until the next one
arrived as perspicacious
proof that somewhere he was pondered, and how
he would re-read the letters when he was too happy
for his own thoughts. The students don't know why
the teacher is so emotional
today, doubtless
wondering if they should be taking notes (wanting
the half-life of this information, the terminus
of their responsibility). The teacher tells them
that if his thoughts are
plagiaristic he doesn't
give a damn, and the reasons why McLuhan
was right. That the death of the letter is serious
business. And that true sadness consists of
those things you will never
have a chance
to miss. He insists.
10/18/02
West Papua, Indonesia
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