The Envelope

The fact that I am typing this with a burn blister on my finger is the only evidence that my story is true.

Today I was distracted. I awoke distracted. I awoke from frenzied dreams. Short snippets, some distorted memories of the day, some just weird like the one with me trying to fill my fountain pen by putting it in my mouth and twisting the fill knob, but it just sucked air instead.

It's often like this when I get back from traveling. The list of things to do is loud and urgent. The everyday tugs again. Work. Errands. Groceries. Follow up with friends. Don't forget to unpack. There are dishes in the sink from before you left. Throw in a load of laundry. Oh, and you're back now, so let's get back to morning exercises. And at least fifteen minutes with the crossword puzzle to stretch the mind and vocabulary.

Oh right, and sitting. Well, once again, the sitting will probably not happen. I'm too scattered to focus. To help myself. To lie quietly on my back here in the quicksand. Better to trample like a mad man to keep from sinking.

To make the air I breathe even thinner, much of the last few days has been consumed with the creative processes of others. Reading friends' blogs, checking out new ones, becoming interested in video blogs, talking with Joel about film projects, editing a friend's manuscript, reading a collection of interviews with another author.

And all the while wondering: How much of this is contributing to my creativity? Is all this focus on the creativity of others diverting attention from my work? Is it inspiring? Is it imposing that they are so prolific, and some rather successful? What does success mean when it comes to creativity? To what extent do I want creative output to be the measure of success in my life?

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about slowing down. By lately, I mean years now. Since the demise of the factory. That is what motivates my desire to sail away. It is a form of slowing down. Actually, my interest in slowness has always been a theme in my life.

I found an almost embarrassingly intimate connection with the portrayal of Sir John Franklin in the fictionalized biography of his life by Sten Nadolny in the book The Discovery of Slowness. I also enjoyed the novella Slowness by Milan Kundera. And my fascination with Nabokov's Lolita was, above all, with its lilting, languorous language that almost lullabies you into believing that HH is not the monster of his confession.

And so, when in the midst of all this busy, hectic, list-shouting morning, I entered my office which I carved out for myself in the former factory, and I saw a letter addressed to me in handwriting, my lungs sharply inhaled a sting of air through my nose. Handwriting, even beyond the slow, methodical and by now antiquated medium of typewriting, was the epitome of slowness. It was as if someone knew my secret and was publicly taunting me. Who could this be that was sending me something handwritten? And even though my lungs almost betrayed my longing for the letter's beckoning, my limbs did not. They did not break stride as I walked around my desk, leaving the letter exactly there. I forced my eyes to acknowledge my property manager at his desk. Yet my lungs stubbornly held on to that breath, reluctantly releasing only as much air as was needed for my lips' insistence on delivering a normal, even upward-swinging-sounding "Morning."

I sat and, in doing so, was granted an inconspicuous exhale only upon getting my heart, who had the most potential gain from this matter, to negotiate with my lungs to cooperate.

The letter, now upon closer inspection, was padded. The address was not only handwritten, but written in fountain pen. And as if that was not enough to tease my nostalgic blood, it was written in a particular tint called "Blue Black." To those who know of what I speak, I need say no more. To those of you who don't,

let me not to the color of true ink
admit impediments. Color is not color
which alters when it alternatives finds
or blends with white-out to be paler.
Oh no! It is an ever fixed mark
that looks upon rainbows and is never tempted.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever inked.

I reached for the letter opener, but in the process was interrupted by my property manager's questions of the week's priorities. And this was simply the first of duty's dominoes to fall over the next hour, cascading my attention from one task to the next; from question, to inspection, to phone call, to task upon detail upon matter at hand.

And yet what lay at hand, just inches away the entire time, was the letter.

I picked up the letter, while on the phone at one point. Mostly paying attention to the caller, I studied the envelope. An off-white, high-rag percentage. Hand canceled in red to my quickened sense of appreciation; though the post office of origin regrettably smudged. The stamp featured a most splendid black and white photograph of an old racing schooner from the 20s. Was this particular stamp chosen with knowledge of my susceptibility to such images? And now, paying less attention to the conversation, I noticed the absence of a return address. My left hand, which was holding the enveloped flipped it over. And there, centered on the closing flap, but crossed out with the same blue-black ink was, in embossed black type, "The Society."

So? Not from The Society? But obviously someone so comfortable with using The Society stationary as to use it for personal purposes. Or was the envelope perhaps recouped from some dumpster into which a defunct Society had purged itself from its quarters?

"Excuse me? Yes, of course, next week on Wednesday is fine. Yes, yes, I'm sorry, I was just distracted by my calendar. No, no that works just fine. No, really it does. Wednesday then. Ok, thanks for your time, yup, goodbye, yes, same to you, goodbye."

Finally. Finally it was just the letter and me. My property manager was somewhere in the building with an electrician who had come to install new lights. I could safely let all calls go to voice mail. My urgent projects were done. I rewarded my previously impatient lungs with several long breaths of slow anticipation as I leaned back in my chair and simply enjoyed looking at the pregnant envelope; swollen with something more than just a sheet with words.

Well, this story is taking much longer than I had expected. So, I will have to continue on with it tomorrow. By the way, the image of the letter at the top is not the actual letter which I received, but since I don't have a camera or a scanner, I can't show you the actual letter. It looks similar to the one pictured.