Pen Pals

I was at a movie tonight wherein our two bright stars-- love struck naïf’s with small pores and Hollywood hair-- scratched away, furiously, with stark, ink pens at stiff, white paper for the better part of the film. Besides being entertaining, the movie transported me back in time-- against my will and the will of the actors, who were fine, really, perfectly competent. Good teeth, nice hair.

In the beginning I watched, rapt, as their words hurried out from between blackened fingers, their scripted shapes arcing and slanting to keep pace with their nimble minds, faster and faster until their thoughts, like their hands, (and their doomed love affair) finally slowed to a stop. But then for moments towards the end I began to drift just above the movie-- still submerged in it's special brand of Jane Campion pathos, luxuriating in his fabulous lips and her incredible clothes-- and started to notice memories of my own hand crowding the story. Back before carpel tunnel, before word perfect, there were imperfect letters and I must have written hundreds in my heyday; between my first crush and my last crushing blow.

As she ran to her room and tore open the letter, I, too, remember walking briskly from the house to the back yard, lowering onto our swing set's bouncy seat then stilling myself as I turned over the envelope in order to confirm what I darn well knew-- that the addressee's handwriting was indeed his.

Nowadays it might be ages before I'll get to know some one's handwriting. Women still have a chance, buying and sending birthday cards as is our want, but men? Forget it. Back then you might know a suitor's handwriting long before you could recognize his smell. And the fantasies it conjured... well you remember. Forward-leaning letters meant confidence while broken Ts and Ks-- can't commit. Too loopy? Too daffy. Actually, most handwriting tags seemed to mean confidence or some synonym, and only cheerleaders and smokers dotted their I's with a circle. I paid close attention to whether or not the top of his T joined, headstrong, at the neck and was wary of indecipherable chicken scratch. Unfortunately, that described the bulk of the boys I wrote to, except for the gays and future architects, whose penmanship was like a fairytale.

Soon, I learned to decipher chicken scratch as I replied, filling pages (double sided) of Ziggy stationery. Sets were particularly exciting-- with their cardboard pockets and matching lined envelopes-- and I received scads of them at birthday parties and for holidays. Pens became more important to me the more I wrote and I finally ended up eschewing ball points after brief and, I'm sure, annoying phases where I swapped out colored pens (turquoise and pink, every other line) and later, in college, wrote with pen and ink. Eventually I would begin what would become my long-time, monogamous, love affair with Paper-Mate roller balls. To this day I wander the house in search of the right pen for the right occasion. Note to teacher? Roller ball fine. Note to self? Fat Sharpie. Health forms in triplicate? Okay, you got me where you want me. I'll use a ball point, but I won't be happy about it. Borrow my roller ball? I'll watch you like a hawk.

I could traverse oceans and ravines with the pages I wrote, and get nauseous with the stamps I licked. Hyperbole, you say? How can I be so sure of myself, so certain of missives sent? Very simple, I say, for I've saved every friggin' letter I've ever received. Horrifying but true. They're all tucked away in the attic in jars, suitcases and files. Every note passed. Every thought scribbled. Letters from boys and letters from Europe. Letters from girlfriends, pen pals and Mom.

Mom used to write me letters at college, even though it was only an hour away. Sometimes she'd just xerox a mention from the local police blotter, something really dumb that some incompetent spaz had gotten caught doing. And then dash off a remark, a three-word retort, and mail it off to my dorm room. I laughed every time I glanced at them and hung them on my wall. Friends would read them and comment on how funny my mom was. "Yes," I'd say, "She's hilarious."

Dad's letters were more intense. Why we should vote for someone or other, or why the country's going to pot. He'd write exhilarating monologues if he'd just come from an art opening or heard a particularly inspirational seminar on oneness and being, let's say. I never wrote him back. It didn't occur me to. I'd call or email, or bring it up the next time I saw him. We'd talk about it some more, Dad reiterating what he'd written. I'd agree and that would be that. Maybe I should have written him back. It's fun to get mail. My mom knew that. I'm sure my dad did, too. But I didn't.

Sadly, there have been few letters since my first email account rendered my stellar stationery collection null and void. All that monogramming for naught; rainbows and lightening bolts ignored.

I did write a letter recently, though, to a friend, just for fun. It had been so long and yet, I remembered all at once as I searched for the absolute best place to compose, with adequate light and proper ventilation. I made some tea and found my pen. I put on wordless, classical, letter writing music. I took pains to chose the right stationery, aware that it would set the tone, of what it would convey. Then I headed off.

I ran headlong into my spelling, crashed into punctuation and ran after after-thoughts. Then made small, yet thoughtful decisions about how my cross-outs should look. Hash marks or scribbles? To block out or slash? I made great, sweeping, arrogant capitals and wrote quickly, drunk on my own penmanship-- I've always been complimented on my penmanship-- until E came before I and I was humbled. Now I'd gone too far. I had to slow down. Time to wrap up; in conclusion.

I chose the right stamp-- hyper aware that there are wrong ones-- and dropped it into the void. I waited, forgot, then remembered before feeling that long-ago familiar rush of adrenaline. I knew the handwriting. It was exciting to get mail. I waited until the time was right then searched the house for the right chair-- the swing set long ago dismantled-- and, peeling back the sealed envelope, sunk further into the page. I read the letter slowly, like eating ice cream in September. I'd embarked on a familiar journey full of chicken scratch and pathos. Full of hurried thoughts and cross-outs. Full of long ago desire.