fiction, poems and other general flirtatious happenings
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
1944 (draft)
First draft of a letter Mary penned to her mother. It was never mailed. (click on the image to view--the second letter is the same as the first with a bit of texture and color added in photoshop)
:-) Always, always there are the firsts, those moments of pure joyousness at the exceedingly special place that you have here/writer that you are, the limitlessness not only of your talent but of your originality. Such a very nice touch. And it says something about the relationship that she has with her mother, honesty above all else, so special a detail.
It must be horribly frightening to feel your spirit slipping away bit by bit, and not having any control over it. Maybe not even wanting to. The underlying feeling I get from this letter is that weird numbing that comes from despair left too long without relief of some sort. It's like a wasting cancer of the soul.
Poor Mary. Maybe she didn't mail it because she instinctively knew her mother would see the dying of her daughter written all over that page, and she was trying to keep her from the pain.
No doubt written with a beautiful Waterman fountain pen with 18 kt. gold nib, like mine. Fine paper of the sort not seen any longer. The sound of the nib scritching across the paper as Mary writes . . . venerable things. The flavor is delicious, thank you.
Grace, I think you are very close. There is much in this letter that even Mary, in as much pain as she is in, still, upon reflection, fears, recognizes will only alarm her mother. I have a feeling she penned this one over some wine and the line blurred between what she would reveal to her mother and what she would put in her journal, which is where she ended up sticking this draft.
As always, your kind words are most appreciated. Thanks Grace.
First off, the form of this post...god, I'm kicking my ass that I didn't come up with it. Like a box of Kleenex, the washing machine, the internet, the form of this post! Why the hell didn't I think of it? LOVE it! (and my washing machine)
And then what is and isn't in the letter. How real Mary is. Her revision of her words and self. Tree, you freaken knock me over and then kindly come to me, bend over, ask if I'm ok. And just when I think I might be, you kick the bejezuz outta me with your mind. Holy wow.
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12 comments:
:-) Always, always there are the firsts, those moments of pure joyousness at the exceedingly special place that you have here/writer that you are, the limitlessness not only of your talent but of your originality. Such a very nice touch. And it says something about the relationship that she has with her mother, honesty above all else, so special a detail.
I just saw the 'It was never mailed', what were the reasons do you know?
I'll ask Mary and get back to you. :-D
Just wanted to try something a little different. Something to give a little flavor so to speak. Glad you liked it.
It must be horribly frightening to feel your spirit slipping away bit by bit, and not having any control over it. Maybe not even wanting to. The underlying feeling I get from this letter is that weird numbing that comes from despair left too long without relief of some sort. It's like a wasting cancer of the soul.
Poor Mary. Maybe she didn't mail it because she instinctively knew her mother would see the dying of her daughter written all over that page, and she was trying to keep her from the pain.
Daughters do that, sometimes... :)
(((( Trée )))) Brilliant!
No doubt written with a beautiful Waterman fountain pen with 18 kt. gold nib, like mine. Fine paper of the sort not seen any longer. The sound of the nib scritching across the paper as Mary writes . . . venerable things. The flavor is delicious, thank you.
Could be Limes, could be. :-)
Grace, I think you are very close. There is much in this letter that even Mary, in as much pain as she is in, still, upon reflection, fears, recognizes will only alarm her mother. I have a feeling she penned this one over some wine and the line blurred between what she would reveal to her mother and what she would put in her journal, which is where she ended up sticking this draft.
As always, your kind words are most appreciated. Thanks Grace.
First off, the form of this post...god, I'm kicking my ass that I didn't come up with it. Like a box of Kleenex, the washing machine, the internet, the form of this post! Why the hell didn't I think of it? LOVE it! (and my washing machine)
And then what is and isn't in the letter. How real Mary is. Her revision of her words and self. Tree, you freaken knock me over and then kindly come to me, bend over, ask if I'm ok. And just when I think I might be, you kick the bejezuz outta me with your mind. Holy wow.
Would you please take that hat off. You unnerve me with your writing and then you point those horns at me.
Erin, as you wish. Hat off. :-)
As for your kind words, I will take them into my dreams. Thank you.
No way. For real? You've just melted my heart. Totally thought you'd tell me off. What a poignantly reflective photo of you. Suits your pen.
Thanks Erin. Glad I was able to melt something. :-)
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