Wish You Were Here.

Today I was listening to an interview with the Ukrainian writer Andre Kirchoff who has been speaking out against Russian aggression and he mentioned that he has started receiving “hate postcards”. I had never heard this term before. Getting hate mail isn’t inherently funny, but getting hate mail from people who don’t care enough to pop for the cost of an envelope has got to be a strange experience. And who are these people? Who is the person who can distill all of their hate down to just that small space on half of the back of a postcard? That takes some skill, because there is SO MUCH hate that the person is compelled to give it voice, but doesn’t have enough to say to use a full sheet of paper. I mean, really?!

I also have a follow-up question: What sort of postcard does one send when one is sending a “hate postcard”? Is it like, “Greetings from Donetsk! Wish you were here!” but then on back it’s all like, “I hate you and please die.”

Anyway, I think I am going to start sending these now. It seems like both a feasible and economical way to personally reach out to people who need a stern - if concise - talking to.

Please somebody warn all of the Republicans in Congress.

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An Orphan Thought.

I haven’t yet imagined the story in which this letter (or probably postcard) is going to exist, but sometimes these fragments just fall out of one’s brain. I’m careful to write them down.

So imagine some bearded, loving but much put-upon father receiving a postcard in his mailbox. Maybe he is in his office, but most likely he has just gotten home and he is standing in the lobby, checking his mail before climbing the stairs. He may be getting this postcard in the past. I like to think 1948, but I have no reason yet why to think that. He is wearing round eyeglasses. It is possible this is taking place in New York. Or maybe Vienna. He studies the picture of the postcard. It is probably an idyllic photo of a beach, but also kind of tacky, like a picture of a Florida beach in the 1970s. He studies the picture. His eyes are confused because he is too tired to be curious. The glasses make his eyes look very large. Imagine that he flips the postcard over and reads the note:

Dearest Father,

Sadly I will not be joining you in the cheese business.

Despondent but certain,

your loving son

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I’m So Gothic.

I’m So Gothic
by james bezerra

So is it odd
that I write all my correspondence
in puppy blood?

Is it too much?
My mother complains about smeared postcards,
but I think that it adds a nice personal touch.


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