Dearest R,
It’s fucking freezing today. I was standing on the edge of the lake watching the fog descend on the water and blot out the horizon. You’re on the other side of the world and I cannot reach you.
Still, it was beautiful in a rather desolate way. You’ll probably say I’m just being dramatic, but then again who are you to speak?
I couldn’t remember a scrap of my geography; all of it too hastily discharged post A-levels. I remembered Les Murray wrote something about there was no need for poetry in moments like that. I suppose that’s good since I can’t remember any.
Well I guess I’ll write again when I next see another postcard that looks depressing (or touristy). I gotta get to a post office or this’ll never get there!
x
E
I write this in my head as I walk the streets here, alone but for my groceries. I will soon return to my little room with its sad table lamp and sit down and try and compose myself and a proper letter to you.
I find that I cannot write much more than short vignettes on the back of postcards; bite-sized pieces of my alternate reality.
It is strange being here, being without you, but the lights tail my vision and sometimes it is so good to breathe and call this space my own.
I will be working at this for some time; I don’t know when I will grow tired of this as I always do of everything. Meanwhile, keep reading my postcards - it is a way of saying I love you.
x
E
mai tais don’t taste the same without you baby. wish you were here.
x
Hello from Bangkok! I think the fact that they’ve made a postcard of it is a sign that the traffic is an accepted cultural aspect here. I certainly spent enough time in it!!
Outta space - write you again from Phnom Penh.
Dan
