Louise, I wanted to write
one of those letters that begins
‘I have been riding horseback
all day’ or ‘it’s great
to be back’ or ‘Hello, sweetheart
I am trying to write this
in the bath. I have done
a lot of crazy things
in my life but have never
attempted this before.’
But your book kept
interrupting me – and set me
thinking what exactly it is
we send through the post:
gladness, pessimism
a sense of family, or where we are
precisely in this universe of
wrong addresses and insufficient
postage. A friend of ours
is always sending unwrapped
objects through the mail:
last week a stamped and addressed
tennis shoe, this week
a packet of seeds. Chris Cochran
once mailed our son Felix a leaf
forty cent stamp and
the address written carefully
upon it. Such miracles of
the daily post – the infamous live eel
inserted in the mail box at Opoutere.
Your next project should be the Penguin Book of
Parcels and their Contents. Last year
prior to our return from France
I mailed 45 kg of books home
filling our three year old’s puschchair
with bundles wrapped
in brown paper then trundling them down
to La Poste. Along the way
I was met with suspicious glances
from neighbours who
must have thought – with
my pouchette stacked child-high –
I was about to mail our well-wrapped
three year old back to New Zealand.
On much earlier afternoons
my brother and I would
march in single file
out the kindergarten gate with
letters to our parents pinned to our backs.
The glare from the flapping white sheets
attached to the children in front
of us: that was how letters
entered our lives, and stayed.
Have you considered editing
The Penguin Book of Lost Mail? 300 blank pages.
Which brings us to other burning issues
of the day: war, pestilence
‘has Harris watered the willows
& planted my pumpkins & moved
the bees,’ and whether we are losing
our attentiveness to language. Think
of what, in the computer age, has happened
to the word ‘attachment’.
I’m on the side of paper, Louise.
This side. Which means I’m
resolutely with your book
and with Frances Hodgkins’ friend D. K. Richmond
who always wrote in pencil
distrusting the newfangled
technology of
the fountain pen. I’m for
the Imperial typewriter
the word-processor, in moderation. You ask if
I have any reservations about your book:
maybe D’Arcy Cresswell, who was more
successful as a blackmailer than a poet
is under-represented – as are
blackmailers in general. Yet another
time-honoured literary tradition
the parking infringement notice
isn’t given the time of day, neither
are the bills that cram
our post box each morning. Rejection
letters. Real estate fliers.
Perhaps you are already working on
the Penguin Book of Junk Mail.
‘The days run away,’ Louise.
I’ll try to keep up with them
ambling home around Oriental Bay
your book in my backpack
all the letters contained therein
rubbing against my shoulders
as though pinned there.
And I am back again
at the kindergarten gate
one in a long line
of children, one letter of an alphabet
a trail of punctuation marks
dissembling up the street.