The moving hand writes and having writ not all your piety nor wit can call back a line of it
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I've been shamefully tardy in replying to email. This afternoon my resolution was firm enough for me to get caught up with about a month's worth, mostly from people I've never met who have been to my web pages: where to find Chuck Wagon Gang records, the hilarity of the followings of Dr. Gene Scott, a happy gay crossdresser who wanted to assure me there the species is alive, various thing.
Once I waited a year to reply to an email. That was from an old friend. I'm the most slack in replying to friends. More rarely to LJ comments, sometimes the recipient has probably forgotten they'd said anything.
I used to write long letters to friends. I'd fill up twenty-five legal-sized pages when writing to Victor sometimes. With a supplemenary letter following the next day. Yesterday I was thinking that I missed that which what finally sparked me to clear out my unanswered emails.
Epic letter writing isn't anything I'm apt to do again. Lost past twenty, the passing years have wrapped my opinions in qualification and hesitancy. Blabbling away is easier when you aren't as away of what you have done, seen or read. And I'd known Victor since I was ten. If anything it is easier for me to grow fond of and esteem people. But there'll never be anyone who knows my biography as well, sometimes better than I do.
I've known Gordon for thirty years to the month I think. I see him all the time so I don't expect to be writing him any letters. No complaint. Anyone who has had a close friend knows how blessed it is to be able to express in five words things that you couldn't explain in five hours to anyone else.
Email isn't the death of the letter. With its nanosecond dispatch really long communications are apt to die. And lost. A few obsessive people probably print theirs. The rest of us hit delete. And distrusted. Unlike holograph letters an email can be emended to serve the demands of vanity, fear and shame.