Description:

I wanted to name this something like 'Y dey go post Al?' but that's not what this is about. 

It's more about me struggling to describe something. Yeah. That'll do. 

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Postality & Marks

A couple a years ago I asked a friend for their address - to courier something to them. I'm yet to find words describing how that went...

Earlier today I asked some other friend to send me a book in the mail. I lent them before I even met the previous friend. 

Here's me trying to find words for that...

It must have been before Y2K - a few years before that - it was a time when classmates would send handwritten post cards from their vacations... Maybe they still do that... 
The last post card I received was damaged, years ago, it's still sealed. Like a record.

So, like I said - I got a card from a friend - they didn't know my address... they didn't need it - they just wrote something like "Simon Name, somewhere near city, in that country.
It arrived in one piece. That one didn't go South - but it might have come from there... 

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20 years later my friend doesn't have my address. They only know where I live. They've not got maps at home, they're a thing of the past, like address books. We're contacts. Contacting each other. Busy. Working. 
My brother claims it wouldn't take him long to figure out my address... if he didn't know... if he didn't know why we don't have maps at home... anymore...
Just a thought...

The thing I don't get is this:
Way back when, there might be a process, a Standard Operating Procedure on what to in such situations - maybe not when you were on vacations in a foreign country where they only people you could understand were your family, 
but when you worked at the post office and got an incomplete address. Sometimes mail would get lost. On the way... You never knew.... they didn't automatically send you a delivery failure... or only much later... if gave away the sender...  maybe... 

Elvis Fucking Presley sung about it - he died afterwards - unrelatedly, I'm pretty sure.

Fuck, the Doc's letter arrived on bloody time as well. 

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It must've used to be easy to be a rock star or engineer time travel... Nowadays it takes a rocket scientist to send a letter - maybe it's time brother changed jobs...  

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As for me - sod all changed.

 

Manson argues that not knowing is a hell of a lot better than thinking that you know. It's more honest. More truthful. I am not going to argue against that. 

When the doctors asked what phrase I thought was the smartest thing I head in the building. Written on a wall. Quietly. I didn't know if they knew... For all I know, they could have been illiterate or blind. I didn't ask. 
We had no time. They only wanted answers. We all need someone to stroke. Our ego. 
I hadn't heard that line of Descartes. Or maybe I lost it, in another world. Maybe it's time for a visit to the old Norwegian Gaarden.

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Either way - it rung true to me. Like the sounds of a hungover Blixa to dedoubting the world. In an attempt to remove all certainty. Some friends are alive, but not around the corner. 

On that wall there was, like a graffiti, a line about doubt being the beginning of wisdom. Maybe Mark isn't talking out of his arse after. He's a potty mouth, though. 

Speaking of potty mouths Peter's Untitled wants to chime in. I'm happy for a pence or two. Unless he wants to scream bloody murder from the windows...
And if he wants to wait for another 2000 years... Be my guest... I'll have other things to tend to... 

On that note - I am as clueless as ever. 

 

Like I said - fuck all changed.

 

I am happy with that.