Fiction    Reading Room    Memoir    Interview

Letter to Louise Lawrence

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.
 
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