Postcard From A Friend

Every image is divided into perfect, equal thirds. One perfect azure blue sky, sometimes streaked with white cotton wisps of cloud. The thick granular gauze of exotic beach sand....and there right in the middle he smiles against the backdrop of a salty ocean. Easily interchanged for an ancient landmark, or possibly something he found amusing.

The images are trophies. Trophies of conquest. Maybe I am the only one to see it like that. What else do those photographs become in the eyes of others? He is saying: "I've been here and here and also there" and "I am having the time of my life..."

There are times when he filters into my thoughts and I feel the crumbling of regret and sorrow. I compare myself to that last slice of bread that everyone leaves in the bag because its not as big as the others. Weak, flimsy, crumbling...with a crusty tough exterior... not as appealing as the other slices. Maybe that is the reason I eat those before anyone else can throw them away.

His postcards find their way to me. I try and decipher the delight pleasantries. Trying to get into his head. Trying to understand the inky scrawl. I can only take it for what it appears to be. A polite written 'Hello' from across the globe, from some other time zone. I don't know if I am allowed to be comforted from the fact he had to be thinking of me when he wrote and addressed that card. The fact he kept my Address from the first time.

I find myself bringing the card to my face and inhaling the scent of another time another land. It smells like old encyclopedia. The card is not new and gleaming, not glossy, not ritzy. Weathered... from the 1970's. My guess is confirmed by the artwork on the front. The description on the back:

'An Artists rendering of the future, A new Desert Inn, country club, Casino with lavish shops and luxurious restaurants, completion scheduled for mid-1978.

But, I love the card. I love it for its lack of shine, A Utopian rendering of a hotel....It couldn't be any further from what I would imagine in my mind. Because All those locations and names of places are just that to me. Just words. Just names of places. I cannot imagine what it would be like there. Depraved from the delights of travel, the delights of monetary pleasure. Suddenly, I find myself appreciating those perfect photographs, delightfully proportioned into perfect thirds. Because I am afraid, It is the closest I will get.