?Writing letters is more mysterious than it seems. The practice of personal correspondence is supposedly simple. There is no fictitious narrator, and no place for literary pretence, or for the imperious domain of the word. Before a thin sheet of letter paper we would be ourselves, with all the verbal sincerity possible: the I of the letter would correspond to the real I that awaits the corresponding reply. Nonetheless, anybody who dedicates themselves to this practice with more care will discover how devious it is, how it cheats the calm surface of the self."
Ana Cristina César, El método documental
To correspond; a relationship of agreement, conformity, similarity or equivalence between two or more things.
Google says that ?correspondence? is:
Love.
Communication.
Circulation.
Correspondence is the documentary method of the impossible.
We begin by corresponding with ourselves.
Our brains store information, memories.
The central nervous system is my postal journey.
The brain is a post office.
Memory, ink.
We don?t remember, we re-write.
Letters, journeys, writing without waiting.
He writes to me from Japan, he writes to me from Africa. He writes that he can now fix the gaze of the woman in the market at Praia, which had only lasted as long as an image. Will there ever be a final letter?
How would we have gone about it (long-distance love, for example, and all our tele-orgasmisation) in Roman times? The other, 170 miles away, a day and a night, not bad for that time... but for us?
Your romanticism is lacking a time of cynicism to come.
In the middle, cream by post, wanks by webcam.
New codes. Old methods.
I clean out my in-tray. I find one that says: ?this is how fear starts, with the potential of what you and I could be.? The next one: ?you were never cautions, I wish you had been; be cautious with him.? The last: ?we do not choose our precautions, we simply leave them aside and bet. That?s how had habits are born.?
Postal contexts mix life and work, a duo that the word 'experience? helps to merge. A life is an experience, something undefined, a skein of loose ends, an immense singularity that everybody can talk about. Authors don?t just share information, a manageable objectivity, but conceptions of the world that they believe they have created, forged identities that they use to penetrate, discard, and absorb elements of life.