Letters

Last Friday, I send a selective Twitter message out on Twitter and Facebook asking people if they would like me to write a real letter to them. On Facebook I later clarified that I would like to send letters to anyone outside of Vietnam. I got six responses with addresses (which kinda reveals how much people care about pen-and-ink letters).

Without listing names, here is some basic information about the six people who will be receiving letters from me soon:

-Two are relatives of mine.
-Two are people I became friends with in college.
-Two are people that I met from my work in Vietnam.
-All are in North America.
-Four are female and two are male.

In the order that I received addresses, I will be writing and mailing letters to those respective people (as time allows – I’m a busy man).

Oh, and the first letter was mailed today from the historic Saigon Post Office, designed by none other than Gustave Eiffel (there’s a famous tower named after him, if you forgot).

If you’re one of the people who receives a letter from me, be sure to let me know when you received it and I’ll track the amount of time it takes for letters to travel from Saigon to other various destinations.

Oh, and write letters. They are so much more personal and emotive than emails, texts, tweets, etc. Go dust off your notebook and happy writing!

Update (6/22/11)

I mailed another letter today on my lunch break. Who could it be to?

Update (6/27/11)

Another letter is in the hands of the Vietnamese postal system. Let me know when it reaches you.

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I sing of Olaf!

Sometimes poetry gives me inspiration:

i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel (trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but—though an host of overjoyed
noncoms (first knocking on the head
him) do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments—
Olaf (being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds, without getting annoyed
“I will not kiss your fucking flag”

straightaway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but-though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation’s blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skillfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat—
Olaf (upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
“there is some shit I will not eat”

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ (of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you

-e.e. cummings