tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-72727418972621156382008-07-01T10:21:00.003-04:002008-07-01T10:40:00.218-04:002008-07-01T10:40:00.218-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_GSS_fGKzVCk/SGo9ftNZZFI/AAAAAAAABIg/lURcE25miPs/s1600-h/mokietyperblend3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_GSS_fGKzVCk/SGo9ftNZZFI/AAAAAAAABIg/lURcE25miPs/s400/mokietyperblend3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218050733183165522" /></a>"Where you been?" I asked him standing near the beer cooler in Whole Foods.<div><br /></div><div>"I went out of town the last couple weekends.  Other than that, I haven't been doing anything.  I don't go out at all.  I'm starting to go stir crazy, though."  </div><div><br /></div><div>"Too much alone time can do that," I said.  "I did that for about a year once.  It changes you."  </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yea.  I got up yesterday and went to the refrigerator to get some milk for my coffee and I saw two chilled bottles of wine and thought about having a glass.  If I start that, I'm sunk.  But I stay up writing every night, drinking wine and just writing."</div><div><br /></div><div>"You writing a novel?"  </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, not yet.  I write these long emails, though, that are pretty good.  Some of them are real good.  But I'll put all this effort into writing them and get back a few lines that don't even address what I wrote about.  That's if I'm lucky.  Sometimes, I don't get anything back at all.  It really pisses me off."  </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, people don't write much any more.  First they gave up on letters, then they gave up on email.  Now most people don't write much that is longer than a text message."  </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_GSS_fGKzVCk/SGpBEJjTMRI/AAAAAAAABIo/EJuMSJSiYxE/s1600-h/mokietypewriter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_GSS_fGKzVCk/SGpBEJjTMRI/AAAAAAAABIo/EJuMSJSiYxE/s400/mokietypewriter.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218054657801400594" /></a><br /></div><div>"Well, it's wrong," he growled.  "The world is going to shit!" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Sure, sure it is, but you can't get too caught up in how other people are going to respond to what you do.  You just do it for yourself."  I said it, but I could tell he wasn't hearing it.  I picked up my bottle of ale and told him I had to go.  </div><div><br /></div><div>"Good luck, man," I said.  He was obviously distraught.  </div><div><br /></div><div>When I was in Manhattan, the people I was with never talked on the phone.  That was cool.  But they always had their iPhone or Blackberry on vibrate and every few minutes, they would get a text.  They'd thumb out a reply and say, "Hey, there's a crowd at Crumleys.  You want to head down there?"  This went on all night.  </div><div><br /></div><div>It's all OK, but I'm going back to writing letters.  As silly as this sounds, it seems an art to me now, the handcrafting of letters on paper, ink, textures, etc.  I like the new world well enough, but I'm too romantic to let go of the old.  Maybe I'll have a glass of wine this morning.  </div>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com4