Long Ago and Far Away

I drew this pic one day.  And now---and now I can't recall what passion was pending.  There are so many, you know.  Simmering.  Waiting for an opportunity from their careless caregiver.  Surely I never wanted to be Myrna Loy to Ramon Novarro's Barbarian, although I suppose that could be fun.  No, the passions are something more at hand---and more durable than orchid blossoms.  Things than can possibly stand public scrutiny, unlike my present day chest.  Passions not so much of my past but of the past.  Strange loves that tell there own story.

Before email and the internet I was a regular, retrograde letter writer.  Eight-ten-twelve page letters  were not out of the norm.  And for some reason lost to time I started sending such letters unfolded, slipped neatly into a white nine by twelve envelope that I illustrated.  Contents and illustration rarely jived, but the receiver more or less knew what they were getting into.  Perhaps I continued the practice because it got more notice than the letters.  Postmasters and postmistresses eagerly awaited my appearance at the counter for the envelope to be weighed and postage affixed, but only after it was handed around for their perusement.  I still believed my artistic talent---drilled into me ever since I could draw a house in perspective in kindergarten---was my greatest talent.

I can still recall my Postmistress of the Dark---yes, it was by mutual decision for that to be her title.  I can still recall her disappointment when my illustrations declined and then disappeared off the envelopes.  She never saw the contents within---but now, in a quiet moment of her retirement, perhaps she will.