I think it's high time for a little adventure and danger in our lives. It's time to be rebellious, flirt with the uncertain and indulge in the mysterious. It's time to put the romance back in communication. And no, you sick people who are upset that Valentine's Day is over -- I mean romance in the most exhilarating Don Quoxite, tilting at windmills, questing for the Holy Grail way.
What?
This is not going to be an anti-e-mail and instant messenger column. This will not preach on the inauthentic and disgusting monotony of modern-day communication -- efficient, easy and undemanding.
No, no, no.
But I do look back with imagined nostalgia at the era of letter-writing, with all those ink-pots, quill pens and wax seals -- it's all very delicately Jane Austen. And there is something very typically American-spirited in the mythic status of the Pony Express. It only lasted for a few years, yet there is this wonderful image of the lone ranger, masculine, cowboy type (of course he is dashingly blonde and built). He risks his life and his carefully styled hair to heroically deliver a letter from Miss Wilma Mae describing her new needlepoint endeavors to her sister Miss Francesca Louise, all the while dodging wild stampeding buffalo herds and incensed Indians, both of which were very interested in the most recent developments in the home-centered activities of lonely spinsters. I see our prototype, hmm, let's name him Wild Billy, making every effort to cover letters from the capricious elements while he himself is nearly blue and pale-white with hypothermia and malaria and yellow fever, not to mention the normal kind of fever.
And then there's the telegram of course. Which knocked our poor pony right off his high horse. Ha. Here, I picture the skinny, lanky, stuttering unsure form of Horace from one of the greatest television shows ever: (need I say more?) "Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman." Furthermore, I imagine him being dreadfully woken up in the middle of a lovely frontier sleep about tumbleweeds and general stores because Dr. Quinn had an urgent crucial telegram to Sully, who's on a trip for some soul searching with the Indians, again. "Sully. Am in love with you. Stop." And then the next time. "Sully. I lied. Stop." And then "Sully. Let's see how long this game can actually propel a TV series. Stop." Then: "Sully, have been incredibly successful. Stupid viewing public. Stop."
And then there is the best telegram in history:
"Dear Rolfe. Stop. Don't stop. Your Liesl." If you can't name the movie that this is from, you've missed your childhood. Go back and claim it.
But what I am about to propose as the paragon of the communication revolution is something brilliant in its simplicity, widely worshipped in temples across the land, and quite simply one of the most original inventions of our century. Ladies and gentlemen, it is none other than: the note.
The middle school/high school note to be precise, featuring intricate methods of paper folding that rival ancient Japanese origami tactics. The possibilities for creativity are endless -- the artistic embellishments, the witty acronyms like TTYL or TTFN or my favorite, which, with a blush of pride I claim authorship of: GGJFJOB (Gotta go, jet, fly, jump off a building). But most attractive is the inherent tinge of danger in all "note" proceedings.
Scene: classroom, first-period trigonometry with Mrs. Sine. The night before your crush has called and you two had an absolutely, divinely amorous conversation -- about classes and mutual friends. Okay, the amorousness was CLEARLY understated, but there nonetheless. Well in any event, your best friend definitely needs to be aware of said amorous, um, undertones, in clearly fascinating conversation, and of course you will leave out how he got your number from Max only to ask for the English homework. Only problem is Mrs. Sine has eyes like a fly, ears like a bat and a neck that is somewhat like a giraffe. You cautiously take out a blank piece of college-ruled paper and surreptitiously slip it under the photocopy about the current lesson that you are in no way listening to, interested in or cognizant of. In fact, Mrs. Sine stops talking, and you keep writing furiously in bubbly cursive handwriting, "and then he said he would talk to me later, which clearly means" when the voice of Mrs. Sine, which sounds eerily like an egret says:
"Ms. Valint?"
"Hmm, oh, yes?" (after desperate scan of clothing to realize, yes, that it is not just your imagination, but all eyes are actually now on you. Hmm, always thought metaphors were a cop-out.)
"What is that you are doing?"
"This, nothing!"
"Hand it over."
"Okay, if you really, really want to know, I'm taking up Einstein's theory of relativity where he left off, and I'm just on the verge of solving the universe."
Next thing you know, every teacher in the school is chatting about you and the boy and the amorous connotations. Talk about danger! Talk about going against the odds! Talk about adventure and risk-taking and the possibility of certain death! (Labyrinth, anyone?)
Now, sure, today there are dangers enough with e-mail. Viruses, oh no! Anything you decide to open is prone to cause a battlefield between your good, pure computer chips and the ravaging of some manipulative virus (use this patch immediately!).
But does anyone remember the time when chain letters actually came in the mail? I completely blamed the embarrassment of my middle school years due to the "years of bad luck will follow you should you break this chain which has been going on for a gazillion years and has spanned the globe not to mention undiscovered planets and which is so distinguished and REAL that it has been even knighted by the queen."
So, what I'm saying is, take a few minutes while you are sitting in the back of that lecture hall, break out the markers, or at least the pretty gel pens they sell at the bookstore. Be rebellious. Write a note. Or is someone willing to set up some telegraph wires? Anyone?
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