They think of something they want to do or need to do (or have always wanted to do) and they do it.

They find a way.  They make the time.  They stay up late.  They give up going to the gym or an extra hour of sleep or going into the city for the weekend.  

You can spot these people a mile away. 

Sure, they look a little tired but they're the ones with a certain glint in their eye. 

They are working ... on something.  They regret dinner invitations.  They bag going to the gym for the day or the week.  They don't call you back right away.  They *gasp* might not reply to your email within a minute or an hour or a day or a week or a month.

Then there's everyone else, with a million reasons not to do something.  There's not enough time.  They don't have the money.  It wouldn't matter to anyone but them.  It not worth it.  No one's going to care.  They can't do it perfectly so why bother.  Their parent's would think they are wasting their education.  Their friend's would think they'd gone AWOL.  Etc. Etc. Etc.

Which person are you?  

Which are you going to be?

I’ve been listening old blues records lately.

Yesterday, I heard Estella “Mama” Yancey say this line:

“I’m gonna write him a letter and throw it over his fence”

It's a line from the song "Four O'Clock Blues."

Interesting idea.  I might try it one of these days.

(Mama Yancey is, of course, accompanied by the great Jimmy Yancey.  Wikipedia says "part of Yancey's distinctive style was that he played in a variety of keys but always ended every song in E flat."  Wow.  I might try that one day, too.)

How do you know you’re in an upscale hotel?

It (still) offers stationary.

When I check into a hotel room, it's the first thing I look for. 

Forget the mini-bar.  Forget the bath products.  I want to see what the stationary is like.

Apparently, a few other people do to.

A few months ago, as we drove from Philly to Boston, I subjected my dear friend John Ellis to the entire Tina Turner Live in Amsterdam Concert DVD.

He and I sat in the back of the car and watched the show on my laptop.  I told John that the next time we toured together, I wanted him to be more like Tina's sax player ...

This one's for you, John!

I still write letters.  I always have and I see no reason to stop.  As long as there continues to be a postal service in the countries I live in or visit, I’ll happily buy my stamps and address by hand the postcards and letters I write to family and friends.

This past weekend, I sent one letter and two postcards from Charleston, South Carolina.  A week ago, I sent three letters from zip code 36481, otherwise known as Vredenburgh, Alabama.

Considering how often I write letters, you’d think I have a lively correspondence with people near and far.  Truth is, I don’t.  The last letter I received was from my Mom and it arrived over a month ago.  She is one of the only people who ever writes me back.  Other than that, I probably get the same bland serving of mail you get: bills, free credit cards, solicitations for money, etc.

The question is, why do I still write letters?  In this day and age, in the face of email, Twitter, and Facebook, why do something so analogue, so time-consuming?

The reasons are many and I expect to opine about this topic in the months to come, so I’ll take my time answering the question.

For me, time is what writing letters is all about.  Specifically, slowing time down.

To write a letter you must take time.  Literally.  First, you gather the tools for writing: pen (I favor a black ink, Pilot P-700), paper, envelope, a stamp or two.

Then, you gather your thoughts.  Do I write about where I am – the landscape, the light, the street?  Do I write about what’s happening in my life – the gigs, the travel, my hopes, my friends?  Am I saying something specific – thank you, I’m sorry, I’m thinking about you? 

I never really know how I am going to get from the greeting (“Dear So and So”) to the ending (“Love, Kate”).  These two phrases are the only things I am sure of.  When I sit down to write, I take a deep breath, secretly wonder how I’m going to fill the page and if I’ll be able to strike the right tone.

(By the way, this never knowing how the letter will end up is very similar to the process of writing a song, but that’s a whole other blog entry.)

I am always surprised by what I write.  I sit at the table and wait for the words to come.  Time passes.  I write one line; I write another.  More time passes.  Soon, I am at the end of the page; eventually, I am at the end of the letter.

Time continues to pass the moment you drop the letter into the maw of the mailbox.  You wait for the letter to arrive. You wonder.  You forget about it.  Finally, if you are very lucky, you hear from the other person (usually by email or phone) that they’ve received the letter.  In the meantime, your life has moved on.  You’ve left the city you were in.  The street scene has changed.  The world has changed.

And yet, the letter is a fact.  You wrote it at the cluttered living room desk.  Your aunt now has it in her hand in her kitchen in Kentucky.  It is proof of how you felt, where you were, what you were doing.  Time stood still as you were writing it.  Hopefully, time stood still for the recipient as she was reading it.

Isn’t that marvelous?

To me it is.