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.

The inside front cover of my 1985 Private Dancer Tour Program. 

Had to show you this: check out her North American tour itinerary.  One word: astounding.  Tina averaged 21 shows per month. 

That's amazing considering the way she performs: full-throttle, high heels, 3-7 costume changes, pyrotechnics, 2+ hour show, etc, etc, etc.

Humbling.

The back cover of my “official” tour program from 1985.

Way back when tour programs were de rigueur AND cool. 

Check out the totally '80s color scheme and the Pepsi logo.

On a hot August afternoon, Astor Place is bustling.  Everyone’s happy to be leaving work.  There’s rhythm and swagger to the going-home movements of the sidewalk crowd.  Next to a man selling crepes from a cart, beside a man selling hot dogs from a cart, I see a rickety, wooden, folding table with its varnish coming off.  On top of the table sits a black Underwood typewriter.  Hanging shabbily from the front of the table is a creased cardboard sign that reads: “Poem Shop, $5."  Behind the table, perched on a tiny, folding stool is the proprietor of the poem shop.  Naturally, I stop. 

Hair like Susan Sontag's or Jorie Graham's, a young girl is reading when I step up to the, um, counter.  I pay my five dollars and am asked the question, “What do you want your poem to be about?”  A bird, please.

She takes a piece of paper out of the rolling wire cart next to her (the Poem Shop is mobile), folds it in half, tears it in half, and sticks half in the typewriter.  I cross the sidewalk, put my bags down, lean on the iron fence, and settle in for who knows how long.  The sun shines.  Car horns honk.  I watch a woman order a crepe.  I watch the man make the crepe for the woman.  I watch Poem Shop shopgirl typing, thinking, then typing some more.  The sun shines some more.  She takes the poem out of the typewriter.  I guess she’s done.

I walk over slowly, not wanting to pressure her.  I reach for the poem, thinking that’s it, that's what I get.  But, no, when you buy a poem at the Poem Shop on Astor Place you get a recitation too. 

Read this one out loud.

In case you missed it, here's the link to "Take Me With You" - NPR's Song of the Day on July 15, 2009.

Out of all the songs on TGame, TMWY is the one getting the most attention.  It was a Finalist in the Jazz Category of the John Lennon Songwriting Contest.

Some people think it's the subject matter (unwaivering love, a do-or-die kind of love).  Me?  I think it is the big bad horn section that comes in during the two choruses. 

That's a bass trombone, y'all.  (Along with a few other things).  Works everytime!