The Angst For Which You Have Waited

To be honest, I can't say that I've ever used the word "ephemera" or "ephemeron" before now.

A few weeks ago, while browsing the non-fiction section of my local library for the graphic novels (this browsing takes a while because I have failed to learn the Dewey Decimal System), I happened upon a book by Nick Bantock entitled, Urgent 2nd Class: Creating Collage, Dubious Documents, and Other Art from Ephemera. I had read a few of Mr. Bantock's books from the fiction section (interesting picture(ish) books consisting of the correspondence between two strangers (sort of)). They were made up of colorful postcards (the front on one side of a page and the back on the other side) and envelopes containing removable stationary. (They're really fun, however, not juvenile in the least...)

For some inexplicable reason, I did not check out the book, but a glimpse of the cover was enough to spark my interest in the art form (and to get me to look up the word "ephemera").

I've liked collaging for as long as I can remember (since the 7th grade when I had to make a collage about myself for English class), but because of Mr. Bantock's books, I was inspired to collage using mail. (Postmarks are cool on anything, I think)

Here's where I ramble about the lost-art of hand-written correspondence:

Since the rise of email and the internet, hand-written correspondence has become a lost-art. (actually, I think that's all)

Because of this, the only store I have of posted mail is made up of a bunch of birthday cards from my aunts and grandmas and a shoe-box full of letters from him. The birthday cards really aren't good collaging material because, generally, they're just not all that artsy looking (sorry).

Thus, I was forced to pull the shoebox out from under my desk. I hadn't looked at it for a while, and I knew that if I let myself read through the letters, I was just going to get depressed. Besides, there really was no point, as I could never cut them up or paste stuff on them. These letters are not ephemeral.

Here's where I gush about how great these letters are:

He has amazing handwriting. Apparently, his elementary/middle school taught calligraphy (also a lost-art), so these letters, entirely from a visual standpoint, are beautiful. On top of that, he is a pretty romantic/sentimental (I really can't find the right word for it) guy, so these letters are well-worded and heart-jerking (in the most pleasant way possible).

Needless to say, even though I knew reading them would only lead to bad things, I read them: every single greeting card, loose-leaf notebook page (except the one folded like a swan (?!)), and gold-edged piece of stationary. The last one was written less than a year ago, and even though he was officially just a friend at the time, it was still fantastic. He manages to make me believe that there's really nothing he would rather be doing than writing me a letter or reading a letter from me.

Also needless to say, after that, I was fairly unable to sleep. I felt like I needed to talk to him, that I needed to make sure he knew that I had never given up on us (even though I have, again and again). But more than that, I felt like I needed to see him.

Here is where I get real:

Then, I realized that I don't believe in him anymore. I don't think he exists. I sent him an email a while back, and he replied very nicely. He said he was glad to hear from me. He wondered where I was these days. He said we should "talk for sure."

And I didn't believe him. Maybe (1) I just need to come to terms with the fact that he just really isn't interested anymore, (2) I have become less naive, or (3) I have become more jaded. (Why does that make me think of Steven Tyler?)


There you have my very lengthy and long-winded vent.

I don't think I'd ever do this anywhere else.

Maybe it's because you, Reader, are most-likely, a complete stranger.


Otherwise, Dad, I hope this doesn't worry you too much.