November 11th, 2020
I am writing this postcard beside the milk - that is boiling. On the go towards a boil. Not yet boiling. No bubbles. A still gathering of flat, white liquid. Ever since I realised packet milk could contain milk from uncountable cows... that fact has taken root in a back corner of my mind. Milk is like carton orange juice. Factoried. Unknown. Take one orange or one cow and squeeze and you get a tiny glass of liquid safe for human consumption. Where did it come from? That one cow or orange. Where did they come from? Unknown, unknowable... unless you live on a farm. It is raining. It is November. It is the best time to consume Christmas content. I am reading the new Dash and Lily (Mind The Gap)... Dash had a panic attack in Hampstead. Dash shouted his despair into the night air. Using words to plumb his disappointment and the nature of his malaise. Yesterday I shrieked into my house like a Banshee on Teen Wolf. It brought me no vision or revelation but dragged in some tiny measure of ease. The air vibrated with the noise of my distress and pinged at the fibres of my musculature.
I used to send a lot of snail mail pre-pre-lockdown... now even sending out Christmas cards gives me feelings of vague unease. But what I do have is a bunch of collected postcards from when travel was a yearly affair filled with such ease. So I give you: Postcards to No One.