META ON STEROIDS
Are You There Medium Help Desk? It’s Me, Amy Sea
Dear Medium Help Desk,
I’m not sure where to send this letter. It’s like writing to Santa.
Though I never believed in Santa, I always believed in the North Pole and Santa’s mailbox. As a non-believer, I continued to write Santa letters because even if there were no Santa, there was something.
There was a rift in the universe. The mailperson shoved our Santa letters through the rift cracks into a parallel world inhabited by Santa — who read them because, good lord, who doesn’t like a letter?
I love letters. I’ve got one from my best friend who lives in Toronto. It is sitting atop my great grandma’s quilt trunk in the living room. Whew. That was a mouthful.
Though I’ve had her letter for a week, I haven’t read it yet. She wrote it on her Remington typewriter. I only clarify typewriter because some people hear Remington and think gun. To write a letter with a gun would be masterful, but unnecessarily violent.
I am waiting for the perfect time to savor my friend's inked words. I’ll know when it happens. I always do.
My own Remington is broken. Again typewriter, not a pistol. I carelessly brought it to the beach to photograph it. The sand clogged its aligning scale — or maybe its rachet detent. Who knows?
When I called the one typewriter repair guy in Chicago, he had passed on. But sadly he had not passed on his business. There was now a sign on the red wood door that read, Thank you for all your years as customers. I never wanted to be anywhere but here.
It was typed.
My Remingtons’s futility now reminds me of a bikini-clad woman I saw in Miami posing for a photographer, trying to hold her pose steady on the shore as waves crashed into her, flapping her limbs around like a fish attempting to edge its way back into the ocean.
I’ve gone astray. Where was I?
Yes, here is my thank you letter I am rolling into a metaphorical computer bottle and tossing into the zeros and ones of the great internet ocean.