Post-card #82

Dear You, or Belulino,

You wrote that it was all about effective communication (that’s what you meant, right?)—like that time you called me your dandy lion and I thought you had made up a cute moniker in reference to my stylish facial hair, only to realize you were probably trying to call me a dandelion because I was your dream-come-true (maybe a little too cute, I thought…in secret)–and then, I learned that the word dandelion comes from the French dent de lion, meaning tooth of the lion (right?), which made me feel much better (I pride myself on my virile maw, as you may know) until I then discovered the French word for dandelion is pissenlit, which, if broken down like dandy lion, would mean piss in  bed; or that time you told me you liked inky linguini and I thought you meant saucy but you really meant inky, as in with octopus ink, and when you saw my reaction you thought I was frightened, but I was really just trying to contain my excitement for your being so bold and adventurous and teaching me new things––but I didn’t want to let on I was so excited because that would have been untactful––and then you made me the linguini and we used the sauce to fingerpaint thoughtpictures to one another, and that was really effective; and I agree, by the way, effective communication is what it’s all about, if I’ve understood you correctly, like, for example, I love it when I’m driving and a fellow motorist has signaled his or her way to a stop, and, what’s more, proceeds to roll the window down (in the dead of winter, no less) to wave me over––that is a connection––and I hate it when the person doesn’t use the signal at all, or, even worse, uses it when he or she is not about to make a turn at all (I think they call that a false signifier) and I’m driving behind all slowly, awaiting the moment when I can swerve aside and speed back up, but it never comes (are they so stuck in their own heads that they don’t hear the signal’s nagging tick-tick, tick-tick?), just like when a person sitting at a restaurant waves over the waiter and then asks for the check, making an extraneous move, wasting everyone’s time (has this particular diner never heard of the universal, please-bring-me-the-check signal?). Yes, I do appreciate effective communication, but unfortunately my Internet is down, and so I cannot access Google translate. So what is this all for then, you ask, if Google can’t convert my chickenscratch into the language of love? It all goes to say, our friends were right––if we cannot understand each other, it is idiotic, and, actually, downright ridiculous for us to act like we are together, even if we like to think we are so prime a match we can really, truly get each other sub-vocally. Now that I think about it, maybe we get along so well because we don’t understand one another half the time. For example, you might try and translate this manually, then give up when you realize how godawful my handwriting is, and then just giggle away your frustration like we always do; you’ll tape the postcard to your fridge as a souvenir; you’ll smile at it from time to time, taking in the mystery that is all the things you don’t know about me;  you’ll smile simply at the fact that you don’t have to know it at all, because, truth be told, who’s mystery do you know entirely, even in your own language? And, in that case, I’ll see you when I get back, and everything will be the same, like it never happened, like when I confess my sins to you in your sleep. Even when you don’t listen, it’s nice to know that someone’s heard me.

Yours,

Django Fontina