do: Love Letters on Valentine's Day

Stumped by what to get your loved one on Valentine's?  Look no further than a pen and a slip of paper.  There's little else beyond that.  And, there's little more than how you feel to contend with.  Sure you could still buy something, but supplant it with the letter.  But, I posit that a well crafted, well-intentioned letter will carry forward more than any gift.  How do we know this?  I've enclosed the 'Immortal Beloved' letter from Ludwig van Beethoven, from 1812.


Also, http://www.buzzfeed.com/rachelwmiller/how-to-write-a-love-letter#.wwkbVMG1ED.

There are basic facets to a well-penned letter.  The first is that it reflects how you feel.  Use a language that you are comfortable with.  Use a voice that speaks to you, it will then translate to them.  The second is to pass over it a few times.  Write the first draft quickly and thoroughly.  Then, live with it for a few days.  You'll see what I mean over time.

Less is more.  Cut whatever you've written back by a half.  Ask questions of what you have left.  Is is immediate?  Is it about them?  Is it about what no one else would say?  Is it what you wouldn't say to another person?  Is it personal?

Whenever you are done, write it out one last time - write it out in one sitting.  Let it look contiguous - let it live as a collective whole.

Want to keep love letters alive?  Go to http://www.moreloveletters.com/.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Ludwig van Beethoven, to an unknown woman, 1812

6 July, morning

My angel, my all, my own self — only a few words today, and that too with pencil (with yours) — only till tomorrow is my lodging definitely fixed. What abominable waste of time in such things — why this deep grief, where necessity speaks?

Can our love persist otherwise than through sacrifices, than by not demanding everything? Canst thou change it, that thou are not entirely mine, I not entirely thine? Oh, God, look into beautiful Nature and compose your mind to the inevitable. Love demands everything and is quite right, so it is for me with you, for you with me — only you forget so easily, that I must live for you and for me — were we quite united, you would notice this painful feeling as little as I should…

…We shall probably soon meet, even today I cannot communicate my remarks to you, which during these days I made about my life — were our hearts close together, I should probably not make any such remarks. My bosom is full, to tell you much — there are moments when I find that speech is nothing at all. Brighten up — remain my true and only treasure, my all, as I to you. The rest the gods must send, what must be for us and shall.

Your faithful
Ludwig

Monday evening, 6 July

You suffer, you, my dearest creature. Just now I perceive that letters must be posted first thing early. Mondays — Thursdays — the only days, when the post goes from here to K. You suffer — oh! Where I am, you are with me, with me and you, I shall arrange that I may live with you. What a life!

So! Without you — pursued by the kindness of the people here and there, whom I mean — to desire to earn just as little as they earn — humility of man towards men — it pains me — and when I regard myself in connection with the Universe, what I am, and what he is — whom one calls the greatest — and yet — there lies herein again the godlike of man. I weep when I think you will probably only receive on Saturday the first news from me — as you too love — yet I love you stronger — but never hide yourself from me. Good night — as I am taking the waters, I must go to bed. Oh God — so near! so far! Is it not a real building of heaven, our Love — but as firm, too, as the citadel of heaven.

Good morning, on 7 July

Even in bed my ideas yearn towards you, my Immortal Beloved, here and there joyfully, then again sadly, awaiting from Fate, whether it will listen to us. I can only live, either altogether with you or not at all. Yes, I have determined to wander about for so long far away, until I can fly into your arms and call myself quite at home with you, can send my soul enveloped by yours into the realm of spirits — yes, I regret, it must be. You will get over it all the more as you know my faithfulness to you; never another one can own my heart, never — never! O God, why must one go away from what one loves so, and yet my life in W. as it is now is a miserable life. Your love made me the happiest and unhappiest at the same time. At my actual age I should need some continuity, sameness of life — can that exist under our circumstances? Angel, I just hear that the post goes out every day — and must close therefore, so that you get the L. at once. Be calm — love me — today — yesterday.

What longing in tears for you — You — my Life — my All — farewell. Oh, go on loving me — never doubt the faithfullest heart

Of your beloved
L
Ever thine.
Ever mine.
Ever ours.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

What to write on?  I am in love with this stationary, as it has become a bit of a commodity these days: https://www.papierplume.com/product-catalogue/stationery/kartos-station.html.  Kartos has beautiful paper with filigree and weight that is unmatched right now.  You can also find it at Barnes and Noble.

...my father's 1967 Thorndike Barnhart Comprehensive Desk Dictionary...

I keep my father's venerable Desk Dictionary close at hand.  It retains the deep rooted smell of Carlton 100s Menthol.  He chain smoked for all of his life, easily hitting up two to three packs a day.  His meager collection of items when he passed are in air tight boxes.  My boys and I will occasionally seek them out to smell 'Geegaw'.  The books, in particular, retain the smell excellently.  This smells of both old book and smoke.

 We've shifted to the digital age without looking back.  It's done.  I get it.  However, memory serves us rightly: why not look at the technology that served us for hundreds of years and come to an affectionate understanding of things?

The Desk Reference of yesteryear was a must.  Books were, at one time, a commodity.  Most of the middle class, and very few of the poor, had more than a single bookshelf in their homes.  That is why libraries proliferated after the Depression - they were simply necessary for those that were not part of the elite.  Democracy was available from the Public Library.

And - the home had its own bit of democratic knowledge.  There was always a bible, a dictionary and a family cookbook.  That was the world.

And, as I flip through this poorly kept Dictionary, as best as my dad I kept it, the glue has dried and cracked.  The binding is falling apart.  The pages are intact however.

A jackal squares off with a jaguar across a lake
of memories, or a portal to another place.

The Dictionary was not only 'it'.  It was a reference.  The Thorndike Barnhart I have open before me has: an etymology key, language abbreviations, pronunciation key, foreign sounds, the list of the editorial advisory committee, a preface (pointing out this version has 80,000 words, comprising 99% of the words used in newspapers and magazines, fiction and non-fiction), a grammar section, punctuation, manuscript formatting, proofreader marks, letter writing, and forms of (salutary) address.

The world was truly here.  What is a hauberk and what does it look like?  What is a plebiscite and what power do they hold?  Who knew that a pincer can also be called a chela?

The Dictionary is available.  It was your Internet.  It would expand your understanding and nuances of The New Yorker, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or The Doors.

There is a section from "J" that has an unprecise square cut out from it.  It was something woefully important, I'm sure.

My earliest scribbles as a child.  I know them well.  I didn't have
access to paper so I have several scribble where I could.  Was paper
a commodity in the seventies?  Come on!