Comments on: On letters http://lauragonzalez.co.uk/2009/01/04/on-letters/ A Seductress's Journal Tue, 16 Feb 2010 04:23:59 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.9.1 hourly 1 By: RIP John Hughes http://lauragonzalez.co.uk/2009/01/04/on-letters/comment-page-1/#comment-641 RIP John Hughes Fri, 07 Aug 2009 12:59:55 +0000 http://lauragonzalez.co.uk/2009/01/05/on-letters/#comment-641 [...] There should also be more people around who write letters and maintain a private correspondence, people who read, listen, consider and reply, like John Berger did to Belen. Off to find my Basildon Bond. I know it is still procrastination from that damned chapter 3, but [...] [...] There should also be more people around who write letters and maintain a private correspondence, people who read, listen, consider and reply, like John Berger did to Belen. Off to find my Basildon Bond. I know it is still procrastination from that damned chapter 3, but [...]

]]> By: belen http://lauragonzalez.co.uk/2009/01/04/on-letters/comment-page-1/#comment-389 belen Fri, 09 Jan 2009 00:47:44 +0000 http://lauragonzalez.co.uk/2009/01/05/on-letters/#comment-389 precioso texto yo no estoy segura de que todas las cartas lleguen... en mis años british tenía una piecita llamada "todas las cartas de amor que se perdieron en el viaje"... me gusta esa frase. pero las cartas reconfortan, se tocan, se huelen, se acercan a uno, así que yo estoy encantada con mi carta!!! siento la muerte de alguien cercano para tí, besitos precioso texto
yo no estoy segura de que todas las cartas lleguen…
en mis años british tenía una piecita llamada “todas las cartas de amor que se perdieron en el viaje”…
me gusta esa frase.

pero las cartas reconfortan, se tocan, se huelen, se acercan a uno, así que yo estoy encantada con mi carta!!!

siento la muerte de alguien cercano para tí,

besitos

]]> By: Laura Gonzalez http://lauragonzalez.co.uk/2009/01/04/on-letters/comment-page-1/#comment-387 Laura Gonzalez Thu, 08 Jan 2009 12:20:46 +0000 http://lauragonzalez.co.uk/2009/01/05/on-letters/#comment-387 I am sad today. I found out, from my mother, that someone I used to know has died. This man was not a member of my family. He used to be the village priest when I was a child and used to come for supper at my Gran's house every Sunday, when we always ended up by playing a heated game of Parchessi. I am as used to death around me as anyone growing up but this one has touched me for a very particular reason. When I was in my teens, Juanjo left the village to do volunteer work in Africa, where he stayed 15 years. I wrote to him and he regularly replied. I have never had such constant letter correspondence with anyone and I gathered from his words that neither had him. I got to know about Catholic missions, life in his new village, his challenges and I kept him updated about who would be his next rival at Parchessi and what Gran was cooking. I suppose I am talking about transference here. I hadn't seen him for 10 years. Last time it was by chance, in the street, while I was buying a duvet weeks before moving away from Spain for good. Today, however, I am thinking of him and his letters. R.I.P. I am sad today. I found out, from my mother, that someone I used to know has died. This man was not a member of my family. He used to be the village priest when I was a child and used to come for supper at my Gran’s house every Sunday, when we always ended up by playing a heated game of Parchessi. I am as used to death around me as anyone growing up but this one has touched me for a very particular reason. When I was in my teens, Juanjo left the village to do volunteer work in Africa, where he stayed 15 years. I wrote to him and he regularly replied. I have never had such constant letter correspondence with anyone and I gathered from his words that neither had him. I got to know about Catholic missions, life in his new village, his challenges and I kept him updated about who would be his next rival at Parchessi and what Gran was cooking. I suppose I am talking about transference here. I hadn’t seen him for 10 years. Last time it was by chance, in the street, while I was buying a duvet weeks before moving away from Spain for good. Today, however, I am thinking of him and his letters. R.I.P.

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