Fucking call me

My mother and I exchanged eight emails today. Emails because she refuses to talk to me on the phone. She refuses to talk to me on the phone, she tells my aunt, because she doesn't trust she won't say something hurtful she'll regret. So she emails me. A day of emails all over fixing my goddamn car. And now my poor aunt plays peacemaker from Oakland, CA; hardly an enviable position.



Emails say so much and so little. Words become loaded with too many meanings because they lack the help of any intonation.



Used to be, for instance, you talked to men on the phone. You stayed up late, under the covers, talking nonsense on the phone. Supposedly most men don't talk on the phone. They sure seemed to before the whole email thing though. I miss that.



Now I have a record of everything. Everything's so damn permanent, pertinent, contrived even. The thing about emailing people is so much thought goes into it all. You can't mutter or twist your words with sarcasm or silliness. Words scream once sent and you can't explain or take them back.



Not a breath, not a shuffle not a sigh. Not a quiver or a doubt or a question.



Not even the personality of handwriting, the smudge of ink from a drop of rain or a spot of grease.



Immediate gratification. A week for a single conversation at the same time.



Fucking call me.