The flower on the transparent corruplast postcard ready for mailing to a postcardxer in Western Australia has a vaguely kindergartenish aspect, but the aphorism that accompanies it is purely sophomore year of high school. The second letter, a sketch on folded construction paper, going to a place called Barnard College, which conjures up for me all sorts of sevensistery images, is an ode to the scissortail flycatcher, pointing out how artful it is in its artlessness. A third card, a sort of magic marker pen and ink with a misbegotten metaphor about blooming thistles, is already in the box, metaphorically ready to wing its way to Tasmania. I must pack for a brief out of town trip, and then go get work done. This weekend, I must tackle the weighty issues--where in the boxes in the garage are those CDs we never found when we moved into our current home last year, and how will I rewrite the cover on my little booklet to reflect my new address so that I can get more copies printed up. I sent a friend the gift of a nose flute today, but I personally am in a slide whistle mood.