Heading for Dry Dock

No. 221: A letter (and zuihitsu). Soundings: Kaulike Music, Shimon Hoshino, Simon Le Garff and Francis Varis

I always feel more comfortable when I loosen up around my creative process, but lately I feel I’ve been trying too hard. So, as I mentioned in the previous issue, I’m experimenting with different formats and different ways of writing this newsletter.

Returning to the idea of zuihitsu (although I’m still not entirely clear on its meaning), I thought I would present an excerpt from one of my dad’s letters to my mother, chosen at random. I respond to it with my own writing, and several curated “Soundings”— a response to ghosts of the past and present.

One way to think of zuihitsu is as a form of form of attention. Zuihitsu-attention balances inner and outer feeling, loosens the controls of logical progression and narrative form, and is guided by unconscious connections and spontaneous movements of being.—Sal Randolph

August 7, 1959

Darling,

At this writing, I just got back from down town Honolulu to cable the money to you. I spent quite a bit of money for doing so, but it was worth it because I was in a hurry to get back aboard ship. You see I was on duty all day today and I was tired. Beside, I’ve not taken my shower, so I came right back. I hardly was an hour in town. I sent you one hundred seventy dollars only ($170.00) I am sure you’ll hear about it in the morning because I sent it [by] night letter.

While reading his letter, I feel tired in my body. Night comes early (it’s 5:28 pm), and when I look through the open blinds hoping to see a glimpse of sky or moon, I see only the room I’m sitting in and its painted wood ceiling, lit by a floor lamp. I’m barely visible in the reflection, a faint shadow interrupted by horizontal, white lines.

Still, I have questions. What is a “night letter”? According to Vocabulary.com, it “is a cheaper form of telegram sent for delivery the next day.”

Noting the present-tense verb, I ask Lumo, Protonmail’s AI¹ (represented by a purple cat who calls me “Jing”), if it’s still possible, these days, to send a telegram:

Hi, Jing!

Telegram‑style messages have largely faded from everyday life. In the United States, the classic telegram service that many people remember was discontinued by Western Union in 2006, and today you’ll rarely hear anyone sending a traditional wired telegram for personal or business communication.

That said, a few specialty providers still offer “telegram‑like” services—mostly as novelty or ceremonial offerings (for birthdays, anniversaries, or artistic projects). Some international carriers also maintain limited telegram networks in a handful of countries, but usage is very niche.

So, while it’s technically possible to order a telegram today, it’s far from a common way to stay in touch. If you’re looking for a retro‑styled message for a creative project, those novelty services could be fun to explore. Otherwise, most people now rely on digital messaging, email, and social media.

My sense of time lurches back and forth between the 1950s—my father seated in a tiny ship’s cabin, scribbling a letter with a fountain pen, and decades later—me, seated in front of a computer, tapping away on a keyboard, posing a question to an artificially intelligent “cat.”

I remember that it’s still possible to send money via Western Union, although it has closed its “classic” telegram service and is now part of International Telegram. And checking online, I see that I can still send a message on paper by using itelegram. But why do any of those things when I can use Venmo or email?

Just like that, I’ve gone down a “rabbit hole.” I see a word written on the page and I must look it up, as if through investigation I might come closer to my parents and the reality of their lives—when they were alive.

Well, honey, how is it with you and Jeanne at this time? I hope all is well as could be. Myself, I am fine and is [sic] always longing to get back home as soon as possible. I’ll be home I guess on Friday the 14th for the weekend. I don’t know yet if they [will] let us take port leave while the ship will remain in dry dock. We are going to be in port for about 21 days while under repair. Anyway, you’ll soon know what is up when I get home. Okay?

By the way, are you still working at Stokely?² Well, honey, I just don’t know how you could make money working there when you work for four hours only. You pay for your ride and the baby sitter, and how much you got left? Not much, eh? I hope something new would come up or [you] will be working full hours so it would be worth it. Somehow, just take it easy, ha.

I hope the removal of the flower pot that was in the house solved the problem of Jean’s trouble.³ How is she anyhow? I hope she’s doing fine and well.

Bye bye now darling, I’ll be seeing you soon. I love you always,

Your hubby,

Nick

I look up “dry dock.” Wikipedia defines it as “a narrow basin or vessel that can be flooded to allow a load to be floated in, then drained to allow that load to come to rest on a dry platform. Dry docks are used for the construction, maintenance, and repair of ships, boats, and other watercraft.”

So, it’s a place where a ship (and its passengers) can come to rest, to get repaired. There is also a “safe haven for [12-step] recovery” space in San Francisco called The Dry Dock.

When I was commuting from Santa Cruz to teach at UC Berkeley in the early 2000s, I would stay over at a friend’s apartment in Alameda a couple days a week. Sometimes, I would drive to the Alameda Shipyard and walk around on the piers, looking at ships of various sizes in dry dock being repaired:

I think of my father writing the word “tired” with his pen, and I think of my own tiredness this evening, even though I have done nothing strenuous today. So many of his letters begin with his confirmation of a check mailed or delayed. His job working as a mess man/steward, seemed to leave no time or energy for play or creativity.

With that, I remember that I have his ukulele, a handmade instrument that he picked up somewhere in the South Pacific. I don’t recall if he brought it with him to play during breaks on his voyages. I’ve decided to start playing it again. The strings need tuning.

To pick up a letter that someone has torn up and thrown away, and find that one can fit the pieces together well enough to make sense. — from “Things That Make One Happy,” The Pillow-Book of Sei Shōnagon

My father Nick playing his ukulele in the 1970s.

SOUNDINGS

• Kaulike Music plays “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” by Yip Harburg:

• Shimon Hoshino: designs ambient music inspired by the scents of calamansi, tobacco flower, and mint:

• Simon Le Garff (oud) and Francis Varis have a musical conversation, “L’Orbrie par Jour de Fête,” that is delightful:

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Big thanks to all of you who read Eulipion Outpost regularly, and to those who have subscribed or donated on my Ko-fi page to support my efforts. Donations contribute to my rent payments!

My thanks and appreciation go to the Mysterious M. for editing support and expertise!

My website: Jeanvengua.com

My blog, Eulipion Post, documenting postal art I receive and send.

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1. Protonmail’s policy is based on “privacy by default.” It does not train their AI on what you communicate to it, nor does it track your messages.

2. Stokely Van Camp, the cannery.

3. A health issue, as usual — probably asthma. Perhaps mold on the flower pot was causing it, or pollen from a flower.