Nora, You are one of those things Proust was wrong about; that Celtic soul inhering in things is transitive, so that you might put yourself there with giggle. Thank you for the care package. Will kites or candy ever be the same? You really know how to fold an envelope. Playboy centerfolds, paper dolls. You made the roommate blush. She’ll think twice before leafing through my mail, the jack-a-lope. I’m surprised the postman didn’t keep it for his dirty little locker. You can never tell with institutions of faith. Blind date, huh? You jerk. I am forced to shift gears rapidly. I have lost my ergonomic detachment. Think of all the poems about rain that get written after a deluge. Dude! Faith is for doddering fools without a plan. We’re all just draftsmen for the divine; and unless you’ve got a concept to pitch, you’re going to be subcontracted for designs of Beelzebub’s new brimstone port-o-pots. I’d hate to see it. I really would. A blind date, really? Call me so we can deal with this. PS: Have you heard from Simon?...

We’ve seen this happen before. Can you imagine a time when introductions and parting gifts were a necessity. There’s a look at who’s at the door, who’s leaving when it’s time to go. Who came and who went. Something that says “Thinking of You –“ In May 2010, Itza Vilaboy twisted on the technological screw via a blog on the web-based artspace, Light & Wire Gallery. It was the perfect portal to take seriously an inclination based on the thrill of motion, a sailing through space just to get out of bed. This was something to do for fun when enthralled with disappointment. NORA, a novel, is reformatted into a series of letters or “blog posts,” channelling a trans-arts sensibility into the remote actuality of internet address. Forms are challenged to take on the shape of letter, poem, postcard, post. They are alarming and seem to recreate, as in a sudden memory, the moments when you first received each of these letters (and e-mails and post-cards), messages of such flaunting, guileless presentation, of such unapologetically encroaching intimacy that they present themselves as a demand. You cannot read them without a surprised, possibly guilty flush, as though you had accidentally stumbled upon your own, forgotten cache of letters, and the past, somehow completely, maybe by turns lost or obscured, as if surfeit was stylish, has just pounced upon you and asserted its rights. Here, a tug. There, a caress. A “here I am, what are you going to do about it”, and induce, in equal or varying portions, panic and delight. Simultaneously, while these writings attack with an odd sense of renewed immediacy, this immediacy is tempered by a structure of elision or amnesia. A notion of the contemporary along the lines of the virtual haunted...