An Open Letter (transcribed from the handwritten)
Seasoned morse code operators could immediately recognize each other across the airwaves by their “wrist”; the personal style and rhythm by which the dits, dahs, and dead air would shoot across the ionosphere and tap across the diaphragm of their headphones. I find this boldly analogous to the lost art of handwriting, as I sit to manually pen my first genuine letter in over ten years. What does my slipshod penmanship say about me since I’ve largely dismissed real script for the square pixels of emails and texts? Where once there were the gentle flourishes of curves and serifs are now ink scrapes and scratches that are reminiscent of the scattered marks of a schizophrenic, or perhaps the angled transmissions of a dead person eeking through a seer’s hand.
Understanding morse code used to be a requirement for even the novice amateur radio license (it’s not anymore), and the postal service is now on the verge of collapse, so does it really matter anyway? Please send me your thoughts,