No one writes letters anymore.

        

        In some respects, memory is mental archaeology.                  I now have a dig that is inestimably huge. Potentially infinite. The winds of time ceaselessly sift the sand of this landscape, shifting, always shifting. Further away, the seas churn and swell and worry the contours of the shoreline, changing, always changing. There are bric-a-brac, artifacts, here and there a bone, scattered everywhere.         Some of these things are real, actual, even factual. And others are illusory, chimera. It’s very difficult to separate the two. And then, there is the real with an accretion of the unreal. Of these bones are coral made. Those are the specks of dust turned to pearls.         In physical terms, this dig is the brain. In metaphysical terms, maybe the soul. Choose whatever suits you.         As I approach The Promised Land, I would love to think that I am crossing over that big muddy with Joshua at my side, coming forth to carry me home. But in my dreams, there is a toll booth, a guy named Charon, and instead of a river, there will is a lake. A mist-occluded lake into which Charon and I will disappear on a raft, like Huck and Jim, and only he will return.         I have ample tools for this dig. Boxes of journals, scribbled notes, address books, snapshots, and — very rare these days — letters. There is the gospel, the narrative that I have told myself over the years. But even more importantly, there are the letters. Remember: it wasn’t Jesus who created Christianity. He created a way of life. It took Paul to turn it into Christianity. How did he do it?         Exactly. Letters.